Those who know me well know me as someone who's totally down for most things. If you're in the mood to go for a walk, then it's safe to assume that I'll go with you, and enjoy it. If you'd like to stay in, well grab a comfy chair and let's watch a some TV. So just to save time, here's a list of the...
Top Things I'm Totally Down For:
1. Watching Animation. I love animation. Be it Saturday morning cartoons, artful animated cinema or anything in between. Yeah, let's watch some animation.
2. Smoking Up. There are very few times when I'm not up for this, if you catch me during one of those times, run. Seriously.
3. Shots. If I'm conscious, shots are an option. Also, car bombs.
4. Brainstorming Your Idea. You have an idea? Let's talk about it, bounce it around and see how it shapes up. You know what goes good with brainstorming? See #2.
5. Going To the Movies. Even bad movies. I love sitting in the dark with you, whispering quips to one another.
6. Back rubs. Giving and receiving.
7. Word games.
8. Getting dressed up. Seriously, let's play dress-up.
9. Wandering off for a bit. Got some time? How about a wander?
10. Writing lists. I'm always up for a list. Top fives, top tens, the good, the bad, Marry/Fuck/Kill, etc.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Friday, July 16, 2010
Helping Hand (fiction ... mainly)
She stands in the doorway, watching me half clean my bedroom. I pile rumpled and twice worn clothing in the corner on top of a previously existing pile, under which may or may not be a laundry basket. I gather papers and books into stacks which I place on shelves. I smooth and fluff the covers of my bed, ignoring the subtle tang of the sheets as I do so. All of this is met by her snorts, eyebrow raises, and the accusatory jutting of bony shoulders. She can brass-knuckle gut-punch with a look and her silence is a vacuum.
I finish my chore by sweeping the topmost layer of filth off the area rug with short sharp motions, collecting the grit into the corner behind the door. I rest the broom against the corner, concealing the furry mass behind bright yellow bristles. She smirks; I blush.
The kitchen is next, and I tend be more thorough here; thickly soaping and rinsing dishes and counter alike. The smell from the sink is humiliating, and I'm achingly aware of her presence behind me as I slide my fingers into the murky sludge between the stacks. I push aside the soft blockage and the drain gurgles to life.
I ask here to put on some music, gesturing to the laptop connected to the big speakers in the living room. She selects something acoustic and current sounding that I'm half familiar with. I don't ask for the name of the band or song, I just keep scrubbing.
Apparently feeling helpful, she picks up the few articles of discarded clothing from the living room furniture, and tosses them on the pile in the bedroom before returning to her position in the doorway. I've precariously stacked pots and pans on top of glasses on top of plates and bowls in the dish-rack, and every now and then, a piece slides loose and falls into the sink with a clatter. I scour the stove top, digging my fingernails into baked on foodstuffs. Elbow grease and steel wool. Cleaning the fridge is simple: if it's leftover takeout, throw it out. If it's an actual grocery, hold on to it.
She doesn't show impatience, if she feels it; she doesn't sigh or twiddle. She seems intent to watch, help if I ask, judge no matter what, and I don't mind. She's nimble and concise in her gestures, and I enjoy the pantomime. She doesn't really judge me for my slovenly mess, she can't; I've seen her place. She's going through the motions of scolding me just as I'm going through the motions of cleaning house.
We attack the living room together, her picking up books and papers and sorting them by roommate she's never met and me gathering discarded food containers and emptying ashtrays into a garbage bag. The bag is heavy with fetid takeout and the angular contents push the plastic into distended peaks. There's a trash chute not ten feet outside the front door, and I hope it makes it.
When we're done we sit side by side on the tiny couch, our knees pushing back and forth, heads lolled back in exaggerated exhaustion. In this position I can see the light fixtures, frosted glass filled with insect carcasses. The fat black globules amassed in the bottom of the bowl. It never ends.
I finish my chore by sweeping the topmost layer of filth off the area rug with short sharp motions, collecting the grit into the corner behind the door. I rest the broom against the corner, concealing the furry mass behind bright yellow bristles. She smirks; I blush.
