intheschy-blog

[intheschy-blog]

Excerpts from Ariadne’s file

SCHY file #ADS2223 Ariadne De Santos ... # 137

Dinner was just as dull as lunch and all the rest.

Have you ever eaten  tri-color panna cotta at the end of a hundred dollar dinner for two and felt that without your supreme concentration the levee would break and you would drown all the patrons of La Petite Belle?

C’est moi.  Je m’appelle La Petite Belle.

Taken from “The Book of Repentance” , 2024

[intheschy-blog]

File on ‘Finding the Teenager’

SCHY file #48790 Finding the Teenager : 

The room was void of any definitive sentiment.  The walls were a deep eggshell white and the room’s accessories were a deep blue.  The accessories consisted of a tall desk topped with a lamp and two forest green bic lighters, a collage of posters and old record and book dust jackets pinned to the walls, a small closet with automatic sliding doors, and a two blue trimmed windows that looked out over the jungle of upper Manhattan.  If one tried hard enough they could see the steady progression of a pubescent Harmless as it tried to catch up in height with the rest of Manhattan.  The only manifestation of anxiety, sadness and angst existed in a small jagged yellowish black circle on the ceiling directly above the window.  A fan sat on the window sill, with the air being sucked from the room and blown out in the atmosphere above Manhattan.  The only vestige of life seemed to be a compilation of all the room’s comfiest decor; a massive hive of sheets, comforters, pillows and clothes.  Wrapped up in the sheets was a naked teenage male.  His pupils took up the whole of his retina leaving only a border of a bright and lively white.  However, no one could see his eyes because he wore a set of dark glasses.  The frames were black glass with dark circular lenses.  From behind his ears came a small wire that glowed an icy blue.  He wore an elated grin which was accentuated by the clear mouthpiece sitting halfway into his mouth. From the mouthpiece came another skinny wire that glowed an icy blue.  The wire connected to a small black glass box about the size of a pack of cigarettes.  The pack itself continued to glow a brighter and more vibrant blue with the passing seconds.  Another wire snaked from the black box and got tangled in the great incubator around the boy.  His focus remained on the wall.  Spit began to puddle around the edges of his mouth and the mouthpiece fell to his chest.  His mouth moved in what seemed like a response to some sensation, but he remained mute and his body relaxed.  A knock came on the door, but he could neither hear it, nor respond if he had heard it.  (note/fix...the game plays music like an ipod and describe the feeling of dopamine receptors opening and taking things in.)

The teenager could barely roll his eyes to look around the room but he felt in the pit of his chest a presence in the room.  A man was sitting on the edge of the bed with his left heel knocking at one of the feet of the bed.  The figure wore what appeared to be black skinny jeans.  There was a small frayed hole in the jeans just above the the left back pocket.  He wore a brown and white checkered flannel shirt that was buttoned all the way up to his neck.  The teenager closed his eyes.  Whatever the man wanted, he would surely receive.  

[intheschy-blog]

