Three Passages of Women

Wounded Woman
A wounded woman lays beside me,
my bed a station on a journey
through joy and despair
to seek something better.
She believes she is ruined,
but I adore her the way she is;
a blend of humane imperfection
and startling beauty.
She is depressed, as I am,
and I believe I understand
her melancholy in a way
I am aware of from seeing her,
but simply cannot explain in words.
She is in love with another
and this is okay.
It was enough for me
to lay beside her for awhile
and know, for a moment,
she was alright.

A Paragraph
 A very beautiful woman rests on her stomach on the floor next to her bed. She is copying passages from The Diary of Anais Nin. I do not know what volume it is, but she is writing very quickly in a state of rapturous lucidity. I stare at her from the couch, envious of her clearly focused joy. Her legs are crossed; they are mostly bare, toned, with a very natural tan. We are listening to electronic music that I understand, but do not recognize. The one thing I know is I will not go to bed with her tonight. This is probably the best choice for both of us, but I still want to. I want it enough to end a sentence in a preposition. She is going to bed and I am going to ride my bike home and write this down instead of only thinking about it, then letting it go. It seems significant considering the time and place and situation: well past two in the morning, in her bedroom, drinking and smoking and reading poetry to one another. She asks me if I want to smoke before I go. Marijuana. I tell her not tonight, not again. She sleeps with another man. I tell her good night and to sleep tight. When I get home, I am overcome with a moment of emptiness, utter loneliness; the natural progression of such things. It always eventually passes.

The Morning After
Stay with me in this bed
so free of adornment and conceit.
I do not know why you chose me.
I can only cherish it;
your skin so soft,
your hair so messy;
smelling of lilacs
and cigarette smoke.
The sunlight shines upon you
through a single window
in my second story apartment bedroom.
There is no reason to leave this bed;
we have covers,
we are both semi nude and the breeze
blows a fresh spring gale through the screen.
Meet me under the sleeping bag
I use as a comforter and kiss me,
our lips meeting yet another time.
And when you have tired
of such moments I will long for
until they are true again,
let's get breakfast.

Aaron C. Molden





.

Memory Cues in Times of Dissolution

You are laughing, lips stretched, plump cheeks
defining the curves of your mouth;
your pale blue eyes bashful and glinting.
You are crying, knees akimbo,
leaning against a building; your face swollen and red,
displaying a grief I could not halt
no matter what I said or did.
You are smoking a cigarette you do not want,
trying to think of something to say.
You are taking a picture with your phone.
You are filtering water from a mountain stream
that I would likely drink unfiltered; so cold
on that mild December day on the trail.
You are dancing with me; we hold each other closely.
You are dancing with someone else,
hands and fingers bent and wiggling
in a charming and naive way.
You are telling me to sit down next to you
when we were stopped by police officers;
I was trying to get you back to your room
so I could lay you down in your bed,
kiss you goodnight, go home and sleep well,
knowing you were safely home for the night;
you had drank too much that night
and your mind was full of desperate
and justifiable sorrow.
You are walking in lovely hiking boots
that stick out like a sore thumb
in juxtaposition to your jean shorts
and leggings and baggy tan sweater.
You are drawing, writing, reading,
because you are bored or you are with others
doing the same.
You are considering the menu
at a restaurant, biting your upper lip,
eyes down on the entrees on the page.
You are rolling your eyes at the things I am saying.
You are kissing my cheek as I talk to a friend.
You are ignoring me, though I am desperate
for your attention;
I would never say it, but I certainly wanted it.
You are choosing the song
you would like to hear on the jukebox.
You are watching a movie you love;
your facial expression changing
for a sad scene coming up
that you love and remember.
You are looking up at me, sitting
on the ground, on the wood floor
of the second story apartment
in a run down Victorian house on Ninth street,
at the party on the night I first laid eyes on you:
I feel, at least a little, the same way
I did when I first saw you,
every time I see you again.
You are saying goodbye again
at six in the morning; the sun is not yet
above the horizon.
Your eyes are sleepy and you are wearing
the shorts and loose tank top you wear as pajamas.
You are hugging me and I am squeezing you firmly,
holding onto you for as long as I could bear,
until I finally know I have to let go again.
You are walking towards me.
I see you, walk up to you, and pick you up
with my arms embraced under yours
and I spin you around in circles;
your legs are elevated from the ground
and stretched out by concentric velocity;
your leather boots the tips of a pinwheel
whirling around and around.
You are in my presence,
but most of the time you are somewhere else.

