Caveat Lector Let the Reader Beware http://www.caveatlector.com/node/84/atom/feed 2008-03-16T23:59:56+00:00 Catch and Release http://www.caveatlector.com/content/catch-and-release 2008-03-16T23:59:56+00:00 2008-03-16T23:59:56+00:00 Chris She only came into my life when I was unprepared. Even after making certain I kept it together for months, even a year once, she outwaited me and always reappeared right when I went to pot. Went to pot. Lost my shit. Let it all go and then she appeared. Mind you, she wasn't some sort of angel. She never arrived just in the nick of time to save me from some catastrophy or another. Quite the contrary, she would always fuck me worse than I had ever been fucked before or since. She was no big woops, empirically. She was not the goddess but the vixen. She was not the amazonian, but the faerie.

To my mind's eye (I never got a picture of her -- never thought of the camera when she was around for reasons you'll discover soon enough) she was all hair and slender limbs, she was all middrift and rosebud breasts. She was all addiction and 12-step, she was all drugs and deficieit. Her heavy chocolate hair cut in a blunt bob. The smooth dough of her slender form, the thin fingers, the graceful hands. The bright doe eyes with a sharp edge which never belied the lie of her posturing. She was pale flanks and black cloth cut to her form. La femme tout en noir. Lipstick librarian with glossy lips and wire frame specks. Lunettes. Donna Karan. Yellow slicker -- even the towels in her bathroom are black. In my mind's eye. Petite. Tiny teeth, little cheeks, think neck, slender thighs I can almost wrap with my hand. Hips, belly, and the arch of the back. It was her hair that ensnaired me. It is always the hair that get me.

When she first walked into my life, she was another boy's girlfriend. Whenever she walks into my life, she is always another's -- she has never been mine. I should have guessed. She get physically ill whenever she is away from her addiction for any lenght of time. And since she is not addicted to drugs anymore, she is addicted to her boyfriend. I am addicted to her; I always crave. I am addled by her. I feel the sickness of love, I feel the sickness of hate: they are the same and it is forever nausea for me. It contracts my intestines. I makes me vomit, it pressed the muscles into pressures that make me rush to the toilet and express some sort of Freudian "acting out." Never used to use physchobabble until her. Until she injected me with she, until the veins of my body were infected by the girl from San Francisco until the 12-step heroine.

©10-26-97 04:28p Chris Abraham

]]> She only came into my life when I was unprepared. Even after making certain I kept it together for months, even a year once, she outwaited me and always reappeared right when I went to pot. Went to pot. Lost my shit. Let it all go and then she appeared. Mind you, she wasn't some sort of angel. She never arrived just in the nick of time to save me from some catastrophy or another. Quite the contrary, she would always fuck me worse than I had ever been fucked before or since. She was no big woops, empirically. She was not the goddess but the vixen. She was not the amazonian, but the faerie.

To my mind's eye (I never got a picture of her -- never thought of the camera when she was around for reasons you'll discover soon enough) she was all hair and slender limbs, she was all middrift and rosebud breasts. She was all addiction and 12-step, she was all drugs and deficieit. Her heavy chocolate hair cut in a blunt bob. The smooth dough of her slender form, the thin fingers, the graceful hands. The bright doe eyes with a sharp edge which never belied the lie of her posturing. She was pale flanks and black cloth cut to her form. La femme tout en noir. Lipstick librarian with glossy lips and wire frame specks. Lunettes. Donna Karan. Yellow slicker -- even the towels in her bathroom are black. In my mind's eye. Petite. Tiny teeth, little cheeks, think neck, slender thighs I can almost wrap with my hand. Hips, belly, and the arch of the back. It was her hair that ensnaired me. It is always the hair that get me.

When she first walked into my life, she was another boy's girlfriend. Whenever she walks into my life, she is always another's -- she has never been mine. I should have guessed. She get physically ill whenever she is away from her addiction for any lenght of time. And since she is not addicted to drugs anymore, she is addicted to her boyfriend. I am addicted to her; I always crave. I am addled by her. I feel the sickness of love, I feel the sickness of hate: they are the same and it is forever nausea for me. It contracts my intestines. I makes me vomit, it pressed the muscles into pressures that make me rush to the toilet and express some sort of Freudian "acting out." Never used to use physchobabble until her. Until she injected me with she, until the veins of my body were infected by the girl from San Francisco until the 12-step heroine.

©10-26-97 04:28p Chris Abraham

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