My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, I want to write something profound and beautiful, but I’m a little tired. I spent last night, mostly awake, in the e.r. My trache decided to go crazy for no apparent reason, as is its way sometimes. The doctor stabbed the Hell out of my arm trying to draw blood, but didn’t get a drop. It’s kind of unpleasant being a zombie.

I’m breathing fine now, but I’m tired. I want things I won’t get.

There are very few truly great vampire movies, but Let The Right One In makes the list of greats a little longer. A Swedish film, Let The Right One In, is subtitled and set during a frozen Swedish winter. It’s the story of Oskar, a constantly bullied and isolated twelve year-old boy, and Eli, a quiet and serious girl of “about twelve” who moves in next-door. Eli, of course, is not the typical girl next-door. She only comes out after dark, she’s completely unaffected by the bitter cold and while she’s twelve years old, it’s only in appearance. Eli has been twelve for as long as she can remember, she’s a vampire. The two form a relationship, a love of sorts, but it’s something other than beautiful.

To call Let The Right One In a love story between two lost and lonely souls is, to me, quite inaccurate. It’s a love story, but the story is harsh and dysfunctional, cold as winter. Oskar finds strength, companionship, and even comfort in Eli, but at a price, a price he’s far too young to fully understand.

Love isn’t always beautiful, sometimes it’s sad and broken. Sometimes we love what hurts us. That’s the essence of Let The Right One In.

So, aside from knowing that it was directed by Danny Boyle, and that he’s a genius, I had absolutely no idea what to expect from Slumdog Millionaire. I had no idea it was set in India, no idea that it involved the Hindi version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, I had no idea about anything. I’m glad I didn’t know anything about the film, or else I wouldn’t have been so spectacularly surprised. It’s such a beautifully compelling love story, and so much more. It’s definitely a must see.

I’m going to write something more full after I see it again. I wasn’t watching it in the right frame of mind to write a proper review. My mind was a little bit somewhere else, with someone else.

Follow my head, follow my heart, I’m not sure which is right. Maybe they’re both wrong, both deranged, both telling me the wrong way to go. My head and my heart, two lunatic mental patients, bickering a bunch of nothing. Or… maybe they’re both right in their own way. I really don’t know, and the more  I think about it, the less I seem to know.

While I think about it, I do nothing, or next to nothing. Perhaps I think too much.

Last night, my friend, Sarah, and I went to see the spectacular foreign vampire film, Let The Right One In. It’s playing at the very old, and very gorgeous Tampa Theatre. I’d been there plenty of times for concerts, but last night was my first movie. It was a rather beautiful movie, but I want to see it one more time before I really write about it. 

For Christmas, a friend, Jayleen, got me an Amazon gift certificate which I promptly used to buy Incesticde, the only Nirvana CD I didn’t own. I totally love it, particularly Stain, Big Long Now and Downer (Downer being originally found on their first album, Bleach). Obviously, I only like the happy music. Though, lately I’m really digging Tracy Shedd’s Cigarettes & Smoke Machines. It’s music that sounds sad, but her lyrics are actually pretty “up,” as “up” as I like to hear. Also, Cigarettes & Smoke Machines is just a fucking cool album name.

I’ve been to see Doubt four times now. Honestly, that movie is as relaxing as any drink for me. It’s so compelling and brilliantly acted that I just kind of lose myself in it. Also, I have decided that I want to become a nun.

Yesterday, my allergist said I’m “an inspiration,” which is interesting, as I’d only known him for fifteen minutes. I’m not really sure what I did in that amount of time to be inspirational, aside from breathing and moving my eyes. That label is always weird to me. I mean, I understand it, but I don’t think it’s right. I’m nothing spectacular. I do good things sometimes, I totally fuck up sometimes, just like almost anyone.

