The Last Harry Potter Book

Harry will yell a lot, in all caps lock, because he is a teenager and they do that.

In one last act of defiance, McGonagle will let her hair down and get a butterfly tattoo on her ankle next to the chinese symbol for "Peace".

The steamy sex scene between Ron and Hermione will be ruined by an overabundance of the word "snog".

Dumbledore's not coming back.

Snape was good all along.

Harry is the final Horcrux and will have to destroy himself.

I will hate it.

Hello

The next person to read this must give me something to write about.

Love,
Andrew

P.S. Seriously... I... I got nothin'.

Truth Through Fiction

I've been fascinated with the idea of truth through fiction for quite sometime now. Particularly the idea that nothing can be captured truthfully, in the slightest, without some form of fictionalization. Sure, an event can be recounted, step by step, factually and with certainty, but from who's point of view? No one involved can relay a story exactly as it happened. They are hindered by limited perspective and personal bias. Anyone on the outside looking in, a reporter for example, can interview everyone involved and get every side but every story they get is skewed in some way. The big picture is pieced together with small flawed stories.

The reason I started this blog is because a friend of mine asked me to. He was saying one night how he wished all of our friends had blogs so he could keep up with their lives, keep up with what they had to say. And because I realized I wanted the same from all these friends, I figured it would be hypocritical of me to not have one myself.

Blogs are silly.

Nothing I've written in this blog is real. Some posts are obviously fictional. Stories I wrote to stifle my own boredom or workshop some silly idea. But most are disguised as some self indulgent true story about stupid little things that have happened to me. And while a lot are based on actual experience, there are some I just made up.

Hell, the posts based on actual experience are probably the biggest lies of them all. I leave so much out, I let so much lie, I'm telling a completely different story from what actually took place. Each post becomes a self important, angsty heep of nonsense as I pretend my words might hold some ambiguous yet universal meaning, touch on something even remotely human.

Is it presumptious and arrogant of me to assume this admition means anything to the few of you that read this? I'm genuinely curious. I mean, how many people are even surprised? Now that I'm writing about it, thinking about it, perhaps that's all actually expected and there's nothing to be surprised about. I don't even know.

Silly blogs.

?

I don't... get... Björk...

What Is The Perfect Human Thinking About?

-- inspired, in part, by Jorgen Leth's The Perfect Human and The Five Obstructions --

He sits alone at a table. Not alone, but by himself. He is with a phone. An old phone, the rotary kind. He picks up the receiver and dials. It rings into his ear and he stares at the wall.

"Hello?" It's a woman's voice.

"Hi, who is this?" he asks. Outside is just beginning to wake up. The blinds are pulled, but only halfway, and light pours into the room painting everything a soft morning blue.

"This is Katie, who is this?"

He picks up the phone and moves it onto the floor by his feet. He pushes his chair back and slowly lowers himself next to it and stretches out on his back. Brown spots, burn marks, are scattered across the carpet, some forming patterns but others lost to random distribution.

"This is the perfect human," he says with a smile.

"Oh really?" she asks.

"Yes."

Books line the wall, stacked in piles by color and size. A small fern sits at the top of a tall pile of encyclopedias in a cracked red pot. An empty, stained coffee pot sits beside it on its own stack.

"Do I know you?"

"No," he says rolling onto his belly. "I don't think so."

He lights a cigarette.

"How did you get my number?" she asks.

He slowly lowers the cigarette to the carpet, watching it carefully with his jaw unlocked and hanging slightly in concentration. He touches it to the weave and it quickly turns a dark brown color, the fibers turn upwards and into themselves. He pinches the butt between his thumb and index finger and rotates it slowly, pulling the circle outwards until it is about as big as a quarter, then he smushes the cherry and tosses the dead cigarette into a small tin bucket.

"I dialed it," he says.

She laughs quietly.

"And we've never met before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He rolls onto his back again and blinks twice. "What do you mean?"

"What if we've passed each other on the street before? Perhaps we've even bumped elbows, we just didn't know it was us."

"Maybe," he says.

"What are you thinking about?"

Blink. "Me?"

"Yes. What is the perfect human thinking about?"

"Can I draw you a picture?" he asks.

"Please."

He sits up and starts to put the receiver down on its side before hurrying off but stops and throws it back up to his ear. "One second." He runs off to a small desk in the corner, littered with papers and pens, spare change and notebooks, and grabs a sheet. He opens a drawer and grabs a tiny box of crayons.

"Okay," he says back at the phone.

"Okay."

"What should I draw?"

"Oh, I don't know. I have to choose?"

"Yes. How am I supposed to know what you like?"

"I like everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, not beetles."

"I will not draw you a beetle," he says.

