redirect to: Lev Sampson

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I write in this [journal] in order to receive judgment, but it is certainly differs from the kind of judgment that results from others reading my work; it is that of me first writing my work, howsoever rudimentary, and then reading it, over and over and over again.  It differs from the feedback and ultimate censorship of others — be them either fellow writers or those who do not identify with or claim to be writers — though who is not a writer, when all one does is notice things, and maybe occasionally put them to a page — because it is me judging myself; and because I myself am my very own best and worst critic.

I like to see my thoughts in my own handwriting, however selfish and self-serving that may sound…to have a record of it.  It is good and helpful as an amateur writer to know what I think and have thought and when I thought it, to hear my own voice and to see how I have evolved over days, weeks, or even years.

And what is in it, it is finite.  It is what I have said or thought in that moment.  It is done.

A journal is also a good place to put recipes, overhead conversations, photographs, ticket stubs, doodles, drawings, and letters I never intended to send.  I could begin a story, write what I need to buy from the grocer or list a whole bunch of words that have nothing in common save for that they all feel lovely on the tip of my tongue.

(To my future, older and wiser self: Please, I beg of you that you pardon my present penmanship; I have just gotten onto a bus.)

I do enjoy writing lists: lists books I should read, of things that need doing, of songs I’d like to learn on guitar, of things I need or want, of people to whom I would like to send letters or of places I’d one day love to see…
And more than I enjoy writing lists, I enjoy crossing things off of lists: that crisp line, just one, plain and simple, that goes straight through the words of something you’ve done.

*  *  *

I write about every sense, not just sight.  Sight is easy; it is only what you see.  There is so much more than that.
Smell is my favorite of the senses:  the smell of freshly cut grass or coffee grinds, of cold air or burnt toast; taste, too, is worthy of notation: of marmalade or cough syrup, of almonds dissolving or chocolate, all of which provoke an independent memory, sensation or emotion, and all of which can be used in story.

*  *  *

I’ll write about daily events, exciting or no.  I’ll complain about how much my bones hurt or the blisters on my feet and hands or the boy who gave me eyes as he was getting off the elevator that I was about to board.  About the actions of people who I know or don’t, I’ll praise or protest or write of whatever falls between the two antipodes.  I’ll write of how I both adore and abhor we mortal men.

*  *  *

Sometimes I write in my journal as though I am my character his- or herself, writing in theirs (namely and presently Eunice,
if only because Henry does not keep a one and Francis Lee is not allowed) in order no longer to read my own inner most thoughts, but theirs.  At this point, it is no longer me writing, but them; because in order for them to be real, at least to me, they
must think and breathe and eat and drink and smoke and sleep and fuck all on their own accord, albeit through my pen, by my hand.

And sometimes I feel guilty about putting Eunice through as much heart-break as I do, but without it, if I were not to,
there would be no plot.

Besides, is it my fault that her father smoked and died of stroke, that she miscarried her first child, that Francis Lee crashed his plane and was wrongfully imprisoned or that she is or was a complete and utter failure as a mother?

Don’t answer that.

*  *  *
I love the look of a blank page, and then, just a moment or two later, to look at that very same page and it is not blank.  It is a slow process which only happens letter by letter, then word by word, paragraph by paragraph and entry by entry.

I love when a book is empty and then it is not empty, when it is not full and then it is full, and to know that it is something that I have created from nothing, which defies outright the principles and laws of the conservation of mass and matter.  It fills me to the bone with a warmth like cooked oats and apples in wintertime, which is beautiful.

And I love the sound of keys clacking against a page.

On a third generation sofa, plaid, a rusty orange with olive and navy inter-weavings, purchased at a thrift store twenty years back by a woman, recently deceased and still lying upstairs waiting to be found, sat a man called Henry Lightfoot, aged forty-two years, who had never been outside. He was balding. His once handsome widow’s peak had been reduced to a U-shaped crown at the apex of his pointy head. He was tall and lanky, with thin arms and strong legs, and he could not remember even one day when he had roused before his mother.

