Calm

It's scary out there, isnt it?

---But, you must...

----

How can you ever come to hate beauty so much you refuse to step into it?

I stray away from all color and light

that might make me better,

might bring me closer the truest form of myself.

I know it. I feel the push of my human fear stretch and pull me from

the hot, sweaty, fucking difficult let-go of the shit that confines me.

The shadows I shroud like blankets.

And by “shit” and “shadows” I mean, all that I hold onto that makes me feel comfortable

and by “comfortable” I mean, in that way that soothes me against taking risks

and by “risks” I mean, doing the things that will actually make me a better person

and by “things that will make me better” I mean, things I will not share with you

because they are too personal.

----

I stand two feet from all the color and light

because I might like my grey self better.

I own this dark.

I own this pain.

I lick these wounds, tear open the scabs

and let the blood flow daily.

This is my dark corner to brood and hold on, so fuck off.

Your color and light can go fuck themselves with all their potential to illuminate and bring truth.

Ya know what color and light are?

They are meant to distort and clothe in a shade that is not my own.

Light is blinding and color bends.

If I step out there I will no longer be myself.

----

I hate the color and light because if I dare step two feet into truth

I will find I hate myself.

I will face the color I am.

I will see what I have become.

---

I think (at some point) we have all hated the beauty we must walk into.

----

It's scary out there.

But you must go into it. 

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

a conversation about sex

I will preface this with a quote...

"The past is beautiful like the darkness between the fireflies."  

-Mason Jennings

A caucasian couple sit in their apartment:

Laura:  Takes an extended sip of wine.  "No come on you can ask me now.  I asked you my question.  It's only fair."

Andy:  laughing... "Ya and now you probably think I'm this dirt-bag!" 

Laura:  "Well I mean when I was asking you if you ever had a threesome I was thinking about you and two girls, not you, some Zeta skank and Brent.  But uhh, if you and your roommate want to see each other's...

Andy:  "Oh shut it, I did not look at Brent's... 

Laura:   "Dick?"

Andy:  "Yes.  I mean no.. I did not look at his dick. No.  And plus threesomes with one guy and two girls only happens in the movies or to Tommy Lee and shit.........  Ok fine.  I will ask you my question."

Laura:  "Oooo ask away... crossin my heart, hopin to die"

Andy:  "Ha.  I mean, its not, like really a bad thing.  Its just something every guy wonders about his girlfriend..  Have you..... ever .. been with a black guy?"  squints his eyes as if anticipating pictures from a homicide scene are about to flash in front of him.

Laura: "hahahaha.  Thats it?"

Andy:  "Listen I know it sounds funny to ask out loud but...

Laura:  "haha... that's just so random.  Are you prejudice or something..

Andy:  "Hell no!!  You know I am not a racist.  Brandon is one of my best friends."

Laura:  "Brandon is Cuban Andy"

Andy:  "well he is dark as.. well, you know I'm not, shut up...    You haven't answered the question ya know?"

              squints face again preparing...

Laura:  Longer pause than necessary...   "Well ya.  Once."

Andy:  Homicide pictures shown, emotion held in contention now dropped to his stomach.   "You have."

Laura:  "Yes.  I have.  And I'm really not ashamed of it.  He was in a philosophy study group of mine sophomore year and he happened to be very nice and was the smartest one in the group too I might add,, and....

Andy:  "Ok ok ok ok..... stop.  I get it.  He was a stud.  Awesome.  Amazing" 

Laura:  "Ya know you are really coming off like an asshole.. a prejudiced asshole.

Andy:  "Oh stop, don't even talk like I am like that...  listen, I don't care that he is black.  He could be Chinese, Indian, a fuckin smurf.  But if the whole world talked about how smurfs have dongs the size of those mini bats you get at ball games as a kid.. then every boyfriend from sea to shining sea would have some pestering curiosity deep in their minds about whether their sweet girlfriend, their sweet innocent flower of a girlfriend has ever fucked a smurf.  Damn donkey dick havin smurfs!"  

*Author side note:  For a boyfriend to deal with his wandering mind on a daily basis he must convince himself each day that 'his girlfriend' is in fact the one exception to the rule that every girl has at least one skeleton in their closet.  (Usually acquired during their 6 month introduction to the wild world of keg parties.)  Oh yes girlfriends.  Everyday he must win a small battle in his mind that his girl is in fact the one and only sweet, perfectly innocent, delicate flower left.  Note:   Alcohol usually allies with the enemy forces.)  

