telltale

smooth sheen
Originally uploaded by kristalynn.

a friend of mine ran up to me on the street. "i want to talk to you about your hate mail..."

i have to admit that it affected me. this e-comment basically called me out on being a failure for not having published anything. i walked around slightly insecure for a couple of days. i felt that all eyes on me were critical, and mocking.

"i bet it was someone you know - who has a grudge, and saw an opportunity to take it out on you," she said.

"no, it was random. just someone fucking around at work and left a nasty comment," said her husband.

"she, or he, works at the national research council."

they gasped, but it meant nothing.


a few nights ago i was having dinner with my best friend and some of his clients. he sometimes brings me out for entertainment value. he also knows that i know which champagne to order.

i ordered the veuve cliquot. vintage.

we were onto our second bottle when someone noticed a spill of something on their leg. that, and the champagne, prompted me to tell a story of a business trip i had taken a few days previous:

as i entered the "check baggage" line, i was stopped by a man sitting on a stool. he was apparently manning the entrance to the ropey maze.

"where are you going today?" he asked.

i told him.

he paused. "at what time?"

"4:30."

he looked down at my bag. "are you checking that bag?"

"yes."

he rubbed his chin. "do you have yourrrrrrr... mmmmm... boarding pass?"

"no, i didn't have time to print it. i was hoping to do all that in this line."

he nodded slowly. "you can do that."

"may i?" i asked.

he looked around the terminal. but he was looking really high, like where pigeons would fly. "there's no one in line today."

he was just making general comments at this point. i wondered if this was a new security measure.

he motioned for me to finally pass. "have a safe flight."

after i had checked my bags and passed through security, i went to the bathroom. i looked in the mirror and gasped. in my hair was an opaque and viscous substance. i gasped and threw my head under the sink. it rinsed out easily. it was water soluble.

as i was drying my matted hair, i noticed yet another patch of the substance. this time on my skirt.

gawd damn it... i muttered as i hiked up the skirt and threw it into the sink. i realized the man perched on the stool had kept me there with his questions so that he could laugh at the jizz-like substance in my hair.


back at the champagne table i was met with interest and wide eyes.

i shrugged, "…so i dunno what it was. but it was in my hair and on my skirt." i popped a jumbo shrimp in my mouth.

"was it jizz? did someone jizz on you?" asked my best friend.

"no..." i replied still baffled. "nobody jizzed on me that day."

my best friend and his clients at the table leaned in. my champagne glass was refilled.


they too were stymied about the substance in question. concerned, they propounded various emulsions and suspensions at me all evening long.

"had you considered that it was suntan lotion? were you in the sun earlier that day?"

"perhaps a bird got you? it was only last week that a bird shat plum on my shoulder."

i even got a call the next day from their boss's house in the country. in the middle of his yearly brunch.

"i was just telling sean about your jizz-o-gram and he thinks maybe you had just used an abundance of hair products. had you used that new stuff i brought you back from london?"

gawd bless them.

loserdom. it's all in the eye of the beholder.

lest they perish

42nd street station
Originally uploaded by kristalynn.

i was recently discussing cleaning products with a girlfriend. i explained the great pleasure i get from swiffing. when i throw the befouled swiffer cloth (dry or wet) into the garbage and close the lid on it forever, i'm almost driven to rapture.

"i don't agree with swiffing," she stated.

"this is something i don't understand," i replied.

"i'm against the whole disposability thing."

"you think we need to have more of a connect with our filth?"

"i think convenience keeps us from dealing with consequence."


someone in my sister's building died 2 weeks ago. and although she didn't have the energy to tell me about it, i pressed her for the details. it was a sad story about a schizophrenic man who died alone only to be discovered three days later because 10 liters of his body fluids leaked into the apartment beneath him.

i'm puzzled by death. i think this stems from the suicide of my ex-boyfriend. i was unable to find anyone who could help me through that period. anytime i brought up the subject, it was changed.


"the story of the dead guy in my sister's building has affected me," i said to my boyfriend over lunch.

"please. we're eating."

"no. not the fluids..."

"i really don't want to talk about this over lunch."

i started to cry.

he put down his fork. "what is it that's bothering you?"

"we turn so gross so fast. i guess we're all soul." i pointed to random parts of my body. "all of this is meaningless. why do people worry so much about boob jobs, nose jobs, stupid lip injections?"

"we need the visible - our bodies - so that the invisible can do the extraordinary things that are meant to be done. at least that's what kazantzakis says."


my ex-boyfriend was also found three days after he hung himself. the cleaning lady discovered him.

we aren't meant to die alone. someone has to get us back into the earth as soon as possible. because you can't swiff that shit up.

no exit

wall, south dakota
Originally uploaded by kristalynn.

many years ago, i got hired to take the photographs for a stage production of jean-paul sartre’s "huis clos". i suggested we take the photos in a small crawl space, to give the impression of confinement and being trapped. they loved the idea. four of us spent hours in this sweaty cramped space. the ceiling wasn’t even high enough for us to stand up - we had to walk around hunched over. at one point the woman playing estelle fittingly became claustrophobic and had to leave for a period of reprieve.


"you should totally put that on your blog: movie reviews in a minute. you know, what you just said about "shooter".... shooter in a minute."

"ohmygod, it sucked."

his eyes widened. "i BET it did. but you gotta get that on your blog - the whole thing with 'how'd you find me man? i'm off the grid, man.' hey - how DID they find him?"

"undercover smartnesses. and then danny glover is all, "here's my card in case you change your mind." of course he changed his mind.

"i'm still gonna see it."

we were sitting at dairy queen. i go there once a day. but i only have one evening per week with my boyfriend. we were sharing a sundae because i'm not permitted to have an entire one to myself. i get irascible or snappish or something.

we had finished our ice cream when i noticed a strange smile on my boyfriend's face.

"what? what is it? did you see that injured squirrel again?"

a friend of his - let's call this one parmigianino - stood above us. he was holding his tennis racket and a peanut buster parfait.

after initial salutations, i was assaulted with a series of stats on how good his tennis game is. he was some kind of junior champion, on his way to implausable things. that is, until he discovered "weed and girls."

the boys laughed. this was amusing for them.

i forced a smile. "that's really funny..."

i shifted. i moved my purse. i needed to depart.

parmigianino continued to talk, at great length, about regional building codes, commutes, and how some french guys, from france, showed up at his doorstep.

voices in my head screamed. my jaw clenched. my hands clasped. if only i could hold out long enough for him to eat his humungous ice cream. then he would be on his way to his silly tennis game. the game that only cost $8. because by now, i knew many, many useless facts about this man's life.

but he didn't eat his ice cream. he talked. and talked. and no one else talked. and his ice cream melted. and it dripped on the ground and on his shoes. and then it dripped on his shirt. and instead of taking this subtle hint and eating the ice cream really fast so that i could leave, he sought out napkins. several napkins. and he placed these napkins on his shirt and tucked them into his pants. and into the folds in his belly.

i, imaginarily, knocked the benign ice cream out of his hand. the melted portions got tangled into his long, mullety locks. the plastic container hit him on the face, making him wince with pain. imaginarily, again, i kicked the now empty container in his general direction. my kick was rhonaldihno perfect, bouncing off his shins, rendering them sugary and sticky. ants would be attracted to them.

i grabbed my bag. "i must go to the bank."

my boyfriend looked surprised. "the bank? it's almost 10. what do you need at the bank?"

"money. i have to go get some money."

"wait, i'll go with you..."

"no, no. don't worry about it. BYE!" i was already halfway across the parking lot.

l'enfer. c'est les autres.