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The Mental Life of Some Machines
An excerpt from Cold Stone Silence. This chapter was written in 1998.
There are times when I think back about Justine with a quiet sadness. I remember a lot of those times, late nights in her apartment, just one bare bulb glowing naked alone in the living room because she was poor and cheap and hid behind the guise of conservation. At times the light was inquisitor; at other times, soul; still others, it was comforting shelter. At least in the soft light she hadn't been so ugly. Astounding that I was able to overlook my initial repulsion and eventually sink down into her low ugly level. That's how I think of myself during those times -- ugly and powerless. That's what Justine left me with -- her legacy. For a while, for a moment, I walked in Justine's shoes. I was her.
I say now that a lot of those times were alcohol-induced, but I know well that is a lie. Later, my brothers forgave me because alcohol can do that to a man. Who hasn't been there, waking up in the morning, disgusted at what you see? Isn't that what Justine and I had? Isn't it? Isn't it. I ask, inconsequential.
It's times like these that I almost pity Justine. Here she is, the butt of everyone's joke, and she's a million miles away and she doesn't even know. Justine once told me she invented reality, like if she didn't acknowledge it, it didn't exist, but that was a lie she said to protect herself and her fragile ugly girl tissue paper reality. And she knew it. Funny thing is, when the guys are being their meanest and cruelest and most heartless to Justine, and I join in, I feel like she's here somehow. You can feel her presence. It's the gift I offer her, what she's always wanted. Here, on a silver platter, my disgust.
So you see, there are times when I think of Justine with a quiet melancholy sadness, but it all fades into bruised animal anger, rage at how I was torn to bits. I don't presume to blame anyone -- far be it for me to blame anyone but my pathetic gutless self -- but thinking about Justine brings me back into those days when I was a hundred little pieces, and [Justine wears the anger of others so well.]
But as you see, I've got the grace to be literary without being drunk. I'm a Pisces, born and bred, and as some girl once told me, I'm allowed to hang onto my rusty dreams.
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