Amir Motlagh

limits of control.

the woman tried to change her life.  one morning, she awoke with an insistent image.  it was herself, but refined, elegant, shiny and new.  she also looked about 25 pounds thinner.

the woman became ecstatic thinking about this image over and over, every second she could.  she was completely obsessed.  it was what she had always wanted herself to be.  an uptown girl.

the woman was soon full of "vital life energy”; an incantation she learned and repeated 45 times a day from an instructional DVD she bought over the internet.  "I AM VITAL LIFE ENERGY" she would scream to herself every morning, at exactly 7am during her morning HOUR OF POWER.  she felt “alive for the first time in years”, she told an uninterested co-worker.  

she continued signing up for the newest workshops, researched all her food habits, bought the latest motivational books.  in a span of three months, she spent $3200 on her new life.  but, it “didn’t really count as an expense, because it was an investment”, she told her mother one afternoon at a juice bar.

one day, on her way to work, she witnessed a gruesome accident.  a motorcyclist lay sprawled out on the concrete, motionless.  Another car flipped over, a body inside, engine running.  the sound of that out of control engine terrified her.

she began to sob uncontrollably.  she didn't know why, but she couldn't control her emotions anymore.  they where running away like that engine.   a week of crying was enough!  she bought her first book on emotional self control after reading all the reviews online.  they were very positive.  one customer wrote, “this book will change your life.  trust me, it changed mine almost instantly.”  she was destined to be somebody else completely. 

her weight, her nose, her goddamn ugly shoes, her lack of emotional self control, her stupid honda civic, her back-fat, her frizzy hair, her gossipy and unreliable friends who drag her to T.G.I Friday's on the weekends.  yes, she absolutely despised herself.

tinnitus of the life.

he wondered, why do the same thing tomorrow as I've done for the last five years?  all the books read, the time in school, the confusion of adulthood.  nothing amounted to anything.  maybe it was his recent affinity for Murakami?  

it was as if, adding salt to his plate didn't change the taste in any reasonable way.  dull. tasteless. limp and, and, what's another word for dull?

he watched the BBC nightly report on public television.  a reporter introduced the special guest; a National Geographic photographer who specializes in war-torn countries.  look at this man's life, he thought.  pictures of dark refugees, deep in agony flashed on the screen.  a small child sewing her ragged clothes.  the man could barely keep his composure.

this, this is what I wanted my life to be, he shouted. someone who makes a goddamn difference he screamed.  but, after the cathartic eruption, he lay silent.  he thought about tomorrow.  the credit card debt, the school debt, the telephone bill, the IRS, his recent trip to Colorado for a best friends wedding.  his stupid, inconsiderate, but fairly large breasted girlfriend.  goddamn, I'm a chauvinist he muttered to himself, sickened at the thought of his refusal to call it off, because sex was all that remained.  and frankly, he didn't even enjoy it all that much anymore.

a moment later, a steady, but thin noise engulfed his left ear.  it made it's way up into his mind like a thin, translucent sheet, drawn out, and slowly falling into place.  the noise grew.  drowning in the sea of noise.  alone, in the sea of noise.

suburban terror.

the nightmares kept coming.  night after night.  soon, I started to wonder if I was in a perpetual dream state.  the faces all had an eerie smile, that propped up on the left side, like a puppet string was holding them up or something.  that's not a natural smile, no, people don't smile like that.  

even at Target, the same looks on faces.  why was I in Target anyway?  that's not a place I would ever go.  i don't have kids, so I don't need to pick up diapers or Oreo cookies, and I certainly don't need a new lamp, or CD's, or whatever else the fuck they sell there.  maybe I've been too judgmental about Target?  see, I'm in a nightmare again.  night after night.