At the top of the paper, with a dark blue crayon, he quickly writes No Beetles.

"Good," she says.

Sometimes at night he can't sleep. He lays in his bed on top of the covers and stares at the ceiling fan. He never turns it on. Not even in the summer. His sheets and pillows are covered with little brown quarters, and the blinds on his windows are always pulled but only halfway.

Sometimes when he can't sleep he turns on the radio and taps his toes to the music. Sometimes, if it's a song he's never heard before, he dances to it. But never very well.

Sometimes, if there is enough light coming through the window and everyone else is already waking up, he calls somebody.

"So what should I draw you?" he asks.

"You know what, I'm really sorry," she says. "But I've got work. I really have to go."

"Okay," he says.

"But listen, draw me that picture. Anything you want."

"Except beetles."

"Right," her voice smiles. "Do you remember my number?"

"No," he frowns and his cheek hits the carpet. His eyes close. "I just guessed it before, and now I forgot it."

"Oh no..." she says.

"You're going to be late for work."

"Okay," she coughs twice and clears her throat. "I'm gonna go now."

"Okay."

"Maybe we'll bump elbows again sometime."

"Maybe."

Click.

Some stories don't have a clear beginning middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...
-Gilda Radner

I love her.

A Dragon and A Shoe and A Chicken Bone pt. I

Harold was small by dragon standards, but not much smaller than his brother Kyle. And he had a nice smile which everyone agreed was, by far, his best feature.

But Harold liked to think his best feature was his feet. Not that they looked like anything special, though he did get a frequent pedicure at the nail salon around the corner from the deli where he worked (Mrs. Kim, Mr. Kim's sassy and emotionally vulnerable wife, was a wonder with the nail file), he just thought they were nice.

"Have you met Benji?" Mrs. Kim would ask. He had, of course. Benji was the deli's new delivery boy. He had trained Benji himself, even drew him a tiny little map of the town on a napkin with arrows and dots helping to illustrate several short cuts Harold had discovered on his own.

But he'd humor her every time she asked. "Yes, I have," Harold would reply, and Mrs. Kim would smile.

"He has a very nice butt."

"Yes," Harold would sigh as Mrs. Kim massaged the scales on his large, green heels.

Harold loved his feet. There was just something about them, something subtle, something that went on day after day unappreciated by anyone but himself.

It was odd, the town thought, that such a nice young dragon like Harold would spend so much time doting on his feet when he had such a pair of fantastical wings. For, while Harold was small, his wingspan was phenomenal.

Twice had he knocked over the display in the deli's window turning carelessly while helping a customer. After the second spill, spoiling over three pounds of fresh sliced bologna, Mr. Swanson, the store's round and proud Grecian owner, banished Harold back to the supply closet to spend his eight hour workdays emptying boxes and stocking shelves.

Here, in the supply room, is where Harold did most of his thinking. He thought about seagulls and orchids and existentialism and collectors plates, but mostly he thought about matrimony. At the age of 25 (26 in dragon years) Harold was beginning to grow lonely.

Harold had only had one girlfriend in his entire life. Her name was Stacey and was two years Harold's senior. They had met through his high school's drama program; Harold, a sophomore just finding his stride in the school's confusing and cliched social system, and Stacey, a well meaning girl failing to cope with the reality of her situation as a graduating senior.

They dated for two weeks but broke it off after Stacey's lactose intolerance grew out of any plausible control.

To be married and have a family, Harold would think to himself back in the deli's supply closet. That is my dream.

And while most dreams, I have never been more sorry to say, rarely come true, this was a dream Harold was determined to pursue.

Epilogue

The train ride to O'Hare is quiet for a long while.

What are you thinking? she asks.

Nothing.

The real kind or the fake kind?

(The fake kind)

I look at her and shake my head with a small smile. Just nothing.

So... what are you really thinking about?

Just stop.

Why?

I shrug my shoulders and look out the window. Because I'm really bad at lying to you, and you're really good at making sure I say things to you that I know I shouldn't say.

She turns towards me as much as she can in the small train seat. So what are you thinking about?

I stare at her for a second.

I was just thinking about what you said on the sea-wall. And how... I've never really read body language well, you know? 'Cause I'm always just so scared of misinterpreting it. Which is why I never act on anything without... I dunno, someone saying something I guess.

She's quiet.

You said that... you wanted to tell me because you didn't want things to get awkward or... or anything. And just... I dunno. I was thinking about how... they really wouldn't have. I wasn't... I had no intention of making a move or anything. And the fact that you felt... I dunno. It's just been bugging me.

I look over at her and her eyes are closed.

Are you glad that I came? she asks.

Yes.

Do... do you think it was... I dunno. Fair?

No. Not at all fair, really.

