Tuesday, July 10, 2007


“I need to write something. Uh! Give me an idea. Give me anything. Give me.”
“Okay. So… Right. How about a story about a guy who can’t see his own dick? He can feel it and use it but can’t see it.”
“You mean a real fat guy?”
“No, I mean he just can’t see it. Like a Ken doll. He looks down. There is only round crotch.”
“So, it’s invisible.”
“No, other people can see it, if he showed them his schlong, but he doesn’t.”
“So he has psychological problems. That’s what the story is about.”
“It’s about a guy who can’t see his own wang, not about why he can’t see it.”
“Is it… Can he see piss through it?”
“What he sees, right, is… he doesn’t see his piss okay. If he misses the toilet while pissing, he sees the stain but there is dissonance because he didn’t see himself making it. The mess.”
“I have to tell you, I don’t get it.”

It seems like an empty pursuit, persuading others implicitly so as to unquestionably convince myself. Subtle suggestions of the girls I’ve boned mixed with self-effacing small wiener jibes may have peers holding their handles, but the truth is a blind spot between my thighs still today and probably tomorrow. I can only hold the appearance of suit and tie for so long, convincing potentials and superiors of a well-fed, red tongued youth, sexually fulfilled and happy to dangle or swing in the spirit of cheap laughs while changing for the sauna. The problem is the same as shutting the eyes and touching the nose with fingertip. The problem is having fate in what I can’t see.

“I had an idea back at the start of the blog about a guy who, every year on his birthday, would lose a digit. A finger or a toe every year. By accident now, not on purpose. The story would be about him turning twenty one and being very worried about losing his you know what.”
“His wang.”
“You just reminded me of that. Never wrote it obviously.”
“I don’t know about that. Sounds very depressing. I don’t think I want to read about a guy worried about losing his schlong.”
“It’s an old idea.”
“And what if you started it when he is older, like eighteen or something? He would know the pain of having fingers before he lost them.”
“It was supposed to be a tragedy, like he never knew existence with full digits.”
“But wouldn’t it be nicer if he started losing his shit after a few years. Actually, what would have been his last finger?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter.”
“I wouldn’t want to spend a year with only a pinkie. Ugh.”
“I think it was going to be a suicide note. The guy didn’t want to live any longer if he was going to have his cock lopped.”
“I even did some research on the net for suicide notes.”
“I’m sure you found loads. Bloody web.”
“No, couldn’t find any. There might be more now I suppose with myspace and the like.”

Without fate there is only mons pubis and the triangle of empty space. A feminine twist to an otherwise hirsute exterior. Envious I look at women with idolatry, their forms suiting their sexuality, a reason for their empathy and acceptance of man the invader. In moments of panic, in bed and alone, I feel for what I know is there but all the while expect what’s only appropriate on the opposite sex. In the mirror I can realise my fantasy through strenuous imagination, adding a groove to the patch, like how I could imagine my head bald as a child, replacing hair with epidermis fuzzed with grey. I have no hope my reality and my fantasy will cohere however, only exist as one does to insult to other.

“The best thing is, because Sega are releasing it, Europe is totally going to get it this year, so I’ll probably pick it up.”
“It’s going to suck.”
“Both Mario and Sonic are in it. How could it suck?”
“C’mon man, you’re smarter than that. Sega are making it as well, you know. It will only suck. And hard. And the Olympics as well. Fuck.”
“How, can you tell me, will those two compete?”
“Sonic is faster than Mario.”
“Mario is stronger. And he can swim.”
“Sonic would kick his ass in the pool.”
“Sonic can’t swim fucker. He drowns.”
“You know he can run along the water. It’s difficult to do, but he can.”
“It’s swimming. Running along the water doesn’t count. Neither does running along the bottom. Anyway, they’ll probably just animate a swimming version of Sonic.”
“Don’t say that man. Sonic’s real. Anyway, he still has Mario licked on the 100 metre.”
“Do you think they’ll do something stupid like have a quick video of Sonic strapping on lead boots or something?”
“They’ll probably have Mario juicing up in the locker room. Knocking back a few shrooms.”
“They jump about the same height as well.”
“Tails can fly, you know. He has your plumbers beat.”
“Tails is a mutant. He won’t be allowed to participate. I’m sure Sega are working on a Special Olympics version of the game for Tails and the rest of the Sonic crew.”

Created and left alone, ignored by the hands that gave life, my life-path seems to drift, the boundaries undefined. The mirror doesn’t lie but makes bare the truth marked with black rings and sallow cheeks. My end is self-defined, a comforting certainty in an otherwise uncertain existence, and I raise my arm in defiance, a razor clenched in my fist. With solemn clarity I cut my hair, a final exertion of control, bald and clean. Pieces of me in the sink bowl followed by pieces of my tie and briefly I consider mailing the contents to my superiors until I catch my likeness. Letting my imagination loose again I remove my nose, uncovering the sinus cavity, and my eyes, leaving the sockets. My ears, however, I do nothing about, as I can’t see them. They are imperceptible like my penis and, for the first time in years, I laugh, my mandible clattering against my cranium.

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