The kitchen is next, and I tend be more thorough here; thickly soaping and rinsing dishes and counter alike. The smell from the sink is humiliating, and I'm achingly aware of her presence behind me as I slide my fingers into the murky sludge between the stacks. I push aside the soft blockage and the drain gurgles to life.
I ask here to put on some music, gesturing to the laptop connected to the big speakers in the living room. She selects something acoustic and current sounding that I'm half familiar with. I don't ask for the name of the band or song, I just keep scrubbing.
Apparently feeling helpful, she picks up the few articles of discarded clothing from the living room furniture, and tosses them on the pile in the bedroom before returning to her position in the doorway. I've precariously stacked pots and pans on top of glasses on top of plates and bowls in the dish-rack, and every now and then, a piece slides loose and falls into the sink with a clatter. I scour the stove top, digging my fingernails into baked on foodstuffs. Elbow grease and steel wool. Cleaning the fridge is simple: if it's leftover takeout, throw it out. If it's an actual grocery, hold on to it.
She doesn't show impatience, if she feels it; she doesn't sigh or twiddle. She seems intent to watch, help if I ask, judge no matter what, and I don't mind. She's nimble and concise in her gestures, and I enjoy the pantomime. She doesn't really judge me for my slovenly mess, she can't; I've seen her place. She's going through the motions of scolding me just as I'm going through the motions of cleaning house.
We attack the living room together, her picking up books and papers and sorting them by roommate she's never met and me gathering discarded food containers and emptying ashtrays into a garbage bag. The bag is heavy with fetid takeout and the angular contents push the plastic into distended peaks. There's a trash chute not ten feet outside the front door, and I hope it makes it.
When we're done we sit side by side on the tiny couch, our knees pushing back and forth, heads lolled back in exaggerated exhaustion. In this position I can see the light fixtures, frosted glass filled with insect carcasses. The fat black globules amassed in the bottom of the bowl. It never ends.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Particular Type of Self Destructive
I woke around mid-afternoon, stumbled into the kitchen, cut myself a piece of leftover chocolate cake, poured milk over it and had the audacity to think, "breakfast." This thought occurred without a sardonic chuckle. Without a self-aware reprimand. It was just, "breakfast."
This is the quality of self destruction to which I so passionately subscribe. The id is a powerful force, and succumbing to it makes for better stories, and all I really want is a good story to tell.
This is the quality of self destruction to which I so passionately subscribe. The id is a powerful force, and succumbing to it makes for better stories, and all I really want is a good story to tell.
Friday, June 4, 2010
18 Minutes on the 6.
A Short Story
By Zane Hart
She sways lightly, eyes closed, back to the tracks. Her wrinkled layers, wool over cotton over cotton again, show small holes in subtle places; along seams and in armpit, places I only notice because I am staring. Though her clothes swallow her whole, she has the lithe, boyish frame of a dancer, and she moves with subtle grace as she drifts nearer to the acne ridden yellow platform edge. She’s too close, and she knows it, an eager adolescent defiance creasing her face. Her hand moves to her bag, hugging it closer to her stomach, a protective gesture that only makes her seem more vulnerable. Her eyes open as an express train roars and rumbles two tracks behind her. Her honey colored eyes are slightly bloodshot; they look as is they could see things I take for granted. She’s not sneering. So many people sneer on the subway. Maybe they just sneer at me. She looks kind, but intelligent enough to know better than to be kind.
She notices me staring, and I avert my gaze. I look at the poster ads for movies and energy drinks. It’s a game we all play: the quick (but not too quick) look away, as if you weren’t staring, as if you were fascinated by something else, and then, when you feel safe, you steal another glance. She’s still looking at me, waiting for me to return. Now we’re lingering; she’s sizing me up in a way that’s beyond me. I’m too embarrassed to look away, too embarrassed to really look back. She smiles, a possibly sincere smile.