He found it odd that breakfast had not been waiting for him. There were no eggs, scrambled, dippy, or fried over hard. The smell of bacon, sausage, or scrapple did not waft throughout the house as he brushed his teeth, mirror-less and shiva-like. He did not hear the comforting sound of hot oil, sizzling and splattering onto the countertops and backsplash as he sauntered down the stairs and into the kitchen, still in his night gown and cap. Nor was his mother was there to greet him, kiss him on the cheek, or ask him how he had slept (to which he would have replied, “I heard the strangest bang in the middle of the night . . .”). But he had been taught not to question the ways of things, and as such he sat down, lit a cigarette, and turned on the TV.

In order to protect her son, the aforementioned woman, Eunice Lightfoot, had placed a numeric pass-code on every station save The Weather Channel. This was all of the world that Henry Lightfoot knew: Louisianan floods, Arizonian heat waves, Illinoisan gusts, Pennsylvanian rainstorms . . . He had never been to these places, nor could he place them on a map, nor could he point north-east or south-west, but heretofore he’d never the trait of inquisitiveness, so he perched himself in front of the euphonious smooth jazzes and weekly forecasts until he felt pangs of hunger for lunch.

He wheezed a bit as he hoisted himself up off of the couch. He was presently faced with a dilemma, for he was hungry and wanted for food, but had never cooked a meal in his life. He walked through a set of French doors and into the kitchen, where he found himself overwhelmed at the thought of where to begin. He had, in fact, never before been able to choose his own meal: what a sense of power Henry Lightfoot felt at this present moment; what a sense of responsibility! This opportunity both terrified and excited him, causing a noise to escape from his lips that might be described as the love-child of a whimper and a chortle, and he looked like an eight-year-old boy on Christmas morning.

Our protagonist certainly would have fancied himself an elaborate meal, had he the wits about him to prepare one: a spinach salad, with pecans, goat cheese, and dried cranberries; a whole chicken and rosemary seasoning, stuffed full with caramelized onions and carrots and roasted potatoes; apple-pear-walnut dumplings, oozing thick with the sweet, steaming juices of the fruit . . . But alas! Henry Lightfoot hadn’t this knowledge and was presently sticking his short, stubby fingers into a box of generic wheat cereal, and eating it straight dry.

After having satisfied his immediate needs of feeding himself and taking a piss, curiosity finally struck the less-than-sharp-mind of Henry Lightfoot, and he began to wonder where his mother had gone, and how long it would be until her return.

While Eunice Lightfoot had left her house more times than her son, it was still a rare occasion for her to do so. She had groceries and cigarettes delivered by an illegal Mexican immigrant on Tuesday and Friday mornings while Henry was still sleeping. When she was young, she went out, and she danced to Clifford Brown LPs and kissed boys on their mouths.

Once, twelve years ago, she had had a love affair and would sneak out of the house after Henry had gone to bed. She had been married once, too, for Henry Lightfoot had to have been conceived somehow, but a few weeks before the little tyke’s second birthday, Eunice had found a note taped to the lamp on her beside table, which read:

Eunice, dear,
By the time you wake up, I will be on a plane to East Africa. I am on assignment to study the mating patterns of killer African honey bees there. I will write or call as soon as I can.
Best, Cedric LF.

Henry had never been told of the note or of his father. He had, in fact, not the slightest iota of what a father was.
Presently, Henry wandered through the kitchen, checking even the most unsuspecting of places for his mother. Even behind the drapes, even the in cabinet under the sink. In the living room, the dining room, the water closet, and about the entire ground floor, Eunice Lightfoot was no where to be found.

Step by step, Henry climbed the stairs. He walked across the hallway, past an oil painting of sail boats and a wicker corner piece which held a small porcelain vase with tiny plastic carnations, into the drawing room, out of the drawing room, across the hallway again. He entered his bedroom. The walls were bare and egg-shell white. His day clothes were hanging off a hook in the wall, freshly pressed and smelling of dryer sheets, and though he had always been told to don his day clothes, he did so today on his own free will and he threw aside his tie in frustration because he’d never learned to tie it. His index and middle fingers brushed the rocking chair as he crossed from his bedroom into the hall and stood facing the entrance to his mother’s chambers. With his face pale and his hands clammy, Henry Lightfoot did something he had never done before, which was open his mother’s door.

The first thing he saw were her shoes.

High heels, hanging off her feet, unmoving. Ripped hose clung to her legs. A small, black dress hugged her hips and torso. White pearls hung around her neck and laid between her breasts. The gray-pink goo of the temporal and optical lobes dripped from the back of her head, where a bullet had, for but less than a second, made a home. Henry didn’t move, didn’t breath. He kept his eyes fixed on his mother’s body, kept his mouth a little ajar. After some time, he realized death as something to him intimate and broke into an abruptly violent sob.