Laura:  "Wow...  Do you need me to tell you that you have a big dick more often?"

Andy:  shrugs.  "Pshh..  No.  I know I'm fine."

Laura:  "oh do you now big shot?"

Andy:  "Well, why was he bigger than me?   Don't answer that."

Laura:  "oh my god.  You are sweating.  You are really bothered by this!"

Andy:  "Listen.  It's just that I see examples of this on a daily basis.  I mean.."

Laura:  "Uhhh. and just how do you see this on a daily basis??"

Andy:  "I mean,, you see it on porn sites.  Every time you're on a home page at least one "Blacks on Blondes" video will pop up.  Then the screen is bombarded with this little blonde girl and a mag-lite looking python heading straight for her delicate flower...

Laura:  "Pleasssse stop saying delicate flower."

Andy:  "Sorry, but its just intimidating I guess."

Laura:  Pause.      "Sooo you watch porn everyday huh?"

Andy:  rolls eyes.   "oh fuck"

Laura:  "No its fine.  I just thought we had a healthy sex life.  Didn't know you needed to jack off to other chicks.... all the time."

Andy:  "Babe I don't jack off to other chicks."

Laura:  "Oh?  So you think of me when you masturbate?"

Author side note:  Andy in fact does not like to lie to his girlfriend Laura.  However no man can look his girlfriend in the eye and say.  "Yes babe.  I think of you when I masterbate."   The stray exception exists of course.  

Exhibit A) Brett (Andy's roommate)  Yes.  Brett on multiple occasions has 'sturbed' to the thought of his girlfriend Jenn... walking in on him bone-dancing with her smoking hot younger sister Brea.  In his fantasy Jenn contemplates, and concludes that she would rather have it be him then some jerk from his Lacrosse team... she then cooly asks if they would proceed so she can take pictures for her photography class.  A boy can dream eh?  

 Exhibit B)  Clint (captain of Andy's lacrosse team) Clint actually had quite the doozie in this example and technically it was not his gf, but we'll still count it.  In the locker room after practice, after he thought everyone had left he had caught a glimpse of Sarah walking to the girl's locker room from cheerleading practice.   Wearing those shorts that she rolled up just enough so that about a half-inch of her butt cheeks would show,, displaying each cheek like a perfect slice of apple. Sarah and Clint had actually broken up from a 2 year relationship the day before.  (No need to get too deep with backstory... boy gets scholarship to college far away, thinks he's in for more strange than he can handle and there ya have it.  Bye bye h.s. sweetheart.)  Those shorts always got Clint though.   So he scoured for lubricant.  No lotion.  Damn!  Conditioner!  Bingo!  Like a temptress herself waiting there for Clint to undress her, the conditioner bottle winked and pouted at Clint.  "Shit!"  Oddly enough the conditioner in the boy's locker room shower was finito!  Clint eyed the soap begrudgingly and went to town.  About forty seconds later Clint was done.  There he stood.  In the single shower stall, in silence.  Handful of suds and what not and the pathetic reality that he had just masterbated to the thought of his ex-girlfriend..  That combined with the burning sensation he was feeling from the soap doing the "Stuka" down his urethra was enough to set him to tears.  Clint began to weep.  It was mid-sob that assistant Coach Peters walked into the locker room.  Coach Peters was expecting his routine post-practice shower, and instead caught his team captain crying naked with an erection and what looked like a rabies-ridden right hand.  As I said, Clint had quite the doozie.  But back to our loving couple....

Andy:  "ahh can we just change the subject.  This was a shit idea."

Laura:  "Yes that's probably a good idea."

A couple moments of silence later...

Andy:  "Ok was the stereotype true?"

Laura:  "Well..

Andy:  "Don't answer that."

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Chris Hess.

Cup of Tea

6:45 am

I wake up and and hit the snooze button for 7 minutes and close my eyes.  

6:52 am

In my dream, a black dove lands on my knee and looks me directly in the eye just as the alarm goes off.  I've never understood why the alarm goes off, when really it's turning on.  Either way, I turn it off, allowing my cat to rub it's whiskers on my face for two minutes before rolling out of bed.  My left foot always hits the ground first.

6:54 am

I jumped into the shower.  Shampoo.  Rinse.  Wash face.  Apply conditioner.  Grab soap.  Left armpit.  Right armpit.  Cock.  Asshole.  Left foot.  Right foot.  Rinse soap.  Rinse conditioner.  Exit shower.  Floss.  Apply face lotion.  Brush teeth.

