Marzipan

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If he was honest, he’d like to fuck her, just once, a little roughly, from behind. He wasn’t really attracted to her, she had hard lines to her face, was pushy. After all, she was the one who knew how to make marzipan. He knew space. How to make it, how to use it. When he came in he turned any space into something resembling an exploded version of the old video game tetris, like if you were to turn the room on its side the components would crash neatly against one wall and evaporate into a high score, his commission. A good grip on that large round ass, the side of her face pressed deep into the mattress, her pudgy hand overboard braced against the floor, maybe a handful of her hair gripped tight against her scalp, her body arranged to his satisfaction. The job wasn’t going as planned, she was using him mostly as hired muscle, having him move tables and display cases back and forth across the increasingly scuffed linoleum. In the end though if it resulted in some configuration roughly matching his design it would be easier to extract the contractually negotiated price, even though the contract clearly stated that upon completion full recompense was due regardless of whether the client followed his design fully.

 

She hired him because he had an excellent track record and great references. Most businesses he worked on were retail shops and restaurants, small kitschy bodegas and the like. His alterations typically resulted in a four to eight percent increase in overall revenue. But he knew that there were always those jerks that thought anybody could do his job, that it was non-work, a sham. Ms. Marzipan was starting to give him that feeling, and he could sense a struggle. Outside the long threatening snow had just begun sifting dryly down, swirling lightly over the parking lot. Two large windows at the front of the shop gave out the lot and the surrounding thick suburban sprawl, a strip of highway with mini-commerce centers hanging off like hungry ventricles in a fractal pattern for eight full miles, so dense with all imaginable sorts of business that it was impossible to tell where one town ended and another began. Like, if you really needed some marzipan, this was the place to go. Because that happens.

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Fuck it. Breathe in, breathe out. The things that change and the things that stay the same are the same things. There is no difference, no delineation, alteration is both constant and nonexistent. If that seems like meaningless tripe it’s because it is and that’s the entire fucking point. Because in this world there is no true causality, causality would imply affect, and there is no affect. There is no control or do or even free thought or free will, it is only the tightly scripted machinations of the universe drawing down the coil, hanging blindly on the end of a pendulum which swings ever lower at each snap of the escapement. Truly there is no weight to this display case as this display case does not truly exist except in the mind of some drooling dreaming being outside the confines of space and time who digests our troubles like simple sugars and grows fat on the misery of the world. Watching me drag it across the nauseating pattern of the linoleum floor for the fourth fucking time in as many fucking hours like I was the cursor of the mouse gripped in her pudgy sweaty hands.

 

It’s fair to say sometimes that the things people do are not the things they are really cut out for, and even in the things which exactly fill the mold of their life as a fluid fills its container there is room for dissonance and distress, since the terrible reality of this world is that all things must be terrible and cruel, and that cruelty unabashedly employs joy to highlight its mastery of our fate. What, because marzipan occupies some priority role in some minority cultural outpost in a country which does its best to swallow cultures and shit out something uniform and absolute? Like her shit doesn’t stink? Like it’s fucking tempered by herbal concoctions and a strict schedule and you couldn’t hold a match to her farts and burn down a barn?

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Being the kind of guy who can seriously and effectively arrange space to the point where it is a marketable talent means that you are also the kind of guy who has a constant stream of alterations and arrangements shooting through your brain and so you have also developed the ability of pouring two fingers of bourbon while kicking the shoe off your foot with the toe of the other. You can hold the bottle in one hand and spin the cap off with your thumb and watch it bounce chaotically across the counter and you’ve also finally realized one day that there’s no fucking point to retrieving it even if you can do so in a masterful manner, since why cap something soon empty. And even though you know that the glass itself is sort of a moot point you like the cut in it, the shape, and the balanced weight that doesn’t try to sling whiskey at you like drinking straight from the bottle does. Since it is suppression you drink two fingers at a time, an aid to this is the ritual and a well made rocks glass is something to hold up to the light and turn as far as the wrist will go, admiring the world as bathed in amber and refracted and distorted and generally sent askew.

 

And reality can be sent asunder and swept into curious little piles spaced evenly across the broad expanse of buckled hardwood floors, and little bits of it will catch in the seams and be forever filler in something both finished and not, and you can hold the empty glass up like a lens and examine them, the piles, and determine the composition. And if you jot this down on a pad of paper it will undoubtedly be a profound and amazing realization which will decompose into jibberish by morning. But by morning you are again ready to take space and things and place them within it and manage and control and cede that control as you become once again a simple but highly paid minion for people who think they’ve got it all figured out.

 

This thing, it is not light, it is dense, it must be since it sinks to the bottom of the glass and even as you drain the glass and hold it over your extended tongue to try and capture it, the thing, it must be so dense that it sank through the bottom of the glass and the bottom of tomorrow so you must try tomorrow to capture it once again. It is dense because it is everything joined together in a point that draws all light and reason bends around it. It is dense but it does not fall out of your life.

 

Tomorrow it will not be marzipan. Tomorrow it will be synergy at a cubicle corp that does God knows what and the products are forms. Tomorrow will be a breeze since tomorrow nobody will have any fucking clue whats going on or what the point is, but somebody will step up and order his own minions around, and the cubicle residents with gather up their walls around them like gaudy prom dresses and slide them around to his satisfaction. Tomorrow will be a breeze, and it will not stink of marzipan, and he can think of things which float.   

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2 Responses to Marzipan

  1. Anonymous says:

    “This thing, it is not light, it is dense, it must be since it sinks to the bottom of the glass and even as you drain the glass and hold it over your extended tongue to try and capture it, the thing, it must be so dense that it sank through the bottom of the glass and the bottom of tomorrow so you must try tomorrow to capture it once again. It is dense because it is everything joined together in a point that draws all light and reason bends around it. It is dense but it does not fall out of your life.”

    Oof. So beautiful.

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