Face Control

After 30 years (17 or so of them since the great hurricane of puberty) you'd think it would come as no great surprise that we're all on some basic level just little eating, breathing, pissing, shitting, fuck machines. Doin' what our dicks and ovaries tell us. And some might think after 32 years, with fantastic, fully-developed breasts, she might...she might have a greater idea of her target destination without the use of random shots thrown about the air like a madman on a killing spree.

I think he wonders what it would take to convince her otherwise. If it's even a possibility. His mother says, "Humanity is it's own greatest enemy. Always has been." As if he hasn't been clued-in on this secret. His father once told him as a child on their first of many fishing trips that selection was a preference, and patience and process were the destination. The child desired to keep each and every one of his bounty, but in the father's great wisdom he explained that there was no need to keep everything...that the child should only keep the one that he really desired. Small, rival packs of wolves howled in the distance.

He tells me, very delicately in the wee hours of the morning how years and years of preference and process have allowed him to deny several on the end of his line, and that patience is a weapon even if turned upon himself at times. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." I've never seen such a fall from immediate grace to immediate despair. So I watched him drink and rock back and forth. I could see gears spinning, and flags raising, and boundaries drawn. I could see the green battery acid pumping through his veins, mixing with the alcohol in his skull...pupils opening full-throttle. No sleep for the boy.

I would venture to guess walking around the corner seeing her with his good friend in a drug-induced kiss would probably send him to the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach. And I can also imagine that it's good business sense to make friendly with the drug dealer...for obvious reasons. And I can imagine the precipitous drop that her stomach took when she looked up and locked eyes with him unexpectedly, exposing her guilt. But I really don't know. I wish I knew. It was all pretty hazy when I got the details. All I really know is it's beneficial to have a familiar face with you when such a thing occurs, because no amount of face control can hide the mortification shared between the few in the party. I know that looking at the familiar (non-threatening face) brings an immediate comfort like an icy river in the middle of a forest fire. No amount of "Fonzie-cool" can mask the nuclear war behind their eyes. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." Jokes aren't quite as funny, and anecdotal stories just seem to go in one ear and out the other when you're flooded with panic; all the while trying to control your face. So I've heard.

As I heard this weekend, and I don't know but I've been told "every little thing's been bought and sold." I suppose nothing really seems sacred. I suppose I've been there. But never really anything as spontaneous before. Relation is nothing altogether new. So all I can really do is wish him the best and keep my nose clean. I want to feel bad for him, but it really shouldn't be that big of a surprise. He was warned. Even by himself.