7:09 am

I get dressed.  Underwear.  Socks.  Deodorant.  Collared shirt, buttoned up, collar popped. Tie, double windsor knot.  Shirt collar down.  Pants on.  Shirt tucked in.  Pants latched, zipper zipped up.  Belt strapped on one belt loop at a time.  Beatle boots.  Leather watch.  Cuff links from my brother's wedding.  Suit jacket, top button buttoned.  Wool overcoat, all buttons buttoned.  Done.  Today is cold, but still precise.  It always takes me precisely thirty minutes to get dressed.

7:39 am

I moved from the bedroom to the living room, around the couch and into the kitchen.

7:54 am (actual time, 7:40am)

Once I leave the bedroom, I enter into a new time zone, as all of my clocks are set fourteen minutes ahead so as to get me moving.  I knew I would have time to hit up the coffee shop for a buttery almond croissant and quadruple shot of espresso before work, so I skipped the usual routine of 1 tablespoon sunflower butter on a piece of gluten-free toasted bread.

7:55 am

I see a black dove fly across my window as I open the door to the hallway.  I stop for a moment.  This is not how I had planned things.  I think of The Beatles song, "Blackbird," then my beatle boots.  I'm not one for omens or signs.

7:56 am

I walk down my hallway and down the fire escape stairs.  I hate waiting for the elevator.  The fire escape stairs smell like urine from the homeless, but it's efficient.  Precise.  I exit the building and pop my wrist out of my jacket to look at my watch.  A gift from my grandfather.  My grandfather who died last week.  I was the only one at his funeral.  He was part Native American.  He had long black hair.

8:00 am

I'm six minutes ahead of schedule when I open the screen door to my neighborhood coffee shop.  Paul, the comedian who is waiting for his big break, who sits at the same table every morning says, "Word, suit.  Getting the quad again?"  I nod as the door slams behind me from the tightly wound spring hinge.  If I owned this place, I would spray the hinges with WD-40.  But I don't.  So I don't.

8:09 am

I nod hello to Meredith.  Mer.  M.  The Barista.  She has ginger red hair that resembles the flow of Hawaiian lava, blue eyes that are so bright you have to squint to look into them...and a tan.  The tan is only in the sense that her pasty white skin is covered in freckles that have expanded from the sun and are all nearly touching each other. "The regular," she asks.  I nod today the same way I nodded last week.  I have yet to speak today.  

8:10 am

With my nod, I order two espressos, knowing that each one comes as a double shot.  I like eating the foam with the tiny spoon.  The hipster with a mustache behind me judges me.  He probably thinks I'm wasting dishwater from using two cups.  Internally, I tell him to shave his face, cause he looks like an idiot, but I remember that I was young once and thought that my stylistic rebellion would matter.  We all end up in suits.

8:27 am

I haven't seen M for a little less than seventeen minutes, as I rounded my last time entry down and this one up.  Approaching me is a teenager.  He has cutoff jeans and long, blonde hair.  It's obvious that he surfs.  I can tell he works here by the way he carries himself, but I don't know who he is.  He's carrying one large mug with a spoon.  Both he and I know that it is my order, but only I know that it's wrong.  I still don't want to talk, so when he places a mug in front of me with a teabag hanging out, I simply stare at it.  I stare at him like he's an idiot, but he's still too young to care what people like me are thinking.  He walks away.  I look back at the mug.  I could pick it up and throw it at the wall.  But I don't.

8:29 am

I'm still staring at the steaming mug of tea.  Angry.  Confused.  Where's M?  Why couldn't the drink in front of me have just been what I ordered.  Or at least only a slight misunderstanding, having put all four shots in one cup?  It was that hipster.  He knew I was judging him.  He sabotaged my order.  He's probably sitting outside smoking a cigarette and laughing at me.    From his point of view, I represent something beyond what I am.  I'm the guy in the suit.  I should grow a mustache.  Like Don what's-his-name, from Miami Vice.  Why do clothes smell better when they're sun-dried?  I feel like drawing.  I haven't drawn since I was a kid. I pick up a pencil and a napkin nearby...

8:51

I stare at my drawing.  Then at the mug.  I don't know what black doves represent.  I leave the drawing under the mug as a statement.  I hate tea.  I will not be back.  

8:52

I get up and leave the coffee shop.  On my way out, Paul, the comedian, asks me something about what the toughest thing about something is.  I shrug my shoulders and continue to walk.  I remember that I forgot to order my almond croissant.  Today is no longer precise.  It is chaotic, like the world.  

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Sketch by Wade Shields.  Words by Steve Brian.