Seitan Doesn't Live in Hell

Seitan is chopped up, fried pieces of wheat gluten so for those of you word purists please take note that I understand the difference and will merrily proceed referring to any wheat gluten based product to be seitan. That said, you know when you go to a Buddhist vegetarian restaurant and they have all these non-meat meat dishes and you find yourself ordering out of curiosity and then asking your friend to lean over and pinch you while tasting a tiny bite of the Crispy Peking notsoducky Duck! Well, yeah, you thought it was some soy shit, didn’t you? Well, it isn’t; it’s wheat gluten and it’s delicious.

I have been a tofu eater ever since I discovered its authentic use in the kitchen of my Chinese American best friend in High School. While she described her mother as an only slightly decent cook, I felt that her mother was the keeper of countless culinary secrets, not the least of which was what we fondly called “spitting tofu.” The tofu her mother used must have been kept in secret corners of Asian Grocery Stores because I have never encountered anything like it in Whole Foods. The spongey tofu must be too fantastic for the Western World and we must be forced to spend at least 1000 years or so with silken and firm tofu before we’re ready to graduate to anything else. So the spitting tofu just simmered in a huge pot of beef broth with hard boiled eggs for an entire day. The resulting delicacy (if taken on a multiple bite basis) would launch scalding hot liquid across the room, and not even the risk of burning oneself or one’s friend could stand in the way of consuming sponge after sponge of it.

So I say all that to say, I have been eating tofu for years in ways that even most Westerners haven’t experienced. So upon recently becoming a vegetarian, I felt I had thoroughly explored the soy-based meat alternatives long before necessity had demanded it. My love affair with tempeh was short lived and a little forced after I discovered its limited use and how unmeat-like it truly was. For most yuppie DINKs, enlightenment can frequently strike in yoga class or in the aisles of Whole Foods after yoga class or perhaps in the aisles of Whole Foods on the way to yoga class or crazier still in Yoga Class in the aisles of Whole Foods. And even though, I was not on my way to or from yoga class, I was in the alternative meat section on the perimeter aisle of a Whole Foods in a very yuppie part of San Francisco (honestly, how can one avoid it). There before me was this strange box with a brown marinated chunk of something straining against a plastic wall - a humble box of seitan. Had it eyes, they surely would have implored a closer look. Had it a mouth, it surely would have demanded attention. My ever active imagination decided to indulge in a quick scan of the ingredients in order to address the puppy dog in the window quality of its strange contents.

Wheat Gluten, eh? If I suspend the horror of gluten allergies that have plagued a few of my friends, I might actually feel a ping or three of interest here. (Pause for more the slow reading of a slow reader ) No shit! This entire package only has 3 grams of fat and 300 calories?! SOLD! SOLD! SOLD!

Ah, the coercive powers of low calorie, low fat foods win again! The package was added to the multi-hundred dollar pile in the cart and the salivary glands began their secretions of curiosity. The hipster in charge of tallying my debt at the check-out counter found it necessary to question the intended use of my parsnips but absentmindedly passed the box of seitan across the machine with the piercing red gaze and calculator brain. Apparently, a parsnips culinary contributions trumps the seitan’s in the interesting department.

I am nothing if not dutiful and often to a fault. While dutiful to many many masters, in this case, I am dutiful to the epicurean masters of taste and science. Upon (also dutifully) putting away the various groceries, I went straight to the unreliable educator, the internet, to learn myself good! Mostly I needed to see how this seitan would behave in various states of cook. Would it be offended and dry up in a frying situation? Would it vehemently protest the marinating process? Would it go on strike if braised?

I quickly discovered seitan performed very similarly to tofu in most preparations, but much unlike tofu it was insanely simple to make your own at home.

As an aside, I am one who is full of self-doubt and have sincere issues with efficacy. I have been known to have interests sparked and instantly shelve them for years borne out of simple fear. My brain sparks and spits and fires all the time, but it is a rare moment for any of those sparks to burst into flames of experience. Snuffing and extinguishing are the typical responses to these little inspirations. So the words “seitan is very quickly and simply prepared in the home” sent showers of sparks all over the reluctant convolutions of my white and grey matter. As is typical, I didn’t expect this interest to ever see the gas flames of my kitchen stove in any span of time.

I would guess nearly a month, perhaps even two passed of filling my cart and stomach with store-bought seitan before I again found myself on the internet researching various meat alternatives. Again my eye was caught by seitan and its simple preparations. I resolved that this was my day. This was my day to learn a new skill. I was going to evaluate just how simple and easy this simple and easy preparation actually was.