Doc. #437 from Alec Stone’s file

Doc. #437 // Transcript of Alec Stone with Dr. W // 04.23.21

Alec Stone was lying across the large white bed with his legs planted on the ground and his shins rested on the cool metal of the bed frame.  The soft feather comforter fit snug into the bend of his body.  His neck was beginning to feel the tingling pain of straining to hold his head up at an angle that was unnatural so he let his head fall into the fluffy comfort of the the down-feather.  His arms were laying out above his head with his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.  His right arm was wrapped around the gold bedpost.  The post sat in the crevice of his creased elbow and was cold against his warm body.  With his head down he was able to let his mind drift and forget the initial discomfort of these meetings.  He was never truly sure how they came about.  He always remembered them just happenings, never the conversations that led to the interactions.  Claire made it clear that she hated him and wanted him no where near her or the girls, but every couple of months she would send him a text message pleading to see him and have one of their old rendezvous.  Alec knew that this was going against everything his doctor told him, and is what caused the tension within his stomach.  But he could never say no.  Even if it was an invasive and sometimes painful exchange, he loved to feel her flesh against his and remember the days before they had children and before he had failed to be the man that she wanted him to be.  But these meetings always made him second guess her interpretations of manhood and reinforced the fact that she must just hate his very existence and not just his problems of masculinity.  He could remember the first time they had done this, it was right before they had separated, and it actually saved their marriage for an extra year.  Maybe because it reinvigorated their love life, or maybe just because both of them fit into these roles so they were actually living authentically.  But, either way, it was the only time that they were at least somewhat civil.  And Alec could not lie, he thoroughly enjoyed these escapades for some subconscious reason.  He liked to lay flat as the vehicle of pleasure rather than the perpetrator of pleasure, because that usually led to both of them unsatisfied, sticky, and, in Claire’s case, extremely angry and in Alec’s case extremely self-conscious.  Suddenly he felt her cold hand on the curve of his back leading to his thigh.  Her touch was like stone, harsh and her nails dug into his bony back.  This was the moment that he feared and loved the most.  The fear came from the unknowns of Claire’s mood, if she was happy she would be tender and some sort of feigning love.  But if she was upset or having a rough day, Alec would receive the wrath.  But after the initial cold unpleasantness of insertion, his body would relax and he would finally feel like the things in the world were going well.  That he was finally in the role set up for him the cosmos.  And to alleviate the initial pain of stretching, and rubber against skin for Claire could be sadistic and thought spit was the only lubricant needed, he would dream about a different life.  A time that could no longer exist, where his only role would be to bear and raise his children and be the happy supportive source for his significant other.  But he could never figure out how that would ever be possible.  His left hand gripped the white sheet until his knuckles became a sickly shade of white.  Claire’s small delicate hands ran up his back until she reached his shoulders and pulled him backwards.  He could feel the large plastic phallus cold against his exposed body.  She was angry tonight for he heard no sounds of spitting or preparation before the feeling of dry rubber began entering inside of him.  He let out a small moan.  “Shut the fuck up.” A quick smack to the back of the head made him forget the pain, and after a few seconds the pain had turned into a sensation on the border of pleasure.  He could feel Claire’s naked breasts brushing against his back.  He closed his eyes and let Claire take full control.  He thought of the couple he met a few months back and was proud with himself that he had decided that he would message them on facebook earlier in the day.  His life needed to take shape, not exist in moments of clarity and disorganization.  He thought of the looks those two gave each other.  The beautiful skin and dainty walk of the girl and the looks of love she gave her partner.  And the partner, his skinny and still young adult body with the bulk of manhood beginning to form around his chest.  And his face was already a man’s with a large beard protecting him from the cold New York wind.  Alec had thought of that beard, a mark of a man, warmth and masculinity.  The mark of a man who wouldn’t take disrespect and would never be expected to follow anyone else’s directions or decisions.  Alec could never grow a beard, even at the age of twenty-seven.  He felt Claire run her nails down his back as her legs shook and she gave a little squeal.  Alec could feel the gap between her thighs grow a little moist as she pulled backwards out of Alec.  She jumped down on the bed and rested both of her arms on her forehead, the right arm laced above the left arm and her pale white face was a bright red.  He looked over at her.  But she was paying no attention.  She undid the buckle that kept the prosthetic phallus attached to her pelvis and threw it off of the bed.  It hit the back of Alec’s ankle and fell to the floor.  He pushed himself up into a pushup position and continued to climb until his was standing upright.  He stood next to the bed fully naked on his tip-toes.  He wavered a little bit.  Claire looked up at him.  “I don’t want you here when the girls get back from ballet.”  She got up from the bed and put on a white terrycloth bathrobe with her initials stitched over the left breast.  As if to tease Alec, she left the robe open.  Her whole body visible under the robe.  

“When do they get back?”

“Any minute now.” The last he saw of Claire for a very long time was her closing the bathroom door, looking at her cellphone and going about her routine as if no one had been in her bed.

[intheschy-blog]

Letter from J. Elijah // #EB20010

The sky ain’t never been so blue. And it just goes on forever and curves at the horizon like a big blanket getting draped over the ‘erf.

I had a blue blanket growing up.  It was blue fleece with pictures of Mickey and Goofy.  I loved that shit, fam.  My brother used to sneak up behind me while I was watching TV and throw it over my head.  He’d grab the blanket around my neck with his left hand so that when I breathed the blanket got hot and wet against my face, and with his right hand he’d straight up smack the shit out of me.  My moms would stomp into the room making everything in the livingroom shake, and she’d, like, whoop my brother’s ass, my dude.

My momma don’t whoop nobody’s ass no more, and I probably ain’t seeing her again. And that blue sky just going on forever over my head is mocking me, brother.  That blue sky ain’t nothing but a bitch.  

But I know they up there.  No matter what they up there.

[intheschy-blog]

SCHY #40080

I​ ​have​ ​become​ ​increasingly​ ​anxious​ ​these​ ​past​ ​few​ ​months.​ ​It​ ​may​ ​have​ ​to​ ​do​ ​with​ ​my invitation​ ​to​ ​an​ ​event​ ​for​ ​Schy​ ​Enterprises​ ​by​ ​the​ ​General​ ​Major​ ​of​ ​Generally​ ​Major​ ​Findings; or,​ ​more​ ​believably,​ ​it​ ​has​ ​to​ ​do​ ​with​ ​my​ ​mother​ ​and​ ​growing​ ​up​ ​watching​ ​the​ ​first​ ​woman​ ​I​ ​ever loved​ ​convulse​ ​at​ ​the​ ​thought​ ​of​ ​conflict,​ ​social​ ​gatherings,​ ​or​ ​leaving​ ​the​ ​nest​ ​in​ ​general.  

