Love is a Bomb Dropped into the Fictions of My Life

by seanie blue

Uploaded 31 May 2008 — 66 favorites

© seanie blue

One of my characters today stalked an oil executive into the stairwell of his headquarters and pulled out a gun and completely missed his first shot. My character and the oil executive looked at each other in stunned surprise, with my character thinking, Ow my shoulder, and the executive thinking, Damn he’s serious.

And the same character today set the bathroom of a restaurant on Canal Street on fire. As he walks out he tells the owner that maybe he should take the shark’s fin soup off the menu.

And in between these chores, my character took out his camera to catch a flock of infected birds swooping into the sunset, but the air was too thick with particulates, too smudged by profit, so I settle for this purple export, of tendrils seeking to be plucked.

My character tells me to write you and say the story ends with you and him hanging onto dear life on an island with an outdoor toilet and unlimited coconut trees, with the whole world searching for the killer of 37 oil executives who gets away with it. Not the foolish shit from Hollywood, where every immorality gets punished. Thelma and Louise can only die in Hollywood.

And in the lobby of the Philadelphia airport, when we see each other for the first time in years, you feel the same impulse to be bitten that you felt the last time we took off for disaster. Remember? Me, circling you like a shark, and you, ready to slit a vein if it meant I would fall into your dreams?

My character implores me to remind you of the flowers we picked in Andalucia, how we marveled at their structures and slept among their broken petals, pretzeled together into a present tense we believed would echo in every version of the future I could ever describe.

But even a killer gets lonely, and my characters point at the business part of this flower and remind me of all my endings: the hero gets away with everything by extracting thorns from everybody’s paws, and this purple flower pregnant with desire reminds me of the Philadelphia airport, where my teeth met your skin, when your dreams trapped me in a world I will never get out of alive.

The nectars my characters taste, the sweets of the future, are tinged with toxins filtered from the air exhaled by stockbrokers and financial analysts, and this pretty purple export is a harbinger for your new dreams, where you will kill me before you let me go, even if you swear by the rules of love, even if you say you understand the art of love is often the act of denying your desire.

The reason for this note, Ananda, is my nervous character, the executive-killer: Bombs fall in his life, and my character is just realizing that I am not the person dropping them. My character wishes you to know that in this picture there is no corporate poison, no spice of fossil profits, and I wish you to believe this, even if we both know it isn’t true.

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