Confessions

deviant art


c o n f e s s i o n s….


There are alien bodies from Roswell, New Mexico lounging along the landing, staring vacantly into old wrist watches the size of 15 inch frying pans, petrified hippies from France mostly, passing through some kind of inner-pause, snorting in the vibrations from frayed black-light posters of food that line the walls. For some unexplained reason I start counting the steps as if they're one of your recipes. I remember I start counting at step number 1,962 and slowly work myself up to 2,003. Most of the steps are cursed with small puddles of sweat and blood on them. Each step appears to be carrying on a conversation with the next step. Their whispering intonations are windy and indistinct but I recognize in them your mellifluously deep, garbled voice. Sentences sweep by me like floating, heavenly noodles from outer space that take shape even as they're voiced, rising like ephemeral pastries out of some pornographic cook book spreading out and over the floors I climb past. With tears of pleasure in my eyes, I savor their encouraging remarks as I go:
*Warning! You have an imagination and don't mind using it. Curse the mad scientist who gave you birth. You don't suffer from insanity. You enjoy every minute of it. I refuse to star in your psychodrama. I'll bet you're fantasizing about me right now. I'll bet you played with dead things when you were a kid. Don't make me violate your probation.*

One of the doors on your floor is open. It is without an identifying number. The words *P.B.S., New York* are scribbled on it. There is a restaurant in there. The specialty of the house is *peaches and cream* served by a cheap queen dressed in someone else’s faded plum prom dress. He has a flower in his hair the same color as your armpits and legs. In his hands is a stamp which he determinedly, gleefully and with gusto slams down on paper after paper he removes from a three foot pile. The impression the stamp makes is in red ink and states unequivocally: *Cancel! Reject! Spoiled!*

I don't seem to be shocked. I take a seat and pick up a menu. I can't decide what to order but know I need to order for us both. I'm in the mood for something that will just as smoothly leave me as when I gulp it down. One of the items catches my attention. It reads: *Beautiful but lonely lady in her eighties. Willing to pay for and support all bad habits. Won't ask questions when you come home drunk. Available and waiting. Must relocate to L.A.*

Reacting instinctively, unable to stop myself, I decide I definitely want a dish of that! The decision is made easier by the other patrons around me. They are all dressed in leather. Some have black lipstick and flour makeup. Others wear leashes. They are all winking at me. They smile and nod. None of them appears to be over twenty years old. A banner is unfurled. I find myself in the center of a historic, epochal event. It is the revolutionary first meeting of the famously secretive Black Goth Gourmand Society. The organization is so secret that nobody knows about it but me. A particularly attractive, obese girl with a pasta inspired hairdo and large but vacant mesmerizing eyes the size of triple *A* eggs rises to address the gathering. She dribbles your white sauce from the corners of her lips as she speaks.

*Surprise! This isn't really a restaurant you know. This is the counseling center for the University, Depeche Mode. We're a representative sample of new wave, culinary mentals with appetites who can't say no. Consider yourself on trial for indiscriminate loitering and having nasty thoughts during seminars you attended (dealing with the most serious of topics concerning art and popped culture). I'm now going to tear off my clothes and fall on my back on this table. You may cover me with whipped cream. You can look but don't touch. You see I represent Art in America and this is all a fable.*

Her remarks were followed by the deafening sound of applause as the waiter moved to the center of the room. Removing from the underdeveloped pocket of his cleavage, a flashlight, he pointed it toward his face and turned it on. The room darkened until nothing was visible but his food stained smirk. His face rose from his body and began to float among the tables. The sound of laughter like boiling water filled the room as people began to slap at the apparition sending it sailing back and forth. Each time it was smacked it wobbled closer to me. I would like to sound profound by stating it reminded me of the face of Graham Kerr but truth and honesty are the taskmaster of all confession, and I must come clean, it was totally unfamiliar, with exception, it had the unmistakable eyebrows of a former girlfriend I once conned for fifty bucks by promising some special attentions I never delivered on. It wasn’t my fault. I'm only dishonest when it comes to important disclosure about myself that I keep from myself. Flustered and anxious, the contents of the head took shape. I related to him what I am now explaining to you.


Scott Malby

Posted over on Crossconnect