Wednesday, 18 January 2012

Degrading Haystack With Red Moons Printed Across Part 3

I look at her as she searches for the right question to ask, but none come, as we are past the how old are you and how much money do your parents do but never past the are you married or are you gay, since you’re an actor and creative people must be gay. Not like it’s a bad thing or anything, but I just hate the whole sticking something to something. And no, I’m not.

I had a scene one, playing with a coin in my fingers and I looked up, because the character is suppose to and just asked aloud, what if I am? In the end the character’s fate is unknown aside the fact that he robs the bank and now has more coins to think on.

I once shaved my head and it grew out back, but I can still feel it upon my fingers, as I walked out with Macy, fingers intertwining like lace. I remember how I became so thin all of a sudden, my cheekbones seen and everyone commented on how ghastly I looked. All I saw was how brilliant I was going to be and all the roles I was going to get offered.

Few came.

Everyone commented on where was my glossy black hair and that I was sixteen, reminding me that nothing was ever going to happen.

I wondered how come I didn’t cut it all off now, releasing me from the girly look the audience aimed for. But then I had cut now that it wasn’t even, steaks reaching the chin, some not, some trying to grasp the shoulders if straightened and held forward to grow like an unwanted messed up seed.

But the question was the same as why I had laced fingers with the girl grasping a ladder in the other hand, waiting to go up into the stars as soon as I’d shave my head to have the feel.

Isn’t that what we aim for?

A feel, an exposure of the soul clean and clear as the one described in books, in roles, as I’d shout them out, holding a gun in hand, grasping a hand near the lips, falling down in a fake faint to cause a dramatic stir in the events so that I’d get kicked around before I’d get lifted up and get the red beaten out of my face by a kiss from the stage in a face of another actor’s rough lips, taking away the innocence once held in the air, as I’d climb up and up out of the scene to say that I was there.

That I wasn’t there, but having the gloss upon my lips and chin with lace between my fingers and stuck to my mouth to mute out the words from coming out to shred in the world with the paper guns against the clay temples and fake plastic door leading to eternal joy, something you can never claim until you grasp it in a certain state.


With the pearl out, hanging, getting took away, as the thief explained to get given to someone else.


You’ve never seen anyone die?

No. Why would I?

I remember how I saw him sprayed on the floor, one leg on top of the other chewing something eye closed, a smirk pressed upon the lips and a pearl collar colouring his neck. The thief looked different each time and that time he was unshaved and his hair was nearing a gray unlike the times when he’d turn up shaved, blonde, a hat covering the top, a too big button up shirt for him, half way tucked in and mismatched trainers and missing nails only to be found in the pocket covered in some blue glue.

“What’s your name?” It all starts and ends with it, doesn’t it?

“You mean by meaning death?” He never opened his eyes, scratching his pierced ear. The thief opened one deep eye looking at me from head to the toe, the other covering the right. I never realized that I said that aloud. Closing the door, I hid the key in my pocket, the thief smirking with glee. “No name.”

“What?” I blinked, flopping myself to the floor near to the gray haired man.

“Nope.” He shook his head, covering the second eye with the left hand, a grin forming upon his lips, his teeth poking out slightly crooked but not in a disgust way. “I can see the stars.”

“Jaidem?” I asked, poking his side. My hand sliding upon the now black shirt with its soft silk. Wasn’t that mine once until I fiddled with a hole and ripped it apart the threads coming out and into the world of nothing.

“Isn’t it s’possed to be Jaiden?” He asked, taking both hands and sitting straight, ruffling a hand through his now auburn hair hanging and touching his slightly sticking out lips. I nodded.

“I just… like it more that way.” I shrugged, bringing my knees to my chest and resting my head against them, feeling something touch my hair out of my face and placing something upon my lips, a round object. I swallowed, feeling the thief smile.

The later it got the younger he looked, his hair bleaching out or falling out, clothes changing, but at least one pearl would be added to his collar and sometimes draining the colour out of his cheeks and not just the shave able stubble.

Every time I’d see him, it felt like the first time at school with a tie hanging tightly around the neck but with a feeling of relief as you’d see a certain somebody. It felt as natural as the growing amount of pearls that soon enough he had a whole jacket, mentioning that once he’d have mine between a forced cough that choked out other people’s blood all different coloured, like the scattered stars in the sky.

Jaidem looked different each time, his cough sometimes getting worse. He told me that he wasn’t contagious but that I shouldn’t touch the blood leaking out of his mouth on the cloth or sometimes piling on the floor like ripped out pages from books if he searched for something unknown to the regular, boring, human mind.

“Are you human?” He hesitated pulling out a blonde turning green steak and fiddling with it, ripping it in two, crunching like toast and taking it into his mouth as it turned into a cherry lollypop to turn into a steak of bacon and back into chocolate, something it one day was.

“No. Just like you are, Devyn.” I never told him my name but the scattered newspapers with my name underlined in purple pencil seemed explainable. I pouted. He threw an eyelash at me. I caught it and blew it into a plane to descend into a ripe bubble to pop in my leg creating a whole in my stage pants to receive a shout from my director and accuses of Jaidem who laughed, fiddling with the chain flower cross on his neck as he’d stick his tongue out on the way out of the performance, stage and life.

But he returned. With a beer in hand to drink it and dumb the bottle in the room along with his star abused body, crawling into a ball, lulling him to sleep as my Joy Division CD sounded in the distance, muting out his thoughts with Ian’s and as he mumbled my own suicide.

I asked him why my own.

He told me to sleep between his own sick, pearly shaped sweet sleep with lips drenched in cheap beer and lime stuck out of my fridge from an expensive birthday show cake which I can’t swallow due to its fake plastic taste messing with my taste buds that it feels like hash, if I’d know how it felt. Jaidem told me, so I made the connection with hash.

Does hash even taste?

It tastes, like love, he answered lips barely moving.

Then it’s shit.


Sorry for the delays, I've been quite busy and now I am fully back.

It has indeed been a busy half a year, but I've made it!

Jaidem is now here and Jaidem would be my favorite creation, really.

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