She looks away for a moment. But... you are glad I came, right?

Yes.

Another hour of silence and we arrive at the airport.

I follow along while she gets her ticket and checks her bag. We arrive at the gate and she turns to me before going through security.

Okay. Well, thanks for making the trip out here with me, she says.

I smile. Thanks for making the trip out here to see me, I say.

She steps forward and hugs me.

I should hug her back. I should get on my knees and hug her back hard. I should look up at her and just say every little thing that I've wanted to say to her all weekend. I should bury my face into her shirt and just ask her to stay. If she stays she doesn't have to go back to wherever it is she came from and then we both won't have to be so different anymore. But I just feel so helpless. So fucking helpless. This is the one time in my life where I feel as though I truly cannot do a single thing to change what is happening. I can't even think about it differently, I can't find someway to justify this entire situation mentally nevermind actually alter these goings on. And everything goes by so fast.

I can't bring myself to hug her back. I just place my hands on her shoulders and say good-bye.

Good-bye.

Before I go, I force myself to look her in the eye and say, with some form of confused sincerity, that I am glad she came. Then I turn and leave.

On the train headed back to my room I get a voicemail from her.

I have a lot of time to kill before my plane takes off, so I figured we could talk or something. But I guess you're probably in a tunnel somewhere. Thanks again for this weekend, for your hospitality. Thank you for saying you're glad I came. I'm glad, too. And I just... I just wanted you to know that I do love you a lot. And...

There is a pause.

I dunno. I was glad to see you.

She hangs up.

I want to be angry. I want to know what that means.

I want to know, really, if it means... anything at all.

But because I can't prove that it doesn't mean anything, for now, to me, it means something.

And for now, to me, that's got to be enough.

Part III

Words mean nothing anymore. I've said all I can say, and it all meant nothing.

Actions mean nothing anymore. Her hand on my chest asking me to stay means nothing.

Wants mean nothing anymore. I want the impossible. I want her hand to mean that she wants me. I want her hand to say that she loves me and that she just wants to be by me. I want her to need me. And she doesn't.

I feel like such a... such a turd.

I just want you to know that... that I know we're too far gone and that... I don't expect anything from you, but... but I honestly love you. And if you ever need anything, if you ever need me, if you ever need... somebody, just... just tell me. Whether it's... someone to tie your shoe or... just whatever...

She thanks me.

And my heart has leapt up from my balls into my throat and I'm choking.

I wish there was more than these words. Words don't mean anything anymore.

I'm gonna go, I say, and I begin to sit up. She makes a small attempt to keep me there, but I slowly move her hand away and leave.

Part II

I'm staring at a cloud that looks like Richard Nixon's face. It's cold out, the hard breeze from the ocean is making it so. Sitting along the sea wall, we try and stay warm while looking across the shore towards Navy Pier.

This isn't when I had planned on any talking taking place, that was supposed to happen after dusk. The lights of Navy Pier shooting along the wharf as the sunset shoots across the sky would have provided the perfect contrast to an otherwise terribly uninviting conversation. But I hadn't planned on it being so cold, and to wait until dark would be just waiting for it to get even colder.

What are you thinking about? is a common question. Serves as really the only conversation starter when we both know the other has something on their mind. Neither have ever been very good at just... coming out and saying something, but when it comes to beating around the bush we would both be neck and neck racing for the gold.

So, what are you thinking? she asks.

I smile and shake my head. That cloud looks like Richard Nixon's face, I say.

Really? I was just thinking it sorta looked like a poodle.

One and the same, really.

She smiles.

Silence Silence Silence.

She starts to say something but stops.

What? I ask.

Nothing, she says.

I know the steps to this dance by now. Okay, I say and lie back on the concrete.

She breathes in sharply. It's just... um... I just feel like I have to tell you something. I don't want... I don't want anything to get awkward while I'm here or... or anything.

Okay.

No, nevermind. Sorry, it doesn't matter.

Please, I'm already braced for the very worst. Hit me.

... What's the worst?

(You've really just flown out here to make sure I understand that you no longer have any feelings for me, in fact... you have a new boyfriend, a new boyfriend that you are very happy with and may even love, and... and you just need me to know that because... because you really did want us to work out once upon a time but... but you've moved on.)

You're married and are pregnant with twins, I say.

She lets out a sigh that was originally supposed to be some sort of forced giggle.

No... I kind of... I kind of have a new... a new boyfriend.

I nod to my self and focus in on Nixon's face. If I squint my eyes enough, I can sort of make out the poodle.

Silence Silence Silence.

Sorry, she says.

Why? I ask. My voice sounds a bit more sardonic than I mean it to.

Silence Silence Silence.