It turns out the process really is just that simple. The actual seitan can be made with just two ingredients: vital wheat gluten and water. This chewy mess would be mostly bland and in dire need of some heat, but it was already at its very essence seitan. I had three different recipes pulled up on my screen and decided I would create my own greatest hits recipe. I mixed nutritional yeast flakes, cayenne pepper, and vital wheat gluten as the dry mix. The liquid comprised amounts of water, tamari, crushed garlic, tomato paste, and a dash of aged balsamic.

You just throw all that shit together and you have a springy, weird mass of brown. I had to look up what knead meant because I was meant to knead this mess for three minutes and then let it sit. While it sat there, meditating like a good Buddhist meat substitute, I prepared the braising broth with ten cups of water, vegetable bouillon, onions, ginger, and ever more tamari.

All it took, was an hour in the simmering liquid for the weird brown mass (which had now been cut into three smaller but still weird pieces) to grow and exaggerate the established weirdness. The smell was luxurious and inviting. I had fucking made my own meat substitute in my own kitchen with my own pots and my own improvised recipe. Who was this person?! I wanted to get on the phone with 1989 and call Jan Can Cook and let him know who was in charge now!

Ever the hesitant self-congratulator, I felt it was still necessary to prepare a meal with this creation before any more compliments could be distributed. So with the furtive haste established by the habitual throwing together of seitan-related dishes I came to the stove with my own JOSH brand of seitan. Well, I can safely say that it was tasty and satisfying and downright enviable.

I must admit, I haven’t been much prouder in recent years. Not just because I took a risk and tried something new, but because I bucked so many traditions all at once. I not only allowed my curiosity to flourish but even found a way to satiate its needs. I don’t say this often and if I do say it it’s usually with more than just an ounce of sarcasm but here I say it with complete self-confidence without a hint of irony - GO ME!!

"My Baby is coming home"

Absolutely no edits.

I should have been at work, but like all mornings, things had gotten out of hand, most specifically the time I left. I should not have been witness to their interactions, but either fortunately or unfortunately I was there. It was one of those conversations that you silence your iPod but leave the earphones in just so you can eavesdrop.

The plastic crinkled with chuckles as the little ceramic pumpkins grinned underneath - not suffocating, despite the warnings. "My baby is coming home," she exclaimed as though this justified her extensive Halloween purchases. They were an odd match. She with her lumpy body and hacksawed teeth, cleanly slanting from left to right. She lifted her arm to examine something in her armpit, perhaps an ingrown hair, regardless he helped her explore. He greeted everyone on the train when he boarded. His large arms barely straining against the two large speakers that had obviously been well tended since the early 70s. Their 99 cent store haul had been a success. They locked lips with a still passionate familiarity as though the novelty of their togetherness still had a few more months.

When the phone rang, she answered it in speaker phone mode. Her man was obviously trying to get a job of some kind. The woman on the phone claimed they needed to get a feel for his "vibe" before they set-up an in-person interview. Apparently, his vibe was just what they were looking for and they were ready to move this process along. "Do you have a pen and paper?" the voice through the phone sang in a tinny sing-song. The slanty toothed companion rummaged through her plastic bags of plastic bags and found a stash of pens and post-its. Dutifully, she transcribed the information from loud speakerphone voice to yellow post-it pad. As she scrawled, I began to wonder what she was like in the early classroom, learning to read and write. She seemed like the kind of woman who absentmindedly interchanged your and you're. I tried to imagine her as a still naive child without a man or a pile of cash to spend on Halloween toys. I tried really hard, and I just couldn't do it.

I'm kinda over it!

Okay...so this has been about two years in the making. It all started just after Halloween in 2005. I had purchased these fabulous, patent leather, thigh-high boots to go with my Halloween costume. So I had a nice red patent leather corset/girdle, these huge red wings, and the great boots: all pulled together with some terrible make-up and fishnets. For those of you who saw the pictures, count yourselves among the lucky cuz I don't plan on sharing them again. Well, several weeks later after spending the night at Corbett's (we hadn't started living in sin yet) I came out to discover my back window broken out. I looked around the car and was kinda disappointed...NOTHING was missing. It wasn't until a few days later when I thought to myself - Self, since your car is getting broken into, you should probably take all your stuff out of it. That's when I realized that my boots, fishnets, and makeup had been stolen. WHY oh WHY didn't they take the corset and red wings as well I will never know. It's like...way to keep the piercing pin 1 millimeter from my pulsing, bloated heart! When you actually have to remove the corset from the paper bag that contains the boots, fishnets, and makeup is when I realize that I don't understand the theif's mentality. It's like the beggar on the street that I hand a dollar bill to and he asks for a 5! And for that matter....WHO wears a size 13 thigh-high platform boot? I mean I guess they could sell it to a sketchy tranny in the Tenderloin but damnit...it just didn't make any sense. So I learned my lesson. Don't leave ANYthing valuable in your car and don't lock your doors unless of course you want ANOTHER window broken out which usually costs around $100 - $250 depending on which one is broken.

