Cross the street without waiting for the signal. Promise to meet her there. Waste time watching the clouds from a bench; see the thin veil of white over the blue sky. Hold up your hand, so you can sight the moon along an index finger. Shoot for the moon--and then, imagine a wire, extending from you to the sky, through the atmosphere, through the world and to a place most only dream of. Consider, for a moment, that gravity might be wires; that you could so easily reach out and snip them.
Think of this idea often. Think of planets and stars and people held in their place by tiny copper trails through the world. Think of them as veins, carrying white-hot lifeblood through everything you see. Know for a moment that life is beautiful, that the world is lovely and you can trust everything. When the moment ends, stand in front of the hotel. Notice the signs of wear and tear on the statue of a pagan god. Then, see the way the edges are too uniform. Be saddened by the falseness of this age, and run your tongue along your teeth, which are strong with your youth. Wonder at the beauty of a passing woman; fantasize about the feel of her lips like hers. Extrapolate from the smooth gloss of her lips that it would not be soft and dry but rather slick and cool, and lose interest.
Go into the hotel lobby through the revolving door, which is trimmed in gold that is soft under the day's sun. Don't try to think about what someone paid in order to secure this place. Just traverse the marble floor to the elevator and slide your key into the sensor. Step back, look around; this room is cavernous and silent as a cathedral. Say something aloud; a quote from Yeats; touch your forehead as the sound echoes. Startle at the sound of the elevator door opening, and go up to the hotel room.
Once you're upstairs, cross the hotel room to the window. Look out at the cityscape, at the jagged teeth of a maw hundreds of years old. Notice how the steel rises highest, see the rose-gold of the sunset against the dark, smooth gray. Feel clearly something you tried to smother, then, recognize it as revulsion. As the rose-gold turns to violet, imagine--you, an architect, smothering your hate for these buildings that you helped construct. Stare at them. Burn the image into your eyelids. Remember your hate and bile and make it a part of you so deeply that you can't stand it. Hate those buildings for everything they aren't and everything they could be. Know that you could have done better, that in your mind you have done better, and all of this torture will someday pay off. Keep torturing yourself by staring. Hate every moment of it.
When you blink, see those harsh lines rising against the midnight sky. Consider how that's better; encourage this, because when you see those rents in the flow of the earth you see the building you dream of. Close the blinds. Watch the clock; wait. Knot the cord around your fingers, watch them turn red and mottled purple. Choose to let go: the pain is cleansing but you're no masochist. Let the colors fade. Let the cigarette burns fade. Bite back tears, because she'll be here soon and if you've been crying she'll hate you. As she arrives, let your hand fall to your side. Half-turn, to watch her seat herself on your bed; watch those narrow blue eyes trace the air near your head. Remember the copper wires; remember that moment of amusement. Cling to it as you go to her. Kiss her mouth, hide your revulsion.
Pretend you don't know they would hate you. Pretend you don't know you're punishing yourself for the buildings outside that ugly window. Pretend you're just any other man, that you don't see places in your head that don't exist and wouldn't ever exist except in your dreams, they do. See in your mind as you touch her skin the supports of a building rising out of a hill, clean glass and soft woods. And know--in that moment, you must know that you're not good enough. Torture yourself--debase yourself with this act. Kiss her. Know that you're unclean.
Never let anyone see how much it hurts, the things you see, the things you wish existed but don't. Never tell them how you're hiding something, never let them know how important this is, don't share how much this means to you. Please don't share it. Keep it safe in your heart, lock it tight under your breastbone, clench your teeth against your secrets. Debase yourself with women you don't love. Don't tell them why you need it. Please, for your love, keep it secret; don't trust them. Don't trust them and keep it in your heart: the place you see, the home you want, the temple for your dream.
Challenge: Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands.
Wow. I went way over on this one but I couldn't stop, man! It's also not really a story fragment, s-sigh. How'd I do? Let me know in a comment!
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