{"id":4075,"date":"2013-05-29T22:04:10","date_gmt":"2013-05-29T22:04:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/?p=4075"},"modified":"2013-05-29T22:04:10","modified_gmt":"2013-05-29T22:04:10","slug":"headrushing-by-rhys-leshon-evans","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2013\/05\/29\/headrushing-by-rhys-leshon-evans\/","title":{"rendered":"Headrushing by Rhys Leyshon Evans"},"content":{"rendered":"

Muireann<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Muireann always looks like she has a headache. So does her best friend, Uriel. Every night, Muireann spends fifteen minutes staring at the stars. She does not know the official constellations. However, in conversation with Uriel, and other friends, she lies and regales them with false constellations. Muireann\u2019s fascination is akin to a prisoner obsessed with the sky because they cannot see much else through a restrictive cell window. Muireann owns cheekbones sharp as an anklebone. They are not natural. Her cheekbones are as far removed from nature as a four-lane highway.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Uriel<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Uriel always says: \u201cPeople are overrated.\u201d Muireann listens to this, and occasionally laughs. She is never sure whether Uriel is joking. Uriel does not consider that he might upset Muireann or his friends when he talks like this. Uriel is very pragmatic. He carries a small notebook in the pocket of his blazer. Uriel writes down sentences he can use in future conversations. Sentences like: \u2018Realism is my enemy. I shield myself with a bloated maroon umbrella;\u2019 or \u2018I savor break-ups that are smooth as cheap liquor and sunburns.\u2019 Uriel harbors aspirations to write literature. So far, he has produced one autobiographical novella. His poetry is written in free verse and usually runs out of ideas halfway through an overlong first stanza.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Uriel\u2019s Apartment<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve always wanted to be a muse to someone,\u201d says Muireann. She sits on the couch, curled up like a particularly anti-social cat. \u201cA muse for someone I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Uriel nods, takes an overlong drag from his cigarette and nods some more, thinking about whether he is a healthy vegan.<\/p>\n

     It is Saturday. Saturdays make Muireann and Uriel nervous because they don\u2019t work full-time jobs. Sharing a day off with other people fills them with anxiety. Sometimes they go to art exhibitions of people they once knew in college and laugh at paintings and steal bottles of wine, even though neither drinks alcohol. But when there are no Saturday exhibitions to attend, Muireann and Uriel contend with anxiety. Saturday presents so much choice that the preferred choice is to just sit in an apartment. Or park. Or the Williamsburg Beach. Smoking. Not doing very much. Saturdays are overrated, thinks Uriel.<\/p>\n

     \u201cCan I check my email?\u201d asks Muireann.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThe Williamsburg Beach would be a far more interesting place if it was an industrial estate,\u201d replies Uriel, handing over his expensive laptop.<\/p>\n

     Muireann and Uriel often talk like this.<\/p>\n

     Impersonal non-sequiturs.<\/p>\n

     Muireann begins to tap on the keyboard. Uriel\u2019s eyes drift around the room. They fall on the slightly curved, warped floor outside the kitchen. He has attained a satisfactory level of borderline poverty and this makes him feel, momentarily, authentic. Authenticity is something Uriel has strived for since teenage-hood.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI am confused,\u201d begins Muireann, but then becomes transfixed by the laptop. \u201cI want to look up obscure cubist photographers who have names beginning with the letter \u2018S\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cCubist? Really?\u201d sneers Uriel.<\/p>\n

     He actually sneers.<\/p>\n

     \u201cYes. And every time I type \u2018S\u2019 into the search engine, the first thing that comes up, every time, is shins. Shins, human<\/i>, shins, animals<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI don\u2019t think animals have shins.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Subway<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Summer brings voices to the stoops of Sugar Hill. T-shirts hanging from belt buckles watch Muireann and Uriel walk briskly to the subway. The only thing either of them know about their neighborhood is which bodegas stay open late and the quickest route from apartment to subway.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Semi-colons<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Muireann and Uriel are good friends with their dealer, Race, and often visit him even when they don\u2019t want to buy anything. Muireann and Uriel once went to dinner with Race. They ate steak and shared a number of silences. Later, Muireann told Uriel that she found the silences \u201cspiritually enlightening, or, at least ethically enlightening.\u201d Muireann\u2019s interpretation of the evening could not even be dented by Race\u2019s remark that other people in the restaurant probably thought Muireann and Uriel were a couple trying to solicit him for a threesome. Race is practical about his profession and keeps numerous trading, profit and loss books to track his expenditures and individual client accounts. Because Race does not pay tax and is unable to see a point in his life when he feasibly will, he donates large amounts to homeless charities and AIDS foundations.<\/p>\n