I imagine approaching her, smiling and speaking softly, like calming a feral animal. She would be cagey but interested. We would chat and I’d lead her from pleasantries to loving the city; from fun neighborhood bars to the profound loneliness living here can mean; the way it surrounds you with nothing but itself. Before she knew it, she’d agree to go back to her place, to talk more. To connect. Intrusively relaxing music—she looks like a Sufjan Stevens kind of girl—would emanate from a $39.95 bookshelf CD/Cassette/AM/FM system bought at the Superstore USA in Springfield (or Cottage Grove or Yamhill or wherever the fuck normal people come from). We’d sit in her glorified closet of a studio and drink cheap cabernet. The wine would lead to a spliff of dry weed she’d produce from a colorful tin. I imagine her fingers gracefully working the paper bundle, bringing the neat little joint to her lips to lick.
We’d fuck like playground games; all teasing and competition, all dares and boasts. We’d roll and tickle, getting twisted up in her sheets, and fall raucously onto the hard floor, laughing like madmen. I’d sleep sated on her street-salvage-futon, one arm over my eyes to block out the street light, the other tangled in her hair. For a night she’d be mine, and I’d leave quietly before she woke up. I’d walk past the bagel place, consider buying her breakfast and returning gallantly. Oh no, I’d never leave like that, cream and sugar? I’d keep walking, feeling too guilty to even feed myself.
I’d go back to my life and she to hers. I wonder if she’d tell her friends, or pretend it never happened? I let my fantasy roll around in my head, tantalizing and profoundly sad. How long before the clinic visit? Got to get tested, both of us, each fretting the other’s habits. She’d wonder how frequently I casually fuck girls I meet in the subway. Where she lands on a long list. She’d feel a creeping sensation under her skin; an itch too deep to be real. She’d feel stupid. The Planned Parenthood waiting room would be—always is—full of distant eyed young women, teens carting out pocketfuls of condoms, and the most compassionate nurses on earth.
The train arrives. She’s sitting down, her bag in her lap. She’s directly across from me, looking at me again and I’m blushing. I study my shoes, but find myself looking more at hers. Simple flats: red, canvas, a bit tired looking. She must walk a lot. I guess we all do. I imagine she makes jewelry in her spare time; semi precious stones and copper wire twisted into loose fluid patterns. I see her hunched over a pile of tiny tools and silver plate chains and colored glass beads scattered on her studio floor. She’d bite her lip in concentration as she worked a pair of needle nose pliers in tight little circles. She’d sell the baubles online and to girlfriends; gift them to nieces and mom. And I’m there too, lounging on the bed. I never left, really. I’m there now, really. We’d laugh and joke about nothing. We’d tease and play like teenagers. At least, how I imagine teenagers playing. Why does love seem immature to me? Maybe the dependence on another person. She’d depend on me for praise and comfort; for assistance and support.
I would meet her friends; my arm around her waist, affectionately, not possessively. Holding, never clinging or asking too much or wanting things she’d never offer. Her female co-workers from the ad firm (or not-for-profit-organization or grassroots campaign office or wherever the fuck young professionals work) would wink at me and I’d buy them drinks. They’d compare me to her last boyfriend while I was at the bar, being polite about my shortcomings, encouraging her praise. I’d answer their questions, blush at their frequent innuendo, and not get a word in edgewise. She’d squeeze my hand under the table and offer reassuring smiles. We’d get home and she’d tell me how much they liked me. How funny I was. I’d fret about a tiny faux pas I’d made and she’d taunt my consternation with exaggerated agreement.
She’s getting up from her seat and I’m tensing, visibly. She’s checking the subway map a few feet away. Is she going somewhere new? How long has she been in the city? The small of her back is arched as she leans toward the brightly colored routes. I can see that same curve leaning over the bathroom sink as she applies makeup. She’d primp and curl her dark hair, dab tinctures and ointments on nape and navel. Rituals as ordinary to her as they are mysterious to me; female alchemy. She’d angle her body out toward me slightly, performing just a bit. I’d relish her subtle attention and she’d feel worshiped.