Dear Diary,

Today I was actually very sad. The nice lady with the puppy was hit by a BIG truck running across the street after her puppy. What does d-e-c-a-p-i-t-a-t-e-d mean? Daddy lost his job and said we can’t afford to feed my tabby kittens anymore, so he drowned them in the bathtub. The nice ice-cream man was going to give me another free ice-cream sammich, but I had to go in the truck to get it, then he touched me in a BAD place and I ran. I told mamma and she told a police-man who took the ice-cream man away. I didn’t get my sammich. An older boy at school was making fun me and I told him to stop because Jesus loves me. He said Jesus is burning in Hell because He let Himself get crucified and that’s suicide. I don’t understand what that means, but I cried and cried because I don’t want Jesus burning.

I’m very sad.

Dear Diary,

Today I was so happy. I got to pet an adorable puppy and I adopted a basket of six tabby kittens from the nice lady walking the cute little puppy. Then, the ice-cream man gave me a free ice-cream sammich just because I’m SO nice and Jesus loves nice people, he said. I believe him because mamma tells me Jesus loves me all the time.

Nothing makes me sad, nope. Not ever.

So, somewhere in December while I was busy being astonishingly depressed, I got my fourteenth tattoo.

I was feeling particularly lonely, down, very uneasy about pretty much everything, kind of just staying “okay” as best I could from one day to another. The worst part was that I didn’t see many reasons why “tomorrow” would be any better. That is a really horrible sensation. I felt exactly like this tattoo and the song from which it came…

It’s my third Nirvana related tattoo, it’s my least happy tattoo, but it’s honest.

Thanks to my friend and fellow blogger, Ormolu, Kitty Jesus is now a religious icon…

I couldn’t be more pleased.

You slide into a hot bath, it’s a white porcelain, brass claw-foot tub. Very 1940s, very curvy, it fits you perfectly, your shoulders rest nicely against the back of the tub. You’re a fellow of twenty-eight, tall and slender, with short black hair, worn to look messy. Your eyes are a calm blue.

The room itself is black tile, it’s almost like floating in space. 

Steam rises from the water, tickling your nose. You lie back a little further, submerged up to your chin. The room is dark, save for a full-moon, its beams of pale silver pouring in through an above skylight. You turn your head slightly, glancing at a shiny pair of twin razor-blades neatly stacked on the tub’s rim. Beads of sweat run down your forehead, stinging your eyes a bit. A small book bound in black leather rests next to the glinting metal blades, a bright white hand-towel at the end of the row. You smile a little at the book, you smile because what’s said to be written inside is so ridiculous. Yet, as ridiculous as this tiny book may be, you’re glad to add it to your collection.

You stumbled upon this particular tome at “The Rare Book Shoppe of London est. 1914.” It caught your eye because while it’s a very plain looking book, it was also the only book locked in a small, rather dusty display case, not in the front, but instead the very back of the store. The entire place smelled of old books, that musty smell of aged paper you love so very much. Books are your passion, they’re your most beloved fix. You only own the most bizarre and obscure volumes, books on magick and the occult being your favorites. You own them for value, you own them for their oddity, but above all, you own them to read them.

So, you found this small black book, imprisoned in a glass box to be most intriguing. You had to ask the store-clerk about the possibility of purchase. He was a short, middle-aged man with a round face, blond hair in a ridiculous pony-tail. His dull green eyes peered out at you through black wire-frame glasses, square and pretentious.

“Oh, that, we don’t sell that book,” he said. He said, “my great grandfather left us that book. It’s just a show piece, something for the atmosphere.” That, of course, didn’t satisfy you.

“Atmosphere?” you questioned.

“Well, its history is rather outrageous. Apparently, it was written in 1911, by an unknown author. How our great grandfather acquired it, we don’t rightly know.”

“We?” you inquired.

“Yes, my brother and I inherited this fine establishment, and that book,” he answered.

“Well,” you said, “the book doesn’t sound particularly outrageous.”

“Of course not,” he said, “I haven’t gotten to the outrageous part yet, sir.” He said, “You see, none of us has ever read the book.”

“Why?” you asked smiling, waiting for the pitch, the story, the sell.

“According to our father, his father, and his grandfather, our great grandfather, the book is never to be read, ever. It’s said that a writer, if they manage to write letters that form words that form sentences that form paragraphs in just the right way, the writer is able to create reality for the reader. This book, supposedly, creates a rather horrible reality.”