     \u201cDo you think I can use semi-colons in my children\u2019s book?\u201d asks Uriel, scowling at no one.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI think you can; do it anyway,\u201d recommends Muireann.<\/p>\n

     Muireann has just discovered the definition of the semi-colon and now uses them all the time. In emails. In text messages. Even when replying to Uriel, she imagines a semi-colon and draws an imaginary semi-colon in the air as if the air is actually a blackboard.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI really love the way a semi-colon looks,\u201d declares Uriel.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSo do I. Using semi-colons is fast becoming one of my favorite hobbies.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Until last week, Muireann thought a semi-colon was used for starting a new paragraph.<\/p>\n

     There are many reasons why Uriel talks about writing a children\u2019s book. Ultimately, it is because he is not a nice person. When Uriel wrote his autobiographical novella, he found this out. Maybe being a nasty person isn\u2019t so bad? It makes good people feel better about themselves for one thing. The thought of writing a children\u2019s book made Uriel feel better about who he is. Perhaps it will make him appear like a caring, kinder person.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Night-time, street lamps<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Friday night simmers. Friday in the city is a child on a pogo stick. Friday is giggling so much it spits flecks of saliva into Saturday. Friday has no competition. Muireann and Uriel sit on a stoop on their favorite tree-lined street. Drinking fizzy soda. Muireann and Uriel watch revelers pass by.<\/p>\n

     Alcohol hidden in perspiring brown bags. Laughter. Friends wear the same outfits. Boys: plaid shirts, plastic-looking jeans rolled up at the same length, polished winklepickers. Girls: fey dresses, pocket watches around their necks, brogues, tousled hair.<\/p>\n

     Muireann and Uriel have sat on the stoop for hours. Muireann cannot see the stars tonight. It is a muggy, humid summer night. The heavy air reminds Uriel of how he felt the time he went to a gym. Uriel does not like the stars. His eyes are transfixed by the street-lamps.<\/p>\n

     The sights they have seen on this small street in a big city.<\/p>\n

     Arguments.<\/p>\n

     Kisses.<\/p>\n

     Tears.<\/p>\n

     Mistakes.<\/p>\n

     Kindness.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI think I\u2019m going to start speaking in rhyme again,\u201d says Muireann. \u201cMy friend Madeline does. It could be fun.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Uriel nods.<\/p>\n

     Months ago, Muireann spent her time rhyming. Sometimes they were clever rhymes that made boys find her attractive. When she rhymed shampoo with Camus, for instance. But Muireann was unable to rhyme like this all the time. Not even when she carried a notebook around like Uriel. No. Muireann\u2019s bad rhymes became very bad. She once told a girl, named Kit, that she was shit. That was low. Uriel didn\u2019t mind Muireann rhyming.<\/p>\n

     \u201cOkay,\u201d Uriel says. \u201cI don\u2019t think this street is hip anymore. We need to find a new stoop.\u201d<\/p>\n

     A street lamp, which has been flickering since it was switched on, goes dead. It disrupts the even flow of the street lamps running down the hyper-rational grid system.<\/p>\n

     \u201cLet\u2019s go to a bar and drink non-alcoholic cocktails.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Muireann and Uriel begin walking. Whatever sustenance Race provided them with earlier has ceased. Their respective bloodstreams groan out for sympathy.<\/p>\n

     Bruised.<\/p>\n

     Whimpering.<\/p>\n

     Muireann and Uriel feel groggy. On residential streets, the friends pass former locations of favorite clubs. Long gone. Muireann and Uriel will be thirty soon. The future seems confusing. A neo-expressionist spatter of paint. A pop record with too many grammatically incorrect lyrics. Muireann and Uriel continue walking, and walking, and say very little. On nights like this, Muireann and Uriel play a game they have devised.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI watched a film with my family,\u201d begins Uriel, playing the game. \u201cA very upsetting, sad film supposedly. And I refused to cry. My mother got so angry with me.\u201d Uriel smiles. Muireann fakes a laugh. Uriel\u2019s face appears to want to laugh at the memory. But laughter is classified as an emotion and not allowed in the game.<\/p>\n

