It’s late night, and I’ve just left the Bronx apartment, to refresh my memories of its contents. Gray House is quiet. I’ve stripped my body naked, I took 2 shots of mistake from an unlabeled bottle on one of my cluttered shelves, I sent Todd Rundgren spinning on our Victrola, I lit the last and most poorly rolled cigarette from my pack, and I sat down at my desk to write more of this tale.
My notes surround me. They litter the floor in haphazard order. They swirl in a maelstrom beneath the rollers of my chair. They are torn and cascading from the wire garbage bin at my desk-side. They remain out of order, untouched, discarded, and uncared for, until one of our family comes looking.
The subject on which I’ve taken the most notes is you; is Evelyn.
You know who I am, you know I’m as much unchanged from our beginnings in the garden as I am the man who understands every internal change undergone by our children. The whole of the world’s population can be found in me; being, of course, the template for them. Of course, I am the template which makes possible what I’ve taken to calling The Divine Disfigurements, and you know this. The range of motion necessary for a template to make travelable our newborn innocence, to something capable of atrocity, or the naming of such a concept itself, I’ve often thought, must surely be that of a dancer. It’s often I watch you dance, over those variations in yourself, and feel compelled to document them. Because while I may never change, Evelyn, you will never remain the same.
Are we all victims of changes, of atrocities? Of course we are. And, as with anything else we become, it’s for what we use our will that’s important. Are we all rapists? Yes, of course. Yes, we are. And, as with anything else we become, it's for what we use our will to do so that's important.
What delicate machine you must have been in order to allow herself to be split to form the first woman, I feel I alone understand the most thoroughly. It’s in your name I find the answers to every question I have ever asked myself of the mysteries we’re confronted with, in science and psychology.
Eve contains three letters, the first is the same as the last, but the last makes the first into a sharp version of its original sound, the first making the last, altogether, inaudible. The middle seems to mock the shape of a vagina, though, in my privilege, I may be the only man who knows the opposite is true. The vagina mocks the shape of the letter V, as was my intention, as the man to name you.
Our beginnings in the garden aside, I imagine you’d find some humor in the fact that I knew you first, in this life, by your red hood. Of course, I mean your Clairol hair color. I mean the lipstick you wore two Halloweens in a row, and never between. I mean the bra you keep, in the bottom drawer. I mean your blood exposed by jaggedly burst capillaries, under your skin as white as the snow upon which I dream it spatters. I mean your tongue, revealing itself when you laugh. I mean the anger constricting my view of you, walking unguarded and alone at night. Of course, I mean the sting of your scent in my nose.
There is only one thing that has hunted you more ardently than your wolf, and that thing is me.
4 rounded paws, posterior 2.6 inches in length, 2.2 width, anterior 2.1 inches in length, 1.8 width. 4 toes, none opposable, with small nail markings. Staggered step pattern, with alternating direct register. Paws keep the same pressure of impact: The animal is a healthy, red fox.
Tail swish impressions after long (400 ft) stretches of travel.
A volume of my notes pertains to the logistics of this curse we’ve borne for the expanse of time since the garden burned. All I’ve come to learn of it, to prepare myself for our shared fate was summed up in a few pages by Charles Perrault, and from there, I tasked myself to fill in what I saw as blanks.
It is my belief that any young boy, in my position, would become instantly, acutely aware of the implications of its heroism. Track the girl, hide the girl, track the wolf, kill the wolf, wed the girl. Straight out of Super Mario Brothers, this tale is as ageless as it is mocking of the masculine nature itself; the nature I initiated myself, and saw evolved over centuries of history repeated, in attempt to reconcile its meaning. American boys set out on this mission, always, Evelyn, in one way or another, and I believe myself to be the precedent for it.
Something to take into consideration, as one of these boys, is what might serve as your theme song.
As your average bachelor and stoner, between one winter and the next, I ate as much take out Chinese, in my single-mindedness. I donned only my underwear, with cum crusted, to the button of their fly. I brandished nothing more powerful, in my still ax, than a plastic Xbox controller. The handles, of each, were smoothed with the oils of my, ultimately inept, biology, my mortality, my fucking laziness. To pass the time, I think I subconsciously fell into this state of being merely because I had a dick, money to burn, and no girlfriend.
