Noah Gundersen: Whiskey & Wine Live

c.6

He is quite large and tries to hide it by wearing sloppy over-sized army colored clothes he gets from the Army Surplus store down on Victoria St. If he is lucky, nobody notices him in his day to day life. He is almost twice her age and he lives next door to her. He doesn't know if she knows he exists, or not. But he knows about her.

He is a noticer. He likes to think of himself as a thoughtful noticer, like a well-wisher. Not the creepy kind of noticer. But who knows what others would think if they noticed him noticing. 

He spends a lot of time collecting odd items to photograph and sell online. He likes to photograph items that are secretly recyclable. Things that people throw out, that they have no idea can be reused or melted down, made into something of value for another person.

First he plants online the photo of the original item he has found, usually in the trash or in a second hand store or garage sale. Then he finds a way to recycle it, to make it something else. Then he posts it in the same place online,  beside the original, and sells the two as a pair. 

Sometimes, the buyer requests to buy the actual item, but he always refuses to sell it. It would put a wrench in the entire process. Everything has a flow, beginning to end, he thinks. So, they final item needs to be discarded, no matter how valuable it becomes to someone new. The truth is, it was never originally what it looks like now.  The concept, the perception of value, of usability. Something that can never be measured, captured or made permanent. 

There are bugs in his apartment lately. He doesn't know why. He is impeccably clean. He eats only cabbage, cucumbers and tuna out of the can, and he always washes the can before he recycles it. Bugs are so creepy, he has to kill them immediately when he catches them scurrying by. But it scares him, so he has a spray can full of some kind of poison that he shoots. That keeps them at a distance. But lately, he hasn't been able to sleep. Maybe he needs an exterminator. 

.c1.

     She feels more animal than human. She hunts, she catches, she hibernates, she even goes camouflage sometimes. She is attracted to others who seem more animals than men. She once slept with a man who was covered with a full coat of fur. It tickled her skin as he hovered over her, trying to find his way. She remembers it being more pleasant than she had expected. Until then, she had thought herself more of a naked-mole-rat loving kind of girl. But of course, there are exceptions to everything.

     Today she sits perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest. She is thinking. She sees a small cockroach scurry across the cieling near the wall opposite her. She sits back and watches it, considering her options for it's demise. She is going to sit and wait for it to come closer. She watches it and wonders how long it will take, and how long she will last, before she loses control of her urge to kill it. Once she lets go, it will be dead.

     There is an odd noise in the room. It's what it might sound like in a mother's womb, she thinks. There is a slow and steady beat, muffled by a constant whirring and swishing. It's sort of calming, until she wonders if it is real or only in her head.

     Once the prey is close enough, it will be a simple kill. She leans toward simplicty these days. She is tired of working too hard for everything. She has put out too much energy, into the words she has chosen, the friends she has tried to keep, the men she has loved. Too much. Looking back at it makes her want to puke. Or spit up a hair ball, of all the wasted efforts. It got her nowhere anyways.Trying to be so smart, or so complicated, or so fancy, or so lovable, or so strong, or so patient. All of it unnecessary. She needs to be nothing to anyone anymore.

If she were to meet her old self now, she would be so annoyed. It'd be like meeting someone you can't stand and then realizing that the things you don't like about them are actually reflections of things you don't like about yourself. Like a mirror of truth. She swats at her relflection these days.

Before she can blot out the bug, the doorbell lets off its annoying siren. Shrill sounds are so rattling. So are cheerful perky and unpredictable sounds, that mean, your personal-thought-world is being interupted.

Someone is here, behind the door. Probably to save her soul by way of Jahaova, or to sell her a stale chocolate(coco oil product, barely digestable) bar for way too much money. Or maybe it's the drunk guy from next door who can never seem to find his own apartment after his binge. She debates whether to open the door or not. Face the enemy on the other side, or face the noise of the relentless door screams. She wonders why she gets paralyzed like this. After a minute of staring at the door, she goes back to the sofa, and looks around. She can't find the cockroach.

The Fruit is Ripe (sometimes).

Love could be knowing you are the thing that shakes someone's tree. And seeing that their tree shakes upon various winds, and not batting an eye, a little here and there, its ok to you. You understand, you breathe easy.  Knowing, deep down, to the deepest roots, you are the one that shakes that tree the most.. You are the one that makes the fruits fall, heavy and full, from it's limbs.

That is love. Watching the tree sway in the wind, knowing that wind always passes, but you, down deep at the roots, you never leave. You never leave. You shake and shake, when the time is right, and the fruit falls and falls. When the storm comes and goes, you are there, holding that tree in place. The fruit is ripe, sometimes. (and sometimes it's hard)