Flash forward about a year. Corbett goes out to his car one morning to find that HIS window had been broken out as well. This time the culprit stole his car's User's Manual, his iPod, and iPod car charger. At least SOME these stolen items make some sense in my mind. Yet why steal a User's Manual unless you're gonna sell it on eBay or something. So now Corbett has learned his lesson as well. Don't leave anything valuable in your car and just leave your doors unlocked. If someone wants to steal the car then FINE...at least we would save about $100/month in parking tickets and insurance would give us a little check.

Flash forward to about two weeks ago. Now I have come to expect people rummaging through my car...it's unlocked, but again, there is nothing in there of value. Hell, even the car radio "tuned out" about two years ago...take the damn thing...less weight in the car, better gas mileage - I'm fine with it. Well, I noticed that everything had been rearranged by someone during the night...they must have perused my yearbook because it was sitting on the driver's seat. And come to think of it...why didn't they at least have a sense of humor about it. Ya know, they could have at least written me a nice little note in there - "Hey it was awesome getting to know you and ripping you off this year. Keep in touch! Best friends forever!"

So yeah. I was off to the DMV to retake my motorcycle license test (a whole EXTRA drama unto itself) when I noticed that my precious dash ornament had been stolen. They say that many Native American adolescents are sent off on their own to find their spirit animal, their totem. I was fortunate enough never have to endure a vision quest (at least one that didn't include Madonna and Matthew Modine) as Sanrio had quite happily provided me with my own totem: Badtz-Maru...for those of you who don't know who this is, PLEASE take a moment to educate yourself. So I guess I didn't take my own advice and remove everything that was valuable to me. Who knows what on earth this person is doing with my cute little ceramic bobble-headed Badtz Maru.

Okay...now all you have to do is flash back to this morning, and then that's it for flashing on this little rant. I was sitting at the train station, waiting for the train when I get a phone call from Corbett. Apparently, his own departure for work was delayed because there was a fat woman asleep in the passenger seat of his car. He even had to wait a couple minutes for her to get her wits (and I say that idiomatically because I do not credit her with any wit whatsoever) about her.

So I beseech the world?! What am I to do? I already pay an average of $100/month in parking tickets because I am always forgetting to move my car for the street cleaners. I am convinced that the great and glorious state of California in all of its duty to pioneer the way to a greener future is actually hiring people to go through the city and make car ownership absolutely unbearable. Parking is next to impossible in nearly every neighborhood, gas is always more expensive here, there are parking meter officials (I say that with absolutely zero respect) working around the clock, they've hired the homeless to break into our cars or just sleep in them. So I guess I should just sell my car, right? I mean people would break in your car in Georgia but at least they would sleep in the park. Come on assholes...a homeless person can't even freeze to death here in San Francisco...get a fucking box, slip on my fishnets and boots, burn the pages of my senior yearbook and keep your grimy ass out of my car. I fucking hope you get bed bugs!

For SHAME

I have dealt with countless shameful moments in my life: homosexuality in my early years, having to face a stranger in my bed after a night of sloppy exchanges, having to apologize to friends following drunken rampages. In fact, given my penchant for all things self-loathing, I am quite ashamed of a good number of things that I probably have no business being ashamed of at all.

Well, the jury is still out on whether this is something that falls into the legitimately shameful category or not.

It all started months ago...many months ago. Corbett would wake me in the middle of the night in hysterics over these mysterious bug attacks. Since I shared the bed with him and was completely unaffected by these "attacks" I simply told him he was insane and merely finding outlets for his various frustrations and stresses. In short, he was suffering from delusional parasitosis. He was also keeping me from my precious sleep.