I imagine our lovemaking again, this time as tender and longing; fulfilling a need greater than the physical. Slow motion and sepia tones. Afterward, we’d cuddle. I imagine bagels and French press coffee on Sunday mornings. I imagine moving her out of her tiny studio into my place. I imagine merging our CD collections. I imagine holding hands as we walk down the Central Park walks, passing elderly couples who see themselves reflected in us. I imagine pledging our love eternally in whispered tones. I imagine what our kids would look like. I imagine moving to the suburbs to raise a family, but remaining edgy and youthful. I imagine never losing that spark we had when we first met on the six train that night all those years ago.
The train approaches 33rd St, and she’s standing to leave, moving to the doors, inches away from me. She smells like ballpoint-ink and hazelnuts. She smells like once-worn-laundry. She smells like comfort food and Bali Shag rolling tobacco. She looks like pragmatic optimism and sounds like whiskey and water. She’s warm and soft and inches from my fingertips. The doors open. She leaves. I feel fulfilled.
By Zane Hart
She sways lightly, eyes closed, back to the tracks. Her wrinkled layers, wool over cotton over cotton again, show small holes in subtle places; along seams and in armpit, places I only notice because I am staring. Though her clothes swallow her whole, she has the lithe, boyish frame of a dancer, and she moves with subtle grace as she drifts nearer to the acne ridden yellow platform edge. She’s too close, and she knows it, an eager adolescent defiance creasing her face. Her hand moves to her bag, hugging it closer to her stomach, a protective gesture that only makes her seem more vulnerable. Her eyes open as an express train roars and rumbles two tracks behind her. Her honey colored eyes are slightly bloodshot; they look as is they could see things I take for granted. She’s not sneering. So many people sneer on the subway. Maybe they just sneer at me. She looks kind, but intelligent enough to know better than to be kind.
She notices me staring, and I avert my gaze. I look at the poster ads for movies and energy drinks. It’s a game we all play: the quick (but not too quick) look away, as if you weren’t staring, as if you were fascinated by something else, and then, when you feel safe, you steal another glance. She’s still looking at me, waiting for me to return. Now we’re lingering; she’s sizing me up in a way that’s beyond me. I’m too embarrassed to look away, too embarrassed to really look back. She smiles, a possibly sincere smile.
I imagine approaching her, smiling and speaking softly, like calming a feral animal. She would be cagey but interested. We would chat and I’d lead her from pleasantries to loving the city; from fun neighborhood bars to the profound loneliness living here can mean; the way it surrounds you with nothing but itself. Before she knew it, she’d agree to go back to her place, to talk more. To connect. Intrusively relaxing music—she looks like a Sufjan Stevens kind of girl—would emanate from a $39.95 bookshelf CD/Cassette/AM/FM system bought at the Superstore USA in Springfield (or Cottage Grove or Yamhill or wherever the fuck normal people come from). We’d sit in her glorified closet of a studio and drink cheap cabernet. The wine would lead to a spliff of dry weed she’d produce from a colorful tin. I imagine her fingers gracefully working the paper bundle, bringing the neat little joint to her lips to lick.
We’d fuck like playground games; all teasing and competition, all dares and boasts. We’d roll and tickle, getting twisted up in her sheets, and fall raucously onto the hard floor, laughing like madmen. I’d sleep sated on her street-salvage-futon, one arm over my eyes to block out the street light, the other tangled in her hair. For a night she’d be mine, and I’d leave quietly before she woke up. I’d walk past the bagel place, consider buying her breakfast and returning gallantly. Oh no, I’d never leave like that, cream and sugar? I’d keep walking, feeling too guilty to even feed myself.
I’d go back to my life and she to hers. I wonder if she’d tell her friends, or pretend it never happened? I let my fantasy roll around in my head, tantalizing and profoundly sad. How long before the clinic visit? Got to get tested, both of us, each fretting the other’s habits. She’d wonder how frequently I casually fuck girls I meet in the subway. Where she lands on a long list. She’d feel a creeping sensation under her skin; an itch too deep to be real. She’d feel stupid. The Planned Parenthood waiting room would be—always is—full of distant eyed young women, teens carting out pocketfuls of condoms, and the most compassionate nurses on earth.
