Total Pageviews

Thursday, February 25, 2010

sex when it's dark

I couldn’t see a thing – the power was down, the whole block was down – and the moon that night (when you need her!) was a pale piece of crescent.

But Lui, reaching down panties, you can do that in the dark, man. Or is it brassier clips you struggle with?

Quit giggling Brendan. No clip ever held back an able-bodied Croat, and I can make my way one hand tied behind my back. But that’s not the point. The point is you want to see stuff, you wanna look down, you wanna – anyway, let me finish. It was dark. On the groundfloor under a flimsy duvet there was me and Mica. Two floors up JK was kick-starting his back-up generator, and outside on the streets there was rumbling going on, maybe Kurds battling Turks, maybe the pulse pushing up out of the underground. Who knows, but I wasn’t about to get out of bed , no sirree. And like I said, it was pitch dark and when it’s pitch dark strange things happen. Very strange things… or maybe it’s pitch dark because strange things happen, ever thought about that?

Christ, Lui, you’re about to have sex, man. Who cares!

Right! But, for your information, as my hand was moving down along Mica’s belly – soft as peach, my friend – as my hand was moving down her belly, at that particular instant, somewhere way out – I mean WAY OUT, Bren – some an unholy chasm ripped through space like a massive blackhole shuddering, and every piece of matter this side of the universe was under its spell!

What the -

That means me, Bren, that means Mica Spirelli, that means -

When did that happen? I didn’t feel anything. You're confusing things Labas. Remember, you're about to have s-

I’m getting to that, let me finish. So -bang- huge blackhole, everything shuddering, my hand roving down in the dark, Mica reaching up, JK’s gennie rattling upstairs -

Alright, go go!

Yeah, so it being pitch dark and all, I’m going by cues now , Bren, and these little cues from Mica they just keep coming, you see, and she’s soft as peach all over, and despite all that rattling and rumbling upstairs, and that shuddering in space, despite all that, when we made the climb completely in the dark, and when we slipped off the edge and cascaded down together, there was that moment – no cues, nothing– there was that moment when everything stood completely still.

… yes?

That’s it.

That's it!? Labas! Details, man, DETAILS!

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

the order of things

On January 28, 1975, Zagreb, Croatia, I slinked into the world at last, a tethered bundle of bone and fatty tissue. It is said I screamed for over an hour, but what do you expect, entered thus into the human race – an adversarial race for the most part; predators, backbiters, double-crossers – entered thus: empty handed, skin-naked, bewildered and thoroughly unmanly despite the disproportionate nutsack that comes part and parcel with male natal garb. And – note – defenseless: no teeth, no knuckles, no nails, nuthin’. A couple of clear-cut shapes like a wrist or a collar bone would have set me apart. Instead, I emerged pouffy, a blotchy neck-pillow, with zero motor skills and no clue about anything at all: not the light that flashed EVERYWHERE, not the rubbery hand that cupped my skull, and not the knife that clipped the cord that’d kept me alive and kicking for nine glorious months of relaxation and water sport.

How can I say…. I was pissed off.

One thing I had going for me though – one thing I’ve lost since – a setv of vocal cords so badass and shreaky I silenced mother, father and attendant staff for fifteen minutes. My first fifteen minutes I owned. This was my guitar solo, and I let loose! A good thing too because for the first fifteen minutes at least, I was nameless.

Eventually, it came: Lui Antun Labas.

Understand my frustration, though, I came from a very simple place: temperature regulated, sound muted, light unnecessary, food channeled in, and me all padded out in my little my capsule, proof against impact of all sorts, doorknobs, broom handles etc. And most importantly, my thoughts reigned supreme. I crossed deserts on foot, floated weightless through the void and threw javelins at meteorites. Now and then, for sport, I kicked my mom in the gut, but mostly I was adrift in realms of my own.

Right…

Now jump thirty-five years forward… watch your step.

What do you get?

I’ll tell you, my friend. You look here. I’ll tell you what you get. A whole bunch of crap you get. Crap-you-don’t-need carefully collected. Bric-a-brac, cardboard boxes, books I’ve never read, books I’ll never read, almanacs, wristwatches ticking and defunct, maps of the world, maps of Crete, maps of Rotterdam, folders of miscellany, bits and pieces, chips off chandeliers; I have bundles of letters, letters from Leticia, shit she wrote way back when she put her hand down my pants for “feels”; I have chessboards – I have three – I have shoulder bags with leather pouches! Belts in abundance; I have scarves, my friend, long, short, fagggot-ass, you name it. Christ so much shit. Do you have all this shit? Do you have all this crap down there Bigman? Corkscrews, shower mats? You have that shit in your burrow? I’ll tell you what, don’t you envy us, my friend, don’t you envy us. You see this silky thread here – feel that. You feel that? – between me and each thing here there is such a thread. A tether, Bigman. A silky tether.

Ever heard of Gulliver? You know Gulliver, right?

Friday, February 5, 2010

eating quiche doing squat all

I cut my quiche in eighths and think of fractions like back in the day when I did math puzzles for kicks. Also, a pint of Ribbenstock cider fizzes on the table – best shit in the world – waiting to come in and ferret out bits of salad and rhubarb caught between my teeth…that is, before I funnel it round into my waiting gullet.

Niiiiiiiiiice!

Little touch of alcohol back of my throat and Drago comes to mind: his belt-flask, his schnappsy breath and the string of fucks he used to weave in and out of his language like points de soutures (fucking happy to see you my friend. You are my fucking friend!).

In goes an eighth of quiche… the crust… the crumbs…. then an olive, a wrinkly, slippery little sucker I balance on my tongue, then waterpolo around my mouth for sport before I gut it of its seed.

Another gulp of Ribbenstock. A big foamy gulp I slosh around like it’s Biaritz all up and down my molars so the undertow can wash out the eggy-paste that comes with the territory quiche Lorraine.

All sounds good and fun, you say: Lui Labas sitting around eating quiche doing squat all; 7/8th left; crazy olives in a jar; Ribbenstock cider in abundance. My friend, I can’t complain.... except for outside temperatures which have stooped to new lows; the enemy creeps in with icicles through the cracks, my toes are curled up cold, my neck is cramped and my prick has retreated –

Hatchoum!

In my bathrobe borrowed from the Belgrade Intercontinental I sit for a moment with my Ribbenstock cider. Every now and then I pop an olive, but mostly I think of what I was thinking yesterday when I was babysitting JK’s mammoth cat… It went something like this,

Sometimes there’s just nothing going on. Sometimes there’s only what you’re doing right this minute! Heck, not even what you’ve done because nothing you’ve done was really lasting. You do this, you do that, you loll about, you slumber and life does that hopscotch over your butt, skipping you in its round of rewards. Like a cat on a couch... like you my friend, bewhiskered thing-with-claws...

But thinking all this doesn’t stop me from grabbing another eighth of quiche. So that’s what I do. 6/8ths and counting...