The phantom bug attacks continued on an infrequent basis. Sometimes he would shake me awake to show me raised welts on his arm or on his neck. I was unimpressed. The mind is a powerful thing, and I was still convinced that he was to blame for these late night outbursts and not some nocturnal hematophagous insect. He would talk at length to others about his plight, and I would consistently reduce his credibility by adding my own experience...or rather my complete LACK of experience except for the rude episodes conducted by my ONLY bed buddy.

The truth of the matter is not that I did not believe him, but rather that I feared the truth. I had read an article in the New York Times back in 2005. Now for me to remember ANYthing outside of the realm of a Pop Culture snip-it is pretty impressive, and this had obviously left an indelible impression. The article dealt with a new plague of Bed Bugs in New York City...not in Central Park on the sleeping pallets of the homeless, but rather on Park Avenue. There was a growing shame among the upper class associated with these disturbing and often debilitating infestations. I was hoping that so long as I could write off this problem as a stress driven hallucination that I would be safe from the increasingly common plight of the yuppies.

Two nights ago, my denial received a good kick in the ass as well as countless bites from head to toe. For those of you who do not know, perhaps you should fill yourselves in on the dirty details in Wikipedia but here is the short version. Bed Bugs are blood suckers. They live in and around your bed and begin their feeding about an hour or so before dawn. They are drawn to body heat and carbon dioxide - the two greatest outputs of deep sleep. They sneak up on you and inject you with their own anesthetic so that you don't immediately feel what they're up to...only later after they're gone does the itching begin. Suddenly, you are awakened to a body of itch...and they have already scurried away as fast as they can carry their little blood engorged bodies.

Two nights ago, frustrated with his own itching issues Corbett released a series of screams and curses at around 4:40 am...and for those of you who are keeping track at home, that's about an hour before dawn. I am trying to sleep through this while also trying to convince myself that my own head to toe itching is merely a pyschological suggestion...that my sleep-weakened mind is submitting, allowing his delusions to become MY delusions. After he quiets down a bit, I sneak to the next room with a magnifying glass to check over my entire body for any evidence. NOTHING! He is a fool ::scratch scratch:: So unable to return to bed just yet, I begin doing some online research on the little buggers ::scratch scratch:: About three or four paragraphs in, my heart begins to sink a little...in such a way that only a cigarette can uplift. Clad in a robe, I brace myself for the still unsunned chill of the morning. When I return all of the lights are on and Corbett is grimacing as he proudly holds in his hand evidence of his pure sanity. He has captured about 6 or 7 little bed bugs in a small jar. We go into the bedroom and notice that they are hiding all along the cracks on the walls. We don't actually have a box spring for them to hide in and our mattress is actually completely sealed from seams. Undeterred, they have setup camp in the wall next to our impervious bed.

I am crestfallen at this point, because I had read all of the necessary steps required to getting rid of these little bearers of itch-inducing madness. Every single piece of clothing must be washed. Every inch of carpet must be vacuumed. Every millimeter of the dwelling must be treated. Every bit of you will be totally ashamed and unable to share your plight with your friends. Too embarrassed to be associated with squalor. Too humiliated to be assumed disgusting. When the fact is quite simple: these animals are opportunists and if given the opportunity they will thrive. All they need is a hiding place and a warm body to suck on at night (Bear in mind that we ignore THESE traits in most of our friends). There are reports of these critters from all the way back in ancient Egyptian times. I did a Google News search...week after week there are headlines from all over the country announcing "The Return of Bedbugs - They aren't just for the plague-ridden anymore!"

We have begun the preparations for the four hour treatment that is to take place tomorrow. In the meantime, we have set up a tent and an air mattress in our bedroom to protect us from our nightly onslaught. Last night, while camping in our tent, was our first night of calm, pure sleep in months. Corbett is treating them like bacteria, warning me not to bring my tainted clothes in to the quarantined zones that have been set up. We are hoping and praying (for the first time in years) that we are successful in getting rid of them. Camping in your bedroom is fun and all, but even a 5 year old is tired of it after a night or two.

So I ask you: If I am so ashamed and embarrassed about this whole incident, then why on earth am I writing about it?! The answer is simple. I am confident that no one will be anything but supportive and this is the reason why--

We are quietly collecting these nasty creatures (who can live unfed for up to 18 months) in a jar. That's right...we're saving them for any of you bitches who might want to make fun of us or call us unhygenic. All it takes it a sprinkle from our little shame bottle to have you screaming for relief at 5am. So all I ask is for your sympathy and support...or else!

Too much time...