The train arrives. She’s sitting down, her bag in her lap. She’s directly across from me, looking at me again and I’m blushing. I study my shoes, but find myself looking more at hers. Simple flats: red, canvas, a bit tired looking. She must walk a lot. I guess we all do. I imagine she makes jewelry in her spare time; semi precious stones and copper wire twisted into loose fluid patterns. I see her hunched over a pile of tiny tools and silver plate chains and colored glass beads scattered on her studio floor. She’d bite her lip in concentration as she worked a pair of needle nose pliers in tight little circles. She’d sell the baubles online and to girlfriends; gift them to nieces and mom. And I’m there too, lounging on the bed. I never left, really. I’m there now, really. We’d laugh and joke about nothing. We’d tease and play like teenagers. At least, how I imagine teenagers playing. Why does love seem immature to me? Maybe the dependence on another person. She’d depend on me for praise and comfort; for assistance and support.
I would meet her friends; my arm around her waist, affectionately, not possessively. Holding, never clinging or asking too much or wanting things she’d never offer. Her female co-workers from the ad firm (or not-for-profit-organization or grassroots campaign office or wherever the fuck young professionals work) would wink at me and I’d buy them drinks. They’d compare me to her last boyfriend while I was at the bar, being polite about my shortcomings, encouraging her praise. I’d answer their questions, blush at their frequent innuendo, and not get a word in edgewise. She’d squeeze my hand under the table and offer reassuring smiles. We’d get home and she’d tell me how much they liked me. How funny I was. I’d fret about a tiny faux pas I’d made and she’d taunt my consternation with exaggerated agreement.
She’s getting up from her seat and I’m tensing, visibly. She’s checking the subway map a few feet away. Is she going somewhere new? How long has she been in the city? The small of her back is arched as she leans toward the brightly colored routes. I can see that same curve leaning over the bathroom sink as she applies makeup. She’d primp and curl her dark hair, dab tinctures and ointments on nape and navel. Rituals as ordinary to her as they are mysterious to me; female alchemy. She’d angle her body out toward me slightly, performing just a bit. I’d relish her subtle attention and she’d feel worshiped.
I imagine our lovemaking again, this time as tender and longing; fulfilling a need greater than the physical. Slow motion and sepia tones. Afterward, we’d cuddle. I imagine bagels and French press coffee on Sunday mornings. I imagine moving her out of her tiny studio into my place. I imagine merging our CD collections. I imagine holding hands as we walk down the Central Park walks, passing elderly couples who see themselves reflected in us. I imagine pledging our love eternally in whispered tones. I imagine what our kids would look like. I imagine moving to the suburbs to raise a family, but remaining edgy and youthful. I imagine never losing that spark we had when we first met on the six train that night all those years ago.
The train approaches 33rd St, and she’s standing to leave, moving to the doors, inches away from me. She smells like ballpoint-ink and hazelnuts. She smells like once-worn-laundry. She smells like comfort food and Bali Shag rolling tobacco. She looks like pragmatic optimism and sounds like whiskey and water. She’s warm and soft and inches from my fingertips. The doors open. She leaves. I feel fulfilled.
Shakespearean Porn Titles:
By Zane Hart, John Kinsherf, Katharine Proshansky, Janet Bruesselbach and Chris Heffernan.