Henry had seen death. Hurricanes and earthquakes and typhoons, they kill people, but not in a sense such as this. Presently, Henry Lightfoot felt a very visceral feeling of confusion. Did all mothers commit such an act? Was it a rite of passage? Why now, on this day? Had he caused such an action, and if so, what had he done? He turned away and caterwauled to no one in particular, took a breath, deep, and turned back to examine things with a little more grace and elegance.

The room was dark and stuffy; it smelled of cigarettes and wool and cheap perfume. The lone north-facing window in the corner was naked. Not a part of the wall was untouched by a shelf or bookcase, on which sat porcelain dolls and toy bears and a bowl of hard candy. There were countless works of literature, books on philosophy and psychology, death and dying, French and Spanish and Portuguese, child-raising and home-schooling; the symbols on the books were, however, of little interest to him. The vase on the corner shelf had been shattered into pieces from the snub-nose that had flown out of her hand on impact. On the claw-foot vanity in the south-west corner sat a photo of a woman on the beach wearing big sunglasses and a white-and-navy swimsuit with some quilted bandeau top, pulling her floppy hat down over the sides of her head, laughing. There was another picture of the same woman holding an infant lovingly, backdropped by some antique European city, wearing the same glasses, which had been plopped in front of the mirror and were presently collecting dust. Henry put them over his face and looked at himself for a long time.

“Maybe this is for the best,” he said. Something had been lifted from him, and he stood a little straighter as he walked across the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, and towards the front door. His hand was sweaty as he placed it on the knob and turned it. Springtime. He was embraced warmly by the smell of freshly cut grass as he coolly lit a cigarette and walked outside, voraciously buried by the light of the sun.

© S. Levinson 2009

I started growing apple trees.
They sprouted yesterday,
twelve of them,
only plumules now,
but you wait.

I’m taking them to Chicago
with me, and plan
to watch them grow up to be
big and strong and one day
plant them in the ground.

Because what is life
sans love
or the simple want
to watch things
become beautiful?

David Cross was a Jewish looking man, too Jewish if you asked some people, and was quite obviously balding. Both of these, however, were part of his charm. The final third of his charm consisted of Arrested Development’s inability to afford a steady cam, or perhaps a tripod. Though, in retrospect that’s probably more part of Arrested Development’s charm, rather than David Cross’. One must suppose, then, that half of David Cross’ charm consisted of his good Jewish looks, the other half of the baldness, and, if three halves could make a whole, the third half would be reserved for those silly little glasses of his.

Onward, then, to the story . . .

To the barkeep said David Cross, “Get me gin and tonic—and hold the tonic,” and the barkeep supplied him with this.

David Cross thought for a moment that he was being clever. Then, after nearly vomiting at the thought of being clever, he retracted the it.

David Cross sat alone at the bar on a bar stool that rocked from one leg to its diagonal opposite and back to the first leg and so on, sipping his gin and tonic (hold the tonic) through a small straw that, he supposed, was meant to be a stirrer of sorts. Nevertheless, he used it as a straw.

It was certainly a peculiar place into which David Cross had landed himself. This was no ordinary bar, for might the reader see that the barkeep the author had just described was no ordinary barkeep. He was, in fact, a homo-sexual barkeep; this bar was, in fact, a homo-sexual bar.

David Cross knew not how he had ended up in such a place, for he was not a homo-sexual, nor was he a bi-sexual, nor was he bi-curious, nor was he trans-gendered, nor was he anything but hetero-sexual, or so he has been known to tell the general public. The author has his or her doubts, just as all of Los Angeles has no doubts that Tom Cruise is a homo-sexual, despite Katie Holmes and the whole Scientology thing.

However, after a few gin and tonics (hold the tonics) David Cross remembered his reasoning for coming to such a place. He had always had the desire to be anal-fisted. The author does not know why David Cross wanted to do such a thing; the author images that it would hurt the rectum with quite some vigor. But what David Cross wants, David Cross gets, and David Cross wanted that totally ripped guy in the black biker shorts and the hot pink fishnet top to pound his fist into David Cross’ ass-hole, so David Cross moseyed on down to the dance floor in order to impress this mysterious stranger with three or four pelvic thrusts into the air — a mating dance, if you will.