Above is a piece of space dust. Someone somewhere on some blog posts pictures of these miniscule little snipits of space debris. I am not exactly sure why, but its reasons are unimportant to me.

This weekend I spent time wandering about with just my thoughts and the world around me as company. As I wandered I came to notice all the little things that would otherwise escape my eye: the drifts of petals on the sidewalks, the multitude of cigarette butts collecting at drains, childrens' laughter reaching me across hundreds of yards. Every single thing, regardless of its matter, makeup, etc. has some story to tell. Not all of them are interesting or harrowing or exciting or happy, but they are all nonetheless important. As humans, our interactions with these objects are how we make our own stories, and these artifacts carry our finger prints long after we've left them. This idea is in no way novel. For one to come across a novel idea in this world is a rare and special gift. I have not been blessed with such an experience and do not expect to during my lifetime...far too grand for a pawn like me. But for someone to reach a conclusion (whether original or not) on their own is still cause for minor celebration. I am writing this mostly because I want to get it out of my head where it will be lost and put somewhere more stable.

That piece of space dust has a whole story unto itself...a huge and vast story. Boy if that dust could talk, we could learn a lot! Its interaction with humans is minute compared to all of its other experiences. All I am really saying is that all of these stories are connected and its really the fabric of what binds us to one another. When you approach the world in this way, you are very quickly overwhelmed by all of the overlaps and complexities of these stories. This patch of grass here in the park...these blades have overheard countless conversations, they have felt earthquakes that only a few computers in Berkeley knew about, they have been trampled and cut and soaked and dried and they are still going. They may not be able to talk or fight back but their experiences are honest and important. I am not going so far as to assign a "spirit" to these blades of grass. I am saying that they are a medium through which stories can be transmitted. And suddenly I felt a huge amount of reverence for every single thing about me...everything felt special and important, including me! It got me thinking about the infinite set of untold stories that lie all around us.

So I started to realize that each of us, humans, are carving and creating our own stories through our space of time here. I have lots and lots of fingerprints all over me, and fortunately (unfortunate for some) I have a voice. I can communicate. The idea of a story really compels one to think about the past, but is it such a far leap to also project into the future. I had to ask myself...what kind of story do I want to tell? I know what I have told and what clings to me to this day, but I still have some control on the kind of story I want to tell. It gave me an immense appreciation for my mistakes and missteps along the way. It made me realize that at that instantaneous spot between past and future, I am perfect...I have made mistakes (past) and I will make mistakes (future) but in that moment...well...there I am...part of a story that comprises all the wonderful and horrible experiences of my life - but not just my life...everyone's lives. I pick up pieces from other people's lives all the time. Factory workers the world over have touched and left their impressions and finger prints on all of the plastic nonsense that I buy. We are connected across oceans and cultures...

Those were really the two points I needed to get out. I wasn't as elloquent as I had hoped, but the bare bones of the ideas are there for future consideration and molding. This is Josh signing off!

Big MAC, Mc DLT, A Quarter Pounder with some cheese, Filet 'o Fish, a Hamburger, a Cheeseburger, a Happy Meal...

I turn 29 this year...almost three decades of life on this rockin' rock. While that feat is unbelievable in and of itself, what I am about to tell you is even more implausible and will leave you with a feeling of incredulity that you will struggle to accept for the next several years. I promise - you will be haunted with thoughts and wonders and concerns. You will wake up at the witching hour (3am by most clocks) with a cold empty feeling in your gut. ALL reminders of this very moment...

Up until April 9, 2007, I (JJB) had never once supped upon the odd feast that is a Big Mac, a delicacy I am sure so many of you have long consumed and shitted away without any thought. Well, kiddies...Monday was my introduction to this all-American delight, and it did not disappoint. It certainly didn't change my life or anything and it certainly did not divide my life into two distinct parts - life before the Big Mac and life after the Big Mac. Even though my near thirty years are still in tact, this was a big moment in my life...truly.