Tight Ass Andronicus
King Leer
A Winter's Tail
As You Lick It
Coriolanus
Anal Play and Cleopatra
Comedy of Boners
Twelfth Time: or Twat You Will
Merchant of Penis
Othello: The Moor of Penis
Loves Labia Licked
Measure for Pleasure
Julius Seize Her
Two Gentlemen of Verona, One Cup
Horny Wives of Windsor
Taming of Her Shrew
All's Well That Ends Swelled
Midsummer Night's Wet Dream
Romeo in Julie's Twat
Ham-tit
Henry the Whore Parts I & II
Henry the Filth
Henry the Sex Parts I, II & III
Henry the Eight
Much Ado About Humping
Sin-beline
Timon of Asses
Twat Lust and Cressida
Mcboner
Peritits: The Prince of Tits
The Temp's Ass
Dick II
Dick III
King's John
Tight Ass Andronicus
King Leer
A Winter's Tail
As You Lick It
Coriolanus
Anal Play and Cleopatra
Comedy of Boners
Twelfth Time: or Twat You Will
Merchant of Penis
Othello: The Moor of Penis
Loves Labia Licked
Measure for Pleasure
Julius Seize Her
Two Gentlemen of Verona, One Cup
Horny Wives of Windsor
Taming of Her Shrew
All's Well That Ends Swelled
Midsummer Night's Wet Dream
Romeo in Julie's Twat
Ham-tit
Henry the Whore Parts I & II
Henry the Filth
Henry the Sex Parts I, II & III
Henry the Eight
Much Ado About Humping
Sin-beline
Timon of Asses
Twat Lust and Cressida
Mcboner
Peritits: The Prince of Tits
The Temp's Ass
Dick II
Dick III
King's John
Friday, April 23, 2010
Ow, my mouth...
Knocked out a filling earlier this week. One bad coughing fit and it popped right out of me, like a pimento from a Spanish olive. I held it in my hand, tiny and jagged in the crease of my palm, and stared. This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen. This kind of thing is wrong. This kind of thing has leprous connotations.
My roommate leans over to see, and laughs. He slaps me on the shoulder with a hearty, "That would be a filling." Thank you, dear friend, your amusement is utterly un-infectious. Infections. Oh god, there's a hole in my head that leads directly to a nerve. I'm not insured, so I make an appointment with NYU Dental School.
As I lie there with small fingers crammed into my mouth, clumsy with inexperience, I list Proust titles in my head to keep from biting down. His bedside manner includes multiple uses of the word "Um", pun-based-humor, and notably minty breath. He and his assistant gossip openly about fellow students, one of whom I must have seen pass in the waiting room; the tall strutting lab coat followed by several nurses and a cloud of self tanner. The other DDS candidates part to let him pass, avert their gazes and speak in murmurs. He's a fucking dental rock star. Baffling.
My roommate leans over to see, and laughs. He slaps me on the shoulder with a hearty, "That would be a filling." Thank you, dear friend, your amusement is utterly un-infectious. Infections. Oh god, there's a hole in my head that leads directly to a nerve. I'm not insured, so I make an appointment with NYU Dental School.
As I lie there with small fingers crammed into my mouth, clumsy with inexperience, I list Proust titles in my head to keep from biting down. His bedside manner includes multiple uses of the word "Um", pun-based-humor, and notably minty breath. He and his assistant gossip openly about fellow students, one of whom I must have seen pass in the waiting room; the tall strutting lab coat followed by several nurses and a cloud of self tanner. The other DDS candidates part to let him pass, avert their gazes and speak in murmurs. He's a fucking dental rock star. Baffling.
Friday, April 9, 2010
A different kind of desensitized.
I've become desensitized to physics. We all have these moments--standing on rooftops, or subway platforms, or Manhattan street corners--when the thought crosses our minds, "I could totally jump that." Or, "If I timed this just right..." These thoughts are, of course, ludicrous; to think that our soft, sedentary frames could reach the velocity necessary to vault a twelve-foot gap. Even if we could, we'd most likely break something on impact. These thoughts are usually dismissed with a chuckle and pragmatic shake of the head. But more and more recently, I've found myself harder to convince. And I know the cause of my current delusion: it's video games. I spend the few procrastination hours I have scaling buildings with a flick of the thumb; performing wall runs and vaults while stuffing Cheetos in my mouth, and I've come to subconsciously view the human body as an untiring machine designed solely for running, jumping and climbing sheer cliff faces. So what we're building to is a hospital visit, my friends and family gathered around my bed as I eat pudding and say through chocolate coated teeth, "I thought I could jump it."
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