The Public Diary of Riley Crowner
the place where words come to die. alone.
Playing the Part of a Man Falling Apart.
The sun was dead ahead, sinking into the pavement. White light bounded up Union Avenue, and our vision turned to shattered glass. The sweat was finally beginning to dry; breathing returned to the normal shallow hiss of a smoker. We had just finished running. A steady pace along the one mile path that weaves through the West side of the park, then doubling back along the aging brownstones and wealthy pedigrees that line 8th Avenue.
We passed what I figured was PhDarling’s new apartment and thought about her bed, the number of pillows and the thread count of her sheets. I thought about her new short haircut and how her shoulders must breathe. If I could only breathe.
Then I made a mistake. I was quiet. And Fiance was forced to ask why I was coming off of my leash.
What’s the matter? She asked like the poison in her words was candy.
Then I spoke: I am frustrated. You asked me to do X,Y, and Z and told me that if did, it would bring back the intimacy, and I did X,Y, and Z for a while now and still, there is no intimacy, no sexuality.
We were silent for the rest of the walk, climbed the stairs to the apartment; she showered, I grilled some vegetables and then all was normal.
Get high, watch television. Numb.
In 10 steps, I will explain everything — as I like lists:
1. I am human.
2. Human beings require passion and intimacy; primordial, animalistic desires.
3. On the rare occasions that our bodies intertwine — Fiance is withdrawn, distant.
4. It’s like fucking a ghost.
5. I withdraw; fall into the invisible arms of the fantasy lover collective.
6. Fiance senses this, gets paranoid, angry.
7. Fiance punishes me by locking the door to her naughty parts.
8. They were never open to begin with.
9. I rage inside, write blogs, and fantasize with keystrokes.
10. Rinse and repeat.
Father-Son day at the Park: The Best Picnic a Kid Could Have
Hush. Don’t tell anyone that I’m here.
When I was a child, I don’t know what age — maybe six — my mother died.
No, that’s a lie. I know I was six. I know this because someone told me.
Twenty-five years ago, someone sat me down on a park bench and twisted a corkscrew into my chest. A shiny silver one - with a curved, reflective handle that squeezed the sun down to the head of a pin. It took 10 turns before the silver tip pierced my heart and I finally understood that my mother was dead. After that, I started throwing loose fists at my father’s nose. I connected and the snot from his mustache soaked my knuckles.
Then, I calmed. No, that’s a lie. I don’t know if I calmed. No one ever told me how this scene actually ended. Maybe I punched my father for hours; maybe I’m still punching him now.
How to tell your child that his mother is dead in 10 easy steps:
1. Go to public place with trees and birds that chirp.
2. Sit down on dry, hard surface.
3. Place sweaty arm around child.
4. Rest bristles of mustache against child’s face.
5. With hot, tepid breath, whisper into their ear: “I’m so sorry.”
6. Place tip of corkscrew against child’s chest.
7. Twist corkscrew until child’s face is saturated with tears.
8. Pull corkscrew in horizontal direction to remove child’s heart.
9. Repeat to remove child’s memory.
10. Never talk to anyone about this again. Especially your own child.
The Sizzler
My fiance is a melted heart. I tilt the pan and coat the bottom with her; then snap the burner to life. She sizzles, jumps out, and tries to burn my skin. I place a cover on the pan and listen to her crackle underneath.
We sit on the couch that she insists is a sofa, and watch hi-definition TV. She picks at the dry skin circling my earlobes, pinches at the minefield of acne on the back on my arms, scratches my scalp until the forecast for my shoulders is blizzard cold. We confuse this for love. We substitute this for intimacy.
But in my mind, I am intimate with a substitute.
Ragged Angel is holding my tongue with her mouth, her fist is tangled in my hair and my follicles are screaming.
I can’t remember the last time that sweat took a suicide plunge from my chin, carving a river down her stomach; my eyes, my lungs, burning; our hearts like fists, punching at the inside of our chests.
There isn’t only Ragged Angel.
We have PhDarling and Jane Eyre; the expired Blood Red Actress and the burgeoning, Mary Poppins. A collector’s set of fantasy lovers.
There are only half-truths here. Know this before you judge me.
This is the lo-def me. That guy, the one who sits on the sofa with the glassy eyes, smiling dumbly at the Celebrity Apprentice — he has no business in this place.
She grabbed the knot of my tie and pulled me down from the gallows.
Last night, I met a ragged angel.
She was a mid-century doll with split ends; a divorcee with cake batter skin, yellow hair, tiny ankles and a nasty mouth. Prepare to be judged, she told me.
She grabbed the knot of my tie and pulled me down from the gallows.
And she says, You need to loosen up.
She turned up my collar and tugged at the white shirt underneath. Take it off, she said. It’s just not that cool. Her guy friend agreed; A tall, slender, quiz show contestant - perfect Windsor knot, narrowed eyes, wide grin. Impossibly close shave.
With a stealth, oil-slick hand he snatched the glasses off of my face and said: You look better without them. Then he licked the tips of his fingers and rearranged my matted hair. He kissed the air with satisfaction.
So much better. Dont you agree?
These two spoke so knowingly to each other, and I pictured him as Ozzie and her as Harriet but I don’t know how either of those actors look so I could only see them; early morning meet ups between their adjoining SoHo studio apartments. She stopping to roll the cuff of his shirt, straighten his tie. It’s supposed to be warm out today. He would pinch shut the clasp on the back of her gown, blow softly on the back of her neck, tracing her tattoo with thin air.
Double kisses and they part.
You look. Very cute. She popped the collar of my shirt again. There. Very JT.
Her laugh was a flame and made whiskey tears slide down my cheeks. Somewhere in mid-air, our eyes touched.
And I think: Sometimes, when eyes meet —we are not just looking at each other.
If vision were taste I would have squeezed her like a wet rag, rung her out and spilled her through my lips.
Did I mention that I am engaged? We will get into this more at a later date. Not that it is unimportant — it is. It’s just: thinking about it all tips an ashtray into my lungs and I end up coughing up black soot.
I love her. Both of them. All of them.
Some days I even love myself.
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better
I was called out in therapy the other night. She told him about the butter knife, and how I took it to my forearm a few days back. It was dark then, candlelit, and the serrated edge of the blade worked jagged pink lines into my wrist.
This, the rubbing and cutting, was all done under a table, at a restaurant, on my Birthday.
Suddenly, I am feeling icy and foolish, and sitting on that ragged couch, him, the therapist, with his sandals hanging between his toes and looking at me with disappointment.
Don’t be disappointed, I said. This is not a threat towards what keeps me alive; just a gesture that relieves me when my veins feel like high tension power lines. Some people smoke, which I do as well. Some people do drugs, which I do as well. Some people twitch and tic with nervous anticipation, which I do as well. And some people just want to die: which I don’t.