Aaron C. Molden    

8 Quotes, Both Real and Imagined

"The Pseudo-Modernist communicates constantly with the other side of the planet, yet needs to be told to eat his or her vegetables to be healthy, a fact self evident in the Bronze age. He or she can direct the course of national television programmes, but does not know how to make him or her something to eat -a characteristic fusion of the childish and the advanced, the powerful and the helpless."
-Dr. Allen King, PhD

"The psychological effects of literary anything that can happen to someone, be it traumatic or mundane, seem able to incite adverse results on nearly anyone, given they are in a specific state of mind at the time."
-Chet Brentman, Psychology Undergrad

"Humans, at their core, are fuckers, killers, liars, and assholes who trust the latter three, so long as they can live more comfortably because of them.
   What's messed up is that they're still capable of feats and feelings of love, devotion, and occasionally, self-sacrifice.
    Beyond that, depending on where they are in life, they are also capable of defeating their established bids of nobility with the temptations of fucking, killing, lying to, or trusting those who willfully lie to them, so long as the willful liar (or liars) make them feel comfortable enough not to react.
    It also helps if they are not quite comfortable enough to completely relax. Their fear and anxiety is abstract and possibly unknown within their conscious mind-frame. They imagine a vague threat when they are not otherwise preoccupied and try to imagine how to destroy that fear if it remains persistent."
-Stan the drunk, reaching lucidity at the bar

"I need the ecstasy of seeing your smiling face to maintain my day to day life."
-A person in love

"A pretentious person is an individual who judges another persons character based on their taste. It doesn't mean there isn't an ideal aesthetic. It means that the person does not know or care about aesthetics. And I assure you they will most likely know something to an extent beyond your knowledge, despite whether you care or not. You will care sometimes."
-An art history professor who bought you a drink

"A tile on my bathroom floor looks like Nebraska, but could that matter in the broad scope of things?"
-A person taking a shit without a smartphone

"I start tomorrow on the Paris book: first person, uncensored, formless -fuck everything!"
-Henry Miller

I grieve for all animal life I have killed. The scale ranges from 1 to 10, and these grievances have not stopped me from eating meat."
-Me

Aaron C. Molden

Artists

    I don't think I have ever learned about an artist without eventually discovering that they are or were, by definition, "stubborn" about their work.
    I understand that because, for the most part, people don't give a shit. And artists, ever more so from day to day, as things we perceive continue to accelerate, must try to conceive, to build, to make someone stop and look and stare and read what the artist has made in order to make it worthwhile for the viewer to stay awhile, possibly with: coffee, beer, soda, punch, popcorn, wine and cheese, sour batch kids, etc. Esoteric mini pancakes.
    It's really hard to explain that to someone looking up from their complimentary grapes and Gouda, wishing only that a football game was on in front of them. It's also conceited, but possibly unavoidable. It's an expectant ego that manifests itself in the act of making, but broods pensively in presentation.
    I've heard a lot of people describe artist by saying "they do what they love." That is bullshit. The most unnecessary pain that ails an artist is their art. It's not love. It is a cathartic expression of their belief that they need to continue what they are are doing, and fuck all, if it doesn't feel good to breakthrough to ecstasy and epiphany with what they eventually make. There is nothing I have discovered in this life, outside of possibly a good orgasm or a perfectly cooked scallop, that is better for connecting with humanity.
    Well, except maybe music.
    Artist's do not suffer. Well, they do suffer, but not constantly. They endure, despite health, social norms, financial situations, lack of modern comforts (both nearly essential and superfluous.)
    A lot of them become famous after they die. It's because they never had an agent. This sucks, because an artist without an agent is usually a goldmine after they are dead.
    I have no explanation for this, only examples:
    Vincent Van Gogh is an easy one.  
    Henry Darger is a queasy one.