As a young lad, we had frequent trips to McDonald's and I found myself the proud recipient of many a Happy Meal, complete with a toy and the paltry pickin's of a small fry and some hamburger with weird onions on it. Wendy's finally told me what they were on a hateful television commercial years later...they were "reconstituted onion" - - - ew! So I just didn't eat McDonalds hamburgers...I would eat even grosser things like McNuggets or a Filet 'o Fish, but I would NOT eat their burgers...with the reconstituted onions. As a child and to a slightly lesser extent as an adult, I am not one to be entirely bold with my wants and needs. If my coffee is a little too cold, I pretend I am Goldilocks and decide that it's "just riiiiiiiiiiiiiight." If the meal that comes to the table is not entirely what I ordered, again...it looks like the feast that was set out for little baby bear...good enough for me. So when my mother suggested that I just ask for a burger without the yucky onions, I was a little nervous, but she encouraged me so I went for it and ordered a quarter pounder with cheese (I couldn't abide Happy Meals - I needed more food to maintain my roly poly physique) and none of those reconstituted onions. Well, my mom and our friends all got their orders lickity split and I just buzzed around the counter like a fly waiting for my little tray of trash and offal to appear so I could finally land and consume. I waited and waited...finally the tray was weighted down with some weird looking package...this wasn't the typical yellow paper that normally would crispily contain a quarter pounder...this was NOT right at all. My "special" burger was in some weird blue packaging and it wasn't fast food at all. It certainly did not have any onions on it, but it had about 20 pounds of guilt on it. I would NEVER try to be special again...and remember this was years before a certain other fast food giant would alleve our fears with "your way, right away at Burger King now!"

So years passed and I continued to avoid any kind of special treatment in the food world...though I started to send red wine back to be chilled if it was served too warm. I was starting to peek out of my shell a little. I mean, I've been in therapy for months...things are changing. In an effort to address some body image issues I was ordered to go and order a Big Mac at McDonalds...well this put me face-to-face with an even older issue. I had always avoided Big Macs because I didn't want to have to go through the special order process again. So I went to McDonalds about a month ago - full of shame. I just knew people were judging me, laughing at my fat ass going into McDonalds...I was so overwhelmed with fear and shame that I balked at the last minute and ordered a Grilled Chicken Meal instead...cuz they were lighter and wouldn't come with onions. My therapist was not impressed with my improvisations. I wanted cookies.

Flash forward to Monday of this week. Kids, I did it! Not only did I order a Big Mac with NO ONIONS but I ate and enjoyed every bit (yum yum!). Of course, no McDonalds meal would be complete without Diet Coke...ha! Remember though, this was but a moment in time, a mere homework assignment. I have since discovered Light Smoothies at Jamba Juice - much better! Moral?? I realized I need to be bolder, louder, messier - take up more space (not physically - heavens NO). So don't be surprised to see me one day, with a crisp blue wrapper in my hands. I am going to start special ordering life, with a side of satisfaction!

And now for something completely different...

...the different thing being that I am actually posting something. It's been since like Novemeber. How upsetting. I had set out to do this a bit more often, but it just didn't work out that why. While I would love to fill you in on what's been going on and what's new I realize that just isn't the point of this blog. If you want to know what's new...give me a call, send me an email, concentrate really hard and send me a telepathic one. No, this is just for random musings, observations, and well whatever I damn feel like posting.

I start a create writing class earlier this year, and it has become a bright spot in my week. In the interest of not having to create anything new for this entry, I am just going to post something that I already wrote. So when it's all said and done, I will have exercised my fingers, posted a new entry in 2007, and shared a little piece of my heart. JOI! ENJOI!

The Thinker

Perched, posed.

Carved right from the bedrock of sed(destr)uction, he remains locked on the edge of his mattress, grinding it down into the matted and stained carpet. Just three visitors are allowed after hour's access: one crimson coke can with a belly of fired sugar water, one dying cigarette with a penchant for life, and...well there's no need to mention the third - it's something we do not talk about anyhow.

The oxgen in the room churns slowly through dimming cherry of his cigarette. A long, frail tail of ash extends from her glowing red core. She throws plumes of smoke into the air, begging for attention yet receiving none. Tendrils and halos move about, still keeping appointments with last week. They waft just above his head, encircling his shaved scalp. Places where stubble should be only reveal expanses of smooth skin untouched by expression.

His eye, a sick color of steel as though made from a flu-ridden girder, glimmered with no life - just sickness. Eventually, his left one would deny allegiance to the right and wander about on its own - whispers from Picassos gather at the window, unable to gain access.

Here he is - miles from stable and somehow moving in the wrong direction. The space of motionlessness is the wedding night of echoes and ghosts. Their fornications yield doubt after nameless doubt. The Thinker lies in wait and waits in lies. Tiny exhales read like beacons. This week long stench does not manifest itself in pits or crotch - just concentrates in tiny wasp breaths.

The wandering eye will evetually detect a presence and the ghosts will stiffen mid-orgasm. No greater relief exists than the second following the click of the door between us - no greater relief in either of our hearts.