Lorax1515's blog: "The Lorax Chronicles"

Just when I thought destiny was on hiatus, like a rolling ball of thread disappearing into the distance, a girl enters my life and the nuances of her love never allow me to feel lonely again.

your voice has travelled miles, pieces of mosaic tile unraveled from its pile and deposited in my mind. each word put down on file as our dialogue stands trial after cracking false denials we hesitate to find. when moments are defiled our silence lasts a while you catch me with your smile I pick up on your designs. you part with grace and style like silt brushed down the nile I stare through the redial and think of you as mine.

Her fingernails scrape against the callous balls of my feet, searching for feeling in an orchard of dead nerves. She pinches the ashy dead skin gloving my elbows; ancient prognostications of a leather retirement. She cuts my follicles drooping, a deadly example of inanimation delivering life, like an unorganized stork. She trims my vine racing toenails, so the her sleep with no longer be pierced, like a mischevious soldier's prank, sounding reveille at the dead of night. The coffin we share bekons your fleeting touch.

intoxicated under ugly lighting she shoots darts like pennies into a fountain. the smoke breathes heavy brushing uneven paint strokes made beautiful in ugly lighting. her unspoken thoughts interest me like dog shit interests flies in ugly lighting. she beckons me like the corners beckon dust in ugly lighting. we compete for sordid affection like siblings fight for mother's attention in ugly lighting. our blemishes become exceptional in ugly lighting.

I really have to pee. And as I sit here, tormented by my need to urinate, I thought about a relevant psychological theory I learned about in college. In my personality theory class, we studied Maslow and his theory of self-actualization. He theorized that we had a pyramid that was comprised of human being's basic needs leading all the way to self-actualization. At the bottom of this pyramid lies a foundation built with, hunger, need to relieve oneself, breathing, basic survival mechanisms. As you move up the pyramid more semantic ideas begin to emerge, the need for love, friendship, family. Maslow believes that if each level of the pyramid is fulfilled you reach the peak, or what he referred to as self-actualization. Self-actualization resembles a sense of being at peace with everything. The achievement is by no means permanent though, and only appears in sporadic intervals. At this moment I have to pee, so fuck self-acualization. I have a better chance of getting struck by lightening while I'm on the toilet at a fancy holiday inn than I do of self-actualizing myself. I'm gonna pee.

Communication manifests itself in a variety of forms. I believe it to be dangerous to attempt to qualify these forms as more or less real, or as more or less meaningful. My recent correspondance with a beautiful young lady has sparked a personal renaissance in my life that cannot be devalued in my own estimation. She dispells my insecurities with her kindness and unlimited selflessness. Sometimes sports journalists write of exceptional athletes that have an unnatural ability to perform above and beyond what we believe to be capable of a human being. However, the athletes that transcend their sports are the ones who act as a catalyst for the potential around them. This woman that I write of is my transcendent muse. She elicits a creativity in me that sometimes I forget that I possess. We bounce off each other like ten cent super bouncy balls. When I'm on the phone with her I feel electric and exceptional. The effect she has on me has not been nurtured by her hand brushing my skin or the look I see in her eyes, because I haven't experienced those pleasures yet. Part of me feels a tingling in my nerves like the anticpation of a roller coaster drop at the thought of meeting her in person. Am I being naive or am I adapting to the mechanisms of technology that are perverting our traditional sense of communication. Let other people judge me and how I feel about her, but I don't care. I love her. I love you.

I'm the sound of a ripped piece of paper. I'm the guy who let's you onto the highway. I'm the first sip of cold water on a sweltering day. I'm the aroma of a Dunkin Donuts as we pass in our car. I'm the relief of taking a piss after you've been in the car for three hours. I'm the scratch that finds the itch. I'm the bottom of an unstrirred fruit yogurt. I'm hitting a nail cleanly into a piece of wood. I'm getting an unsolicited smile. I'm your car starting after ten minutes of trouble with the engine. I'm buying the last tickle-me-elmo on Christmas Eve. I'm a child saying thank you. I'm a bonfire on a beach. I'm done for now...

A writer at work. An ashtray graces the corner of a left-handed gentleman's desk. My father's memerobilia hovers in whisps like cob webs and skeletons in my father's closet. I take note of my compulsive utilization of his Office Max swivel chair, like a sailor making his bed a week out from the fantasy of seeing his daughter for the first time. My mind bubbles with comic book quotations, guided with mini marshmallows to either side of my head. floating like a halo or a statically charged balloon. Wham! Zap! shhhhhh! My pops wakes himself up with a ripple of snorts, gurgles, and deep nasal snores. Sleepwalking towards the kitchen (he could find the place in his sleep...wait?) his robotic gestures appropriate his necessities. Wearing my shades inside I conceal the evidence. Venturing into sin, I reach for the mouse.

When there's nobody on the other line, he feels betrayed with spite. When there's nobody on the other line, he reflects on questions still sheathed. When there's nobody on the other line, he lets the nicotine calm his nerves. When there's nobody on the other line, he replays scenes from B-rated sci fi movies in his head. When there's nobody on the other line, he itemizes his grocery store necessities. When there's nobody on the other line, he curses his debilitating compulsions. When there's nobody on the other line, he writes his own eulogy. When he's not on the other line, he is gone for good.

In a room, laid under stucco, isolated from rebuke. My innocence tastes her experience, like the farmer's son in his father's peach orchard. Ripe fruit in hand, her juice drips twice to the thirsty soil.