She says something that means nothing to me. A string of apologies we've already run into the ground the past eight months, useless explanations and justifications and assurances that mean absolutely nothing.

Silence Silence Silence.

What are you thinking? she asks.

I laugh. It doesn't matter.

Yes it does.

No, it really really doesn't.

And though it doesn't, it really really doesn't, she convinces me with her eyes that I need to at least pretend that it does. And I talk. I talk for so long, about nothing really. Half the words I say are recycled, not even cut up and pasted in a different order. The other half is just a bunch of words I feel obligated to say, words I feel like she wants to hear or words I tell myself I will want to have said in the future. I'm not sad yet. At this point I don't feel like I'm allowed to be sad.

I saw it coming, didn't I?

She keeps apologizing. I obviously look more flustered than I allow myself to feel. But there is nothing for her to apologize for, and I say this.

Silence Silence Silence.

Do you really think you would have been happy with me? she asks.

I was happy with you.

But... but I don't know if I would have been happy. I don't... I don't have one memory of ever being truly happy, Andrew.

My heart, already in my stomach, drops down to my balls and I feel ready to vomit.

Really? I ask. I mean... really?

Silence.

Yes.

I take a short breath in and cock my head. That... that sucks.

I don't want to believe it. I can't.

It's like the very beginning of an earthquake when you realize everything you are familiar with and rely on around you is falling apart, but you can't slow down enough to think about what that everything is. You don't have enough time to understand what it all means, you just... you just know that it's happening.

I want to think that she's just convinced herself of this to help her move on, that she's just... been away from me for so long she's had enough time to... to just pretend... to pretend in order to move on.

Silence Silence Silence.

More talking starts up, but I stop paying attention. All I can think about is the fact I we still have a whole day ahead of us, and a whole three more days after that.

We eventually rise and start to head to the Art Institute. It's free on Thursdays from 5 until 8. I thought it would have been fun.

I'm very quiet, now. It's a bit of a walk. She tries to spark conversation. What are you thinking? has never been more aggravating.

And she plays games with me, trying to race me down small sets of stairs, making jokes, touching my elbow, bumping into me with her shoulder, playful things, little games we used to play all the time when we were together.

And I realize... these games we play are games she plays with everyone. This is who she is. And I fell in love with this girl, like most people do, because she was kind to me and made me feel... like we had something.

And suddenly... we never did.

Part I

I was all ready for you to be out here waiting for me with a little sign and everything for when I got off the plane, she says. I'm so bummed out now.

She pretends she's kidding with a smile. But she's not. And my heart sinks into my stomach.

Why didn't I think about a sign? That would have been so flippin' cute of me.

The walk back to the train is quiet, but pleasant. She is tired and I carry her bag. We stop at the ladies room so she can remove her contacts.

Watch my stuff carefully, she says. I don't want nobody taking it. She grins and skips off into the bathroom. I stand over her stuff like a menace. Ain't nobody taking it. Nobody did. My efforts do not go unrewarded. I now get not only to carry her bag, but also her purse. And I must say, green looks soooo cute on me.

She rubs her eyes with an exhausted sigh as we travel down the escalator. I try not to look down at her as often as I do.

We hop on the train and she sits down in an empty seat. I don't sit next to her, but in the seat in front of her sitting to the side. This way I don't have to awkwardly look over my shoulder and down my arm at her to talk.

She rests her head on the back of my seat and we talk about nonsense, friendly things. She's so tired.

A few stops later quite a few people enter the train and she moves her bag, telling me to sit next to her so some creep doesn't have to. I do, and after a few more minutes of talking she decides to take a nap and lets her head fall backwards

right into a metal bar.

Oooow... she pouts at me. I laugh and move my arm behind her and over the metal deviant.

She rests her head over and onto my chest. As much as I'd like to claim this was a smooth exploitation of the situation to get my arm around her, it... yeah, it kind of was.

She falls asleep right away. I sit still and look ahead, an hour long train ride ahead of me.

The train jostles around violently for the first few stops, and I do my best to use my arm to neutralize the violent thrashes of the train as she naps, but I can't do so without gripping her, holding her tightly to my side, and I can't bring myself to do it. It's not my place anymore.

I just honestly want her to be comfortable, and while I do the best that I can, I just feel helpless.

The next hour is spent with a tense arm and vacant eyes as I stare out the window to my right. My mind stalls with all the things it tries to devote time to at once.

A few days ago I sat down with my roommate and discussed the two things I dreaded most about this visit. It will either be the longest, most tense, horribly awkward and unbearable visit in the entire universe, or I will fall for her all over again and start this painfully familiar dance from the very beginning.

And as I watch the tunnel lights fly by the window and feel her awkwardly, yet comfortably, resting on my shoulder, I fear the latter has already begun to take effect.