     Muireann thinks to herself, is emotion really that bad?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Headrushing<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

On Monday, Muireann and Uriel and their friends, Vertigo, Baldwin, and Sercee, sit in an apartment and talk about dreams. They call these discussions, headrushing, and all drink green tea together. The tea often burns Uriel\u2019s tongue. He complains about the burns for ages after. Even when the burn has healed. The group usually gathers in a circle and sits on the carpeted floor, bruised with cigarette ash and drink stains.<\/p>\n

     \u201cToday this girl stared at me on the street,\u201d says Muireann. \u201cLike I was some prized treat. I didn\u2019t find it at all sweet.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Muireann has been rhyming for nearly twenty-four hours. At first, Baldwin laughs. Then he realizes Muireann is not trying to be funny.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI had this beat dream,\u201d declares Vertigo. \u201cThe other night. There were so many vibrant colors. I can see them now. Proper colors. Real colors. But I cannot describe them for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cMy dreams are so eventful at the moment,\u201d Sercee tells the group.<\/p>\n

     Everyone nods sympathetically.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI really like a girl,\u201d murmurs Baldwin.<\/p>\n

     \u201cAnd?\u201d questions Uriel, underlining something in his notebook. \u201cWas she in a dream?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cUh-huh.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cShe has a boyfriend. In real life. But in the dream I was at a house-party full of strangers. Except she was there. And we only knew each other. And she starts kissing me. I knew she had a boyfriend in the dream and I pulled back from the kiss. I don\u2019t know why. It was only a dream. I could have kissed her and it wouldn\u2019t have mattered.\u2019<\/p>\n

     \u201cI fell in love with someone in real-life,\u201d says Sercee, \u201cafter they were in a dream of mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cThat kind of sucks,\u201d says Uriel.<\/p>\n

     The group has sat on the floor for nearly two hours. Sercee and Uriel stretch out their legs and re-cross them. Muireann thinks about dreams. She thinks about the strange dreams her friends have. Muireann considers Baldwin\u2019s dream and how her friends are much more controlled and disciplined and sort of half-moralistic in their dreams.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Emotion<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Summer finishes. Muireann and Uriel still look like they have constant headaches. Sullen eyes. Agitated movements. Clipped sentences that struggle for articulation. In early September, Muireann and Uriel wander through a reserved Wednesday evening. Playing the lack of emotion game, Muireann begins to cry. Uriel asks, meanly, if the tear is from love or something.<\/p>\n

     \u201cNo,\u201d sniffs Muireann. \u201cThe tear in my eye is not from love. It\u2019s from this fucking cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

     The evening is not cold.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Music<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

In October, Uriel realizes his dream of fronting a rock \u2018n\u2019 roll band. \u00a0The band is comprised of girls, ten years younger than him. The girls are students. Undergraduates in modernist design, middle-Australian literature, and classics. Muireann sits in on the band\u2019s rehearsals and listens to them play dirgy noise. The band is called The Sound and the Fury<\/i>. Uriel informs Muireann that it was the name of \u201ca newspaper, in the fifties or something.\u201d The Sound and the Fury<\/i> have a song called \u201cThe End of a Film,\u201d which Muireann quite likes because it does not mention anything about film. At one rehearsal, which Muireann does not attend, Uriel finds his first grey hair and the girls in the band laugh and make jokes.<\/p>\n

     Because Uriel is often busy, hunched over his notebook writing lyrics, Muireann finds she has more time on her own. Once a week she visits Race.<\/p>\n

     Conversations with Race:<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Pros and cons of travel insurance.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Favorite season of the year.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 European cinema circa 1960.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Second best restaurant in Bushwick.<\/i><\/p>\n

     Muireann also catches up with friends that she was once better friends with.<\/p>\n