The song was a good one, with a four-four untz-untz-untz-untz and some stellar synthesizers in the background. David Cross thrust his hips like he had like he had never thrust before in his life, and his bald, shiny head reflected the light from the disco ball ten feet above the dance floor.

David Cross caught the eye of his mysterious stranger, and several others to boot. During his final and most vigorous thrust, he dropped his funny-looking, Harry Potter-esque glasses to the ground, and, for fear that someone might step on them, quickly bent to retrieve them, leaving his ass high in the air. David Cross was prime for the picking.

David Cross’ mysterious stranger spotted this beautiful opportunity, and before David Cross could know what has happening, his button-up-the-leg track pants were ripped from his legs, and soon following, his matching button-up-the-upper-thigh boxer-shorts. His mysterious stranger went first, pounding his fist into David Cross’ ass-hole like a cock penetrating a vagina, only it was different: it was more like a fist pounding into an ass-hole.

The mysterious stranger spoke as he attempted to pound his first harder and harder into David Cross’ rectum, “Hey sexy stud muffin. My name’s Mike.”

David Cross was eager to return the favor.

“Dave—”

Pound.

“—id—”

Pound.

“—Cross.”

Pound.

Mike, who was only mildly erect was dancing, was now fully erect, and David Cross’ rectum was now loose enough for Mike’s cock, which was, by some defiance of nature, larger than his fist. Before David Cross could say “Kalamazoo”, all of Mike’s clothes were off and a big, hard cock was being jammed into David Cross’ butt-hole.

Mike finally finished after approximately four and a half days of nonstop anal sex, and both parties were indeed very satisfied after the entire ordeal was finished.

Though David Cross’ mind soon wandered from the actual event of his first homo-sexual encounter to the difficulty or ease he would have next time he had to take a shit.

A Christian-fundamentalist

in a cowboy hat once said to me

verbatim:

“If I say I’m going

to throw a brick at you,

and you don’t believe me,

and then I throw a brick at you,

is it going to hurt?”

It was a striking statement

to which I responded

verbatim:

“If I say I’m not going

to throw a brick at you,

and I don’t throw a brick at you,

is it going to hurt?”

He took off his cowboy hat,

wiped his brow

and handed me

a pamphlet about god.

If I were ninety years of age

living off my children’s wage

with nothing left to ascertain

I would prepare to go insane.

I’d drink absinth every night

and wince not once at its hard bite.

I’d turn my pen and tear my page

if I were ninety years of age.

A fortnight ‘fore my final fall

I’d dream of the apostle Paul

He’d tell me how my days are priced,

of the acumen of his Lord Christ.

“Your path is wretched,” he will shout.

“Admit your sin, and force it out!”

He’d thusly force me to enthrall

a fortnight ‘fore my final fall.

And once, at last, I find the light

by death of mobs or alder blight,

perhaps gone crazy from the drink

last sipped beside a button pink.

I’d say, “Oh! god, ye’ve come for me!”

And he’d respond so pleasantly,

“You’ve lived your life, you needn’t fight.

Now slowly step into the light.”

The re-birth of what

seemed so close to lifelessness

walks the earth once more.

—

Rittenhouse busking

earns us enough money for

3 AM pancakes.

—

Lazy, with straw in

our mouths, that gave us poison

ivy as children.

—

A certain freedom

bequeathed upon the oh so

unworthy kinder.

—

Sip English breakfast

tea and watch the foliage

fall fall fall fall fall.

—

The leaves turn from green

to red and still, I cannot

tell the difference.

—

The embers from the

chimney fly up and up as

snow falls down and down.

—

There lacks difference

between the cigarette smoke

and breath exhausted.

as

a

child

i

always

thought

that

god

was

something

or

someone

i

could

understand

when

i

grew

up.

i’m

grown

now

and

i

still

don’t

get

it.

I’ve been told that was her name:

Cecilia.

(you’re breaking my heart)

From Latin:

Blind.

(you’re shaking my confidence)

And all I know about her

is that she passed her wretchedness on to me,

and I haven’t seen her in

eighteen years

eleven months

nine days

six hours

twenty-three minutes

and

seventeen seconds.