Aaron C. Molden    

She

She runs through my mind like a saw blade,
cutting up lyrical thoughts of prose
into short outbursts of vulgarity.
She was never truly mine,
but this does not stop me from seeking her out;
sometimes overtly and sometimes with restraint.
She is not beautiful, for the word beautiful
carries too much an air of cliche.
She is vital, and she is flawed.

We are all flawed,
and this lesson I learned painfully.
It taught me a lesson I would not soon forget.

Despite how often I try to play it cool,
when I am with her
(when I am so blessed to be near her)
I suspect she knows exactly how I feel
about her. Let's not call it love.
Let's call it, at least, mild rapture.
This both terrifies me and exhilarates me.
I miss her, for she is so far away:
geographically, psychologically, physically,
but still within eye's snatch of a screen shot.
She is both a woman and a kinetic starburst
to me.

She has a favorite book that I do not like,
even though I tried to read it
before I had ever met her.
I tried to read it again. I still do not like it.
Some thing about Brit Lit doesn't fit me.

She has a more interesting occupation
than I do. I pay attention to that
because it is always genuinely interesting
to hear about. It is a way to get a glimpse
of someone's life; how they are living.
It is why I like singer-songwriters.
It can be like hearing a Neil Young
or Elliot Smith or Tori Amos
or Bruce Springsteen...
this could go on for awhile,
so I'll cut to the chase...
Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan song.

I want her to see the movie
The Red Shoes, directed by Emeric Pressburger.
I want to see her face as she watches
the final dance sequence.

I don't know if she likes the band.
I wish she were here now so I could dance with her.

"See the man up there with the stage fright,
just standin' up there giving it all his might.
He got caught in the spotlight,
but when they get to they end
he wants to start all over again."
-Rick Danko

Off topic:
I'm not worried about insects evolving
and eventually rising up against humanity,
the way Heinlein speculated in Starship Troopers
or Vollman did in You Bright and Risen Angels,
because, I figure, for how long humans
have been luring insects to their deaths
using the temptation of light,
by now, the insects would have developed
a religion that warns against that temptation
in order to truly become a threat to
modern humanity.
By my understanding, the complete overthrow
of a global or semi-global status quot,
takes, at the bare minimum, at least 2,500 years.
Twenty five hundred is how I would say it,
speaking this tangent to her;
hoping I wouldn't be met with her blank stare.
We don't see eye to eye on some things.
It makes this tangent glaringly pointless,
but I would never erase it.
In fact, I don't think I can.

I listen to Joni Mitchell and think
about the last time I danced with her.
As of now, it is still enough
to keep from embarrassing myself
in front of my self.

This is why I write:
to excuse myself by owning a dictionary.

We both think about suicide
in both a rational and academic way,
and an irrational and emotional way.
It's an existential portal to the core
of someone's mind.
I gravitate towards this thought,
healthy or not.
Seeing her activates an impulse within me
that I sometimes cannot control.
She can be, at most, ecstasy
and I can't shake that.

I am always hoping she is well,
unless she finds a way to hurt me
in a nearly complete way.
I lick my wounds
until they do not hurt anymore.
Then, I find her again.

Aaron C. Molden

Decline

This is America.
We do not live within the context
of daily tragedy
like a lot of the rest of the world
we occupy as a nation.
The necessity to strive for survival
gives way to the boredom and pathos
of excess thought process:
a beautiful gateway to consumerism
as holy,
so long as your local storefronts
and digital screens
continue to provide
new and interesting distractions.
I write this knowing I am,
and will be, guilty of such distractions
from time to time...
Sometimes more than I wish.
We are allowed to dwell on tragedy;
we analyze it and absorb it
deep within our skin,
sinew, muscle, bones, organs, mind.
Such benefits of thought render us
invalid in our reaction time.
When my reaction time exceeds
the average American
I begin to worry.
I worry.