But,​ ​sadly,​ ​there​ ​is​ ​no​ ​chance​ ​of​ ​reconciliation​ ​on​ ​that​ ​front​ ​aside​ ​from​ ​time​ ​travel,​ ​which is​ ​utterly​ ​preposterous,​ ​or​ ​years​ ​of​ ​intense​ ​psychological​ ​therapy​ ​which​ ​is​ ​just​ ​as​ ​preposterous. And,​ ​besides,​ ​all​ ​those​ ​crazy​ ​little​ ​experiences​ ​have​ ​made​ ​me​ ​the​ ​man​ ​I​ ​am​ ​today;​ ​specifically, the​ ​experience​ ​of​ ​seeing​ ​my​ ​mother​ ​standing​ ​in​ ​a​ ​beautiful​ ​black​ ​dress​ ​during​ ​her​ ​slender​ ​late thirties​ ​with​ ​an​ ​utterly​ ​joyless​ ​smile​ ​while​ ​rubbing​ ​her​ ​hands​ ​together​ ​until​ ​they​ ​almost disappeared,​ ​nodding​ ​and​ ​laughing​ ​with​ ​everyone,​ ​making​ ​friends,​ ​and​ ​all​ ​the​ ​time​ ​wondering how​ ​these​ ​people​ ​like​ ​her​ ​so​ ​much.  

But,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​said,​ ​this​ ​had​ ​all​ ​made​ ​me​ ​the​ ​man​ ​I​ ​am​ ​today.​ ​​ ​A​ ​very​ ​weird​ ​and​ ​paranoid​ ​man. But​ ​when​ ​you​ ​remember​ ​that​ ​objectivity​ ​has​ ​no​ ​place​ ​in​ ​modern​ ​culture,​ ​you​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​understand that​ ​we​ ​are​ ​all​ ​weirdos,​ ​some​ ​more​ ​repressed​ ​than​ ​others,​ ​keeping​ ​their​ ​weird​ ​selves​ ​caged​ ​in​ ​the cramped​ ​little​ ​dome​ ​we​ ​English-speaking​ ​humans​ ​have​ ​made​ ​a​ ​habit​ ​of​ ​calling​ ​a​ ​skull.

taken from journal 3: I Became the Sky

[intheschy-blog]

poem overheard near playground in SCHY’s 37x

{The trains and planes and buildings

They followed us up to our new beginnings

The building that changed the world when it fell in third grade

But it followed.  It’s all the same.

 +   If nothing exists

And it’s all in my head.

Why is it that I can’t go to bed? }

  [Well now that I have time to sit (lay) back and think about, I’m pretty

sure the pit in my stomach really became prominent this afternoon at around Six-forty-two on the rush hour 3 train to 148th Street when I went to sit down in an empty seat, trying to juggle my clumsy hardcover from the Goodwill and my clunky coffee mug (that I fucking should have just left home) and a woman slipped into the seat and I watched myself, like, slow-motion sit in her lap and when I felt bones and flesh on my ass instead of the subway seat, I looked back and jumped up and screamed “Sorry, Mom” and a few people laughed and I got off the train at the next stop and...it’s three! I have to be up in two hours, I fucking hate this shit, now I’m ….]

  {} = original child rhyme

[] = the beginning of a forty minute rendition of the song by an experimental hip-hop group fronted by an emo white kid and a gangster rapper that looked like he was destined for more the Suge life than the MC life.  (But it became a hit)

[intheschy-blog]

'This is a very bad book you're writing,' I said to myself behind my leaks.  'I know,' I said. 'You're afraid you'll kill yourself the way your mother did,' I said. 'I know,' I said.

Kurt Vonnegut, “Breakfast of Champions”

[intheschy-blog]

>> How many years until antiquity?  Everything building.  Everything,         >> building.  All pieces of matter man made and man sourced.  All coming >> together.  All becoming.  Something in the air that says it’s been this   >> way before.

[intheschy-blog]

Illumination in paper and pencil // 12.14 // 

[intheschy-blog]

I'm sitting at my window, I see the ground, I see the clouds, I see You standing at the station begging to keep Our roof. If I get high I might Be fun, I might get something done, I might Even call my mother and tell her What's really going on. I thought I said that I was alright.

[intheschy-blog]

USer - n.

- \ˈyü-zər\  

A person or thing native to the United States.  Antiquated synonym : American.   First known use in its modern form in 2027 after Article 2377, which in short says: “It seems that we forgot there were other places using the name America.” 

[intheschy-blog]

"They think of angels, they think of demons. We are neither, just like you." Before making the biggest mistake of my life and jumping into the SCHY, I wrote a little love story from the fringes about a dream that is all black and framed in gold: After meeting the MB in an NA meeting and hearing his story, Black Hat's curiosity got the best of him. I began composing Take us the Foxes from conversations with the MB and his budding relationship with the poet L. Now as I float in the SCHY, I try not to think about all those that were forgotten since the beginning. Trapped in a social order, waiting for the alarm to hit double zeros. Take us the Foxes examines life from the shadows of the United States and the difficult steps to understanding the experience of others.  Grab your copy at http://a.co/dQ2pMOj

[intheschy-blog]

Letter from B.H. to unknown person R // 08.11.22 // sent from SCHY Training and Management Facilities in Frederick, MD.  

[intheschy-blog]

Entry #347 // Dec. 2031 // When B.H. confronts his fear of the Floating Heads taken from Journal #2 // On Dying Young