     Ada, for instance.<\/p>\n

     Ada is dating a doorman who writes short stories.<\/p>\n

     \u201cHe only writes in the second person,\u201d reveals Ada, ruffling her hair. Uriel thinks Ada has the best hair in the city. \u201cHe takes his art very seriously.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI\u2019d like to read,\u201d says Muireann trailing off, trying to force a rhyme. \u201cPerhaps with a glass of mead.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cOr he could read it you.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cDoes he like to read stories aloud? He must be proud. Of the stories.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cAll the time. Not just his own work. Like proper published short stories as well,\u201d smiles Ada.<\/p>\n

     This bemuses Muireann. Ada is Snowflake\u2019s age and works in theater production. Muireann is jealous of her, that Ada is able to be young and mature all at the same time with her boyfriend and do embarrassing things without caring much what a person like Muireann thinks about it.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSo what are you up to?\u201d ask Ada. \u201cYou know, in life?\u201d<\/p>\n

     Muireann thinks for a moment.<\/p>\n

     She is not sure how to answer.<\/p>\n

     Eventually she speaks.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI guess I\u2019ve been spending a lot of time recently trying to remember how to be young,\u201d says Muireann.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Re-Lit Cigarette<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

Muireann meets Uriel at a dive bar. They drink cola with ice, and lime instead of lemon; it is cold outside and starts to snow while they talk; the ice in the glass doesn\u2019t melt, even though Uriel clasps the glass with his meaty hands; Muireann zones out when Uriel discusses how he finds \u201cdeath to be incredibly artistic\u201d and Muireann finds herself standing outside with a cigarette that needs to be re-lit and re-lit over and over again in the wind; Uriel holds his own cigarette but does not smoke it for some reason that Muireann fails to ask about and Uriel \u00a0remains silent; Muireann hopes that it is the cold that has silenced him; Muireann needs Uriel to talk tonight, she needs to be told words and sentences and emotions; a tear falls down her cheek, stinging her dry skin and Uriel just watches; he ignores the tear and shifts from foot to foot, the snow melting on his shoes.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThe tear in my eye is not from love,\u201d whispers Muireann. She is not sure why. It seems better to say something than say nothing at all. \u201cIt\u2019s from this, this fucking cold.\u201d Uriel continues to watch. Unsure what to do. He pats the pocket of his overcoat. It is empty. \u201cIt\u2019s just this fucking cold,\u201d repeats Muireann. The \u201cfucking\u201d comes out fractured, childish almost. Muireann contemplates saying something more but thinks better of it.<\/p>\n

     Let Uriel talk.<\/p>\n

     Let him meet her halfway.<\/p>\n

     Except Muireann is not sure where she is to begin with.<\/p>\n

     She re-lights her cigarette.<\/p>\n

     The snow kisses her skin.<\/p>\n

     Like an embarrassing relative.<\/p>\n

     Why can\u2019t Uriel speak, thinks Muireann.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSay something, please,\u201d she murmurs, her mouth barely opening.<\/p>\n

     It hurts to move her lips too much.<\/p>\n

     A memory of a boy, his warm body and sheets layered like a club sandwich.<\/i><\/p>\n

     <\/i>\u201cSay something,\u201d repeats Muireann. \u201cPlease, Uriel.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Uriel is not the boy.<\/p>\n

     He looks back at Muireann, blankly.<\/p>\n

     Uriel stops bouncing from foot to foot.<\/p>\n

     Muireann doesn\u2019t cry.<\/p>\n

     She re-lights the stub of her hand-rolled cigarette.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI don\u2019t know what to say, Muireann,\u201d admits Uriel. He looks away. \u201cI really don\u2019t. I\u2019ve left my notebook at home.\u201d<\/p>\n

     
\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013
\nRhys Leyshon Evans<\/strong> is 24. His work has appeared in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, 3am Magazine, Specter Literary Magazine, fwriction: review<\/em>, and The Cadaverine<\/em>. Currently working on a novella. More info can be found at rhysleyshonevans.tumblr.com<\/a>.
\n     
\n     <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Muireann Muireann always looks like she has a headache. So does her best friend, Uriel. Every night, Muireann spends fifteen minutes staring at the stars. She does not know the official constellations. However, in conversation with Uriel, and other friends, she lies and regales them with false constellations. Muireann\u2019s fascination is akin to a prisoner […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,3,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4075","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-fiction","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4075","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4075"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4075\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4075"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4075"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4075"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}