The man fated to slay the beast, and save the princess, there I sat, in my darkened nest of a room, with the flicker of a television through which I alternated old action movies, and videos games.
And when the temperature dropped, and you slept near, and the petrifying anxiety once again overcame me, the games I played most, in your absence, crept into my mind. If every hero needed a theme song, I was still on the hunt for one. Link’s theme had been challenging and whimsical, but few rivaled the dangerous triumph of the romantically urban Street Fighter II. Of course, the most epic theme, and the one which proved itself against the images it played atop, was not from a game, but a movie. Rocky’s theme was determined; a straight-backed, high-chinned optimism which I could never possess.
Let’s not even get into Eye of the Tiger, lest it be necessary I explain how I could never live up to its vigor, or strength.
During the thick of our deepest freezes, you opened yourself to me, and I went inside you. With my thrusting, into your cunt, I found my mission’s steps repeating. Track the girl, hide the girl, track the wolf, kill the wolf, wed the girl. So often, when we would make love, I would be drawn back, into the recesses of those moments I’d been alone, the season prior. The clock ticking, the chow mein going cold, the armpits of my Steely Dan t-shirt stiffening, the screen flashing red, around the edges, to indicate my critically low hit points, as I struggled against the sharp wilderness of the animal’s black mouth…
The Legend of William Baker would have made me one God-awful depressing hero, through a frustrating, and complex RPG. This would be the sort of game to keep you awake for days, exploring it’s world map, unending, and beautiful, and so ignorant to your mission. The NPCs would be stingy with their rewards and badges, full of humor toward your dedication to a hopeless cause, and of course, made to throw you off task. In those ways, that game, it seemed to me then, would be a perfect metaphor for your naked body.
While Eye of the Tiger was a powerful testimony to Balboa’s relentless will to become the best, despite all odds placed against him, I looked upon myself, and saw but a mouth-breathing, thumb-callused nerd. My shoulders arched to my ears, in concentration, my wrists went numb with carpal tunnel, and my skin was eaten by a rash, which could only be contracted due to a lack of sunlight. I was alone with the simplistic chant, the one I was certain was merely a wish, by now, that resulted in no victories, the one I met with a mumbled glare.
“Easy for you to say,” I spat at the television screen, blazing the crisp image of Mario bending over his Princess Daisy, and screwing her from behind, for an extra life. Yes, I googled searched this for a reason, and yes, I got that for what I came. Over some time, I began to think Do It Again was just the theme for me, the joke of heroes, with it’s sarcastic revolutions, its sitar, like the rungs of a hamster wheel reminding me, hypnotically, that when this all ends again, I will be placed back at the beginning, the same as any false death created by men like me, for kids like I used to be.
You have asked me why, so many, more times than I can count. But, Evelyn, I ask you, now. Why? Why me? How did a woodsman become the responsible party, where this circuitous misadventure is concerned? Why must I be the one to stop it?
Track the girl, hide the girl, track the wolf, kill the wolf, wed the girl.
I’ve considered everything, from the hand of God himself, to simple bad luck, and the only answer, of which I can be sure, is that I am just a fucking example. That we all are. That we will perpetuate this insanity, where I constantly fail to keep you alive, only to keep alive the spirit of cautionary tales themselves. That the purest form of irony incarnate is all my fate has ever been.
The clock ticking, my days so long, as they walked hand-in-hand with my frightful patience, I often thought perhaps the wolf wouldn’t come tearing, through the night, and then your flesh, but may be a thing savvy enough, by now, to simply stop your heart by thinking it should. Fucking you, the clock ticking: Track the girl, hide the girl, track the wolf, kill the wolf, wed the girl. Pushing with all of the pathetic force I could muster, into the warm, wet pressure of your body, I often thought, although I could be (mostly) sure you were still living, it was a race to cum inside you, before your body went cold.
Fucking you, Evelyn, with all of this in mind… it’s a wonder how I was able to stay hard at all.