 

morning fuckery.

it's 5:37am.  why did my snooze button land on an odd number?  am i being tricked?

it's a bit dark outside, as I pull the curtain to see if other life forms exist at 5:38am.  a man get's into his old, red BMW across the street.  

man, he must have gotten a lot of pussy a decade or so ago, i quip.   

but then, maybe he's married and has three kids?  what the fuck do I know anyway(s).  

it's 5:39am.

penning in the pen.

the effects of your leaving hadn't taken it's hold yet.

sure, the upset still lingered.  oh, and anger.

a few lonely nights here and there caressing a bottle.

but, nothing catastrophic, and certainly nothing a man with a five inch beard and a criminal past couldn't entertain. 

a few months past though, then the trouble started.

and, the TROUBLE left me gutted.

immortal doggies of the world.

the man's dog had passed over the early morning hours.  it laid stiff as a surfboard in the small suburban backyard.  a line of eager ants marched forward and around the lifeless fur ball.  these ants, ever present in the final days.  

how the man hated these ants.  and hated the world for teasing him with life and death.  the man stared at the dead body with a sunken, desperate anxiety.  he looked up into the sky.  he ran his hand through his hair, with a heavy, bothered motion. the hand weighed at least a ton. 

defeated, the man went inside and sat on the dark green couch, the dog's favorite nap space. not a single thought passed through the man's head for another three hours. as he sat motionless, the sun slowly spread its energy across the living room, lighting the darkest room in the world, uninvited.

young girl, something dances in the dark...

your esteem was a transient condition, always on edge.  frailty, whims and indecision.  shakeable, always.  this can never serve you though, young girl.  

your esteem is a transient condition.  the death of you in future years.  the death of you in the past, and in present, a fragment, held together by cheap duct tape, and maybe a shoe lace or two.  maybe an instagram photo or two.  careful young girl.  

your esteem wants to own you indefinite.  it has it's dark, skinny, vein ridden, twiggy hands all over your straight, sandy blond hair.   it wants to devour your oxygen.  pay to play, but it need not beg.  

it persuades.  it lulls.  it has more of, everything you want.  i wish i could help you.  but, unfortunately, i have my own enemies.  the demons sometimes dance in the dark, but if you look closely enough, they bask in the sun.

 

love streams.

the sparse distance didn't illicit any particular feelings.  it was understandable.  time, and that windy distance eroded the the last remaining particles of love.  the atoms of love, the protons, the whatever ons of that feeling.  love equity, gone.   nostalgia equity, big time.  but so what?  i've heard you say that before.  i feel the same my love.  

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nightmare breaks my little heart.

The palm tree is tall, my first thought.  I look up, and get lost in the turquoise sky.  Where is this green coming from?  It's easy to get lost, I think.  

The blue is forever long, and timelessly deep.  I focus back on the palm tree.  I can understand it, and I can touch it.  That eases the seeping anxiety, that erupted out of the blue, from the smallest moment, from a break from the coffee cup, from a break from the cellphone, from a break from the computer screen.  Nightmare breaks.

electronic souls.

You are invisible.  You have finally logged off.  What now? 

Can you exist without tapping into the grid?  Is being humanlike with human'ness a liability? 

Embrace the singularity with open arms, and give it all you have is the slogan of our master's.  You are worthless without it.  It's seduced us all.  

Who and how and will the rebellion begin?  Or, will Arnold come back from the future to protect us from another, even darker future?

Fuck Tyler - A very short story about revenge complete with links

Tyler was a bastard.  He pinned Susie down.  He spit on her. He tossed her around like a rag doll.  He tried repeatedly jamming his fingers into her vagina. He was evil.

Susie would fear the moments alone together.  

One day Susie bought a big hunting knife from Big Five Sporting Goods.  When she found Tyler tending to his piece of shit, 1990 Kawasaki Ninja 250R, she rammed the monstrous knife into Tyler's left eye. 

She uttered only one word; "Idiot". 

The knife stuck a few inches deep, while a screaming Tyler moved about wildly, howling ever so higher pitched until he dropped to the ground. 

Susie watched with a sort of amused bewilderment.  The blood, the screams, the man grounded by flesh frailty.  

Thumbs up Susie.  You had a good day, as I've been told.