“And what reality is that?” you asked, you absolutely had to ask.

“It inspires suicide, sir,” he answered plainly.

Well, that did it, pitch successful, you had to have the book. Cost didn’t matter, nothing mattered but owning that book. The suicide book. You don’t believe it, of course, but the idea of such a book was too delicious.

You’re quite wealthy, old money, from your mother’s mother. Your father is also quite well-off and celebrated as, ironically, an author. They’re divorced like any modern couple, competing for their son’s affections. Needless to say, whether you’re working or not, mostly writing attempted poetry and prose, money’s never a concern. You immediately offered the man seven-thousand pounds on the spot.

“Sir, really, it’s not for sale, it’s been in my family for over one-hundred years,” he said flatly.

“I’m offering you seven-thousand pounds right now, without even having the book authenticated.”

With a raised eyebrow, he quickly retorted, “I imagine authentication would be rather dangerous.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, I don’t doubt the book,” he said smiling.

Regrouping, gathering your composure, as you found yourself frustrated and excited by the bargaining, “fourteen-thousand and my attorney will draw up papers stating that upon my death, your family will retain the book,” you said.

“Sir, I don’t think you understand.”

“No, I definitely understand. I need this book.”

The shop-owner lowered his head, his resolve weakened, he sighed, “are you going to read it?”

You grinned and said, “of course.”

“Are you insane?” he questioned sincerely. To which you replied, “possibly.”

“Could I buy the book?”

“No. If it is what I think it is, no. I couldn’t possibly. Still…” he trailed off.

“Still?” you pressed.

“Well, I have to admit, I am curious to know one way or another about that fucking book,” he said. His voice tired, defeated, yet, you heard something else. Hope, there was hope in his voice. “I have an idea that could satisfy us both. Let me go with you when you read it. You give me the fourteen-thousand, read the book. If you decide to do something horrible to yourself, I’ll safely collect the book and possibly save your life. If you don’t, well, I go home and you own a strange little antique book.”

“And your brother?” you asked.

“Are you trying to politely escape, sir?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, let’s not worry about my brother,” he replied with smirk.

So, here you are in a hot bath, a strange man sipping brandy in your living-room. You find the entire affair absurd, this book, this fiction, is not going to cause your suicide. You’re going to read it in your nice bath, slip on your robe in a few hours, walk into your living-room, and send the bored, probably drunk shop-owner home. You’re absolutely certain. You don’t, however, doubt the book’s age, you know the scent and texture of such things. 

You look toward the book, and the razors, and the book, and the bright white hand towel. You dry your hands before picking up your leather-bound indulgence. The first page is blank. The second page, blank. Third, blank. Blank blank blank blank, everything Goddamn fucking blank. Blank, until the last page…

“Life, full and beautiful, but never to last. All withers, all dies. Better to burn than fade away.”

For a moment, your entire world spins, you feel sick and giddy. You no longer see words on the page, but images in your head. A steady, overwhelming flow of images, sensations, memories.

Hazel eyes smiling at you, loving you. Her lips against yours, nails digging into your chest, the heat you feel inside her. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasurable pain. Climax. Dance clubs, music so loud you feel it in your chest. Grey eyes, cool grey eyes, peaceful grey eyes. She’s flowing, dancing, happy. Vodka, a beautifully warm feeling in your face. A gentle kiss on your forehead. Gorgeous brown eyes, inviting brown eyes, brown eyes you know and so want to know more. Tattoo needles, words and images etched into your flesh. You’re a book yourself, you’re reading yourself.

Then, nothing, absolutely nothing. In an instant, in a blink, everything’s gone, you’re empty. The words on the page are clear again.

You calmly return the book to its resting place, you pick up the razors. Without a thought, without a care, you run one razor, vertically, down your right wrist. You drop this razor. With the other you slice, again vertically, your left wrist. Warm, thick fluid runs toward the palms of your hands, the tips of your fingers, into the water. The water goes pink, then red. It’s beautiful, and you feel sleepy. You feel sleepy, and you wonder where you’ll wake up. You wonder, then wonder, and wonder a little more. You sleep.