Aaron C. Molden

The Abortion

    She decided to have the abortion.
    When she first found out she was pregnant the only thing she understood was that she was unsure how to proceed. For the first two and half decades of her life she never imagined that she might want to be a mother. Now, she was unsure.
     After she graduated from college, she found a job a an administrative assistant at a clothing company she followed in a New York fashion magazine she had been subscribed to since she was in high school. She came from a modest, but lively Midwestern town. At an early age she would have already known this position was nothing short of a dream job. She would be in the fashion industry.
    She had always been a pretty girl and she made sure, as soon as she understood it would be to her advantage, that she would always be prettier; more attractive to both men and women, if she was conscious and discerning of what she wore. For as long as her friends could remember, when she saw something in a catalog or magazine or in a department or thrift store and she truly believed it, she would tell them how good they would look in it. "You have to try this on."
    Can't you see? It was a dream job.
    She put up with a lot of shit her first year at the company. She put up with it with a smile on her face for the first few months, but eventually she started to give shit back. She also gave her opinions and her ideas about fashion to people she respected, as well as, people she did not agree with. Someone from the company noticed and was impressed. Within a year she was hired on as a fashion agent. She and several others had a collective budget for research and development. She understood that fashion was never finished and, at her age, she was very happy this was true.
    There were always men around (there always are) who would make advances: old industry creeps, mail-boys, corporate men, moody man-boys in the copy writing and creative department, etc. She had sex with some of them when the loneliness of being by herself another night seemed unbearable. Some of them were just friends though, and she would spend the night with them, laying in her sweatpants; they would talk as they would hold her in their arms; both men and women she knew and loved.
    Those nights where we must not be alone.
    She loved many of them, if only for a time, but she required herself to be eventually disappointed with the relationships at least 50% of the time. The other 50% were banked in her mind for longing when she needed it.
    With this mindset she met him. He was smart, but not overly arrogant. He was attractive, but not overtly narcissistic; this would later manifest itself more apparently when he revealed his true life goals which did not involve her. He was bookish, but still faintly athletic, with enough muscle structure to make her believe he could be a model if he tried a little harder; for some reason she was glad he didn't try harder. He cared about the things he wore (of course, for he was in R and D, as well), but had a hard time flat out admitting it. He remembered being a know-it-all when he was younger, so he tried to fight the urge as an adult; sometimes he failed at this. He apologized when he was wrong, always hoping to make amends, earnestly, for the mistakes he made.
    She told him she was pregnant with their baby.
    "What should we do?"
    "I don't know."
    There was a long silence. He had his head down and she pensively ran her fingers through her long brown hair. She was looking out the window of her small Brooklyn apartment.
    "You should get an abortion."
    This surprised her; his blunt statement. He was the only suitor she could honestly remember thinking I could have this man's child, and after just a short thought, he believed she shouldn't. He couldn't.
    She said "I need to think about it."
    She decided to have the abortion. He paid for it and held her and kissed her after they left the clinic. She cried into his shoulder. "I don't if I can take how I feel right now." she said, her voice muffled in his shirt sleeve.
    "You're going to be alright." He said earnestly. "I'll be here for you." It's not that he didn't want to have children. It's not that he didn't want to have children with her. It was simply too soon. As talented as they both were (she was an agent and he was a field photographer for the fashion company) it would have been nonsense for them to give up on their dreams.
    She suddenly felt flush with a white hot rage within her. "Why would we have to give up on our dreams." She screamed as she pushed him away from her. She punched him in the chest with as much force as she could muster at the time. It did not hurt him, but he knew she meant it. "Tears began streaming down her face. "We could have been a team. We didn't have to give up anything, you asshole. We just would have had to adapt."
    He put his head down and clenched his forehead with his fingers.
    She looked at him with his head down. "Despite what you may think about this relationship, we are not together. I can't be with you after this."
    He looked up at her.
    "I thought I loved you, but I was wrong."
    She found a better job at the same magazine she had been subscribed since she was in high school. Before she found out she was pregnant, she had sent her personal portfolio of recreational fashion writing to the magazine and they turned out to be impressed. "The way you describe these printed pencil skirts is divine." The slender woman with solid white hair, all black pant suit, and thick rimmed glasses with circular lens announced as she sat in her office. "It's as if I'm seeing them myself, or better yet, wearing them."
    She was offered the new writing job after the abortion and she took it. She eventually became head writer. After that, eventually, editor in chief.
    She got married. Or she didn't.
    I wrote this story.
    It's not the worst thing she regrets, but it haunts her from time to time.
    It haunts him sometimes, too.
    After she started writing professionally they never saw each other again.

Aaron C. Molden