Fuck You Chris Miles
Ringing in my ear and it's all I can here, a voice on the other end hell bent on telling me that I need to go to a place that she calls hell.
On the other end I'm listening as freezing cold air sweeps through my hair and I shiver but don't care because my jacket is already buttoned tight and I know I can't do anything about it.
"Fuck you, Chris Miles," she says. "Go to hell."
And I think about telling her that I've been there a few times and if she's interested in me telling her about it, then she'll have to shut up and listen.
She's mad. Something I said. But, nothing that I did. She tells me she's mad about what I "did,"
and that gets me thinking.
"You don't care, you can't care," And the Devil is screaming into the receiver telling me to go to hell. I laugh, out of irony, at all the times she sent me there herself.
But the "not caring" part seems to strike a cord with me as I switch the phone into my other hand in the cold night and stick the former one in my pocket.
Why wouldn't I care, I think as she keeps rattling on about something that she claims to know more about in the world then me but has yet to tell me what exactly that something is. How can I not care?
"What have you ever done to care?"
And hell, why is she telling me to voluntarily go to hell when I did it before, and didn't like it.
"You can't care."
I hear her say that again and I think that the conversation is dying because she's getting redundant, but at the same time it, again, stings me because, really, I do care and have gone to hell before and she should know that before she offers up both topics.
"When was it?" I mutter under my breath as she's still talking, and start thinking about that time I cared for a second.
And I remember that I was in my room, lying on my bed in mid-afternoon, a warm afternoon, tired as hell, starring at my plain white ceiling waiting for a man I needed to interview to call me. My phone was on my chest and I figured that I would feel it if it rang so I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep where I came to a world that I had blocked out for the longest time.
You see, a few weeks earlier, prior to this memory there had been a plane crash- tragedy, 50-something dead, horrible, right after take off- and I had helped cover the story...Basically writing an obituary. I wonder if she's ever written an obituary, doubt she has.
Well, I called the family and the friends and the other people that wanted to talk and they talked about the crash and their love ones I was writing about and they cried and they painted a picture of the dead people that made me want to cry too...You know, "always smiling, had a dog, just bought a new CD and called me the night before to tell me about it, talked to him the other day and was just thinking about him when I heard he was dead," that stuff. I mean, I wonder what happened to the dog because I never quite found that out. I think I cared there.
Anyways, so I fall asleep, deep sleep, and I dream and in my dream there is a plane and it is half buried in the ground and burning. Inside I hear the screams. Burning. If voices could burn because that's what they were doing, the voices were burning, and screaming, and, in my dream I just stood there until the screams woke me up and I ripped my brain from unconsciousness and was awake again, sweating, the screams still echoing in my ears.
I cared there and went to hell.
"Fuck you Chris Miles, fuck everything you do," she says.
And I say I'm sorry she's mad at me.
"But I do care," I say.
That should never be an issue, I think as I shrug on through the cold.
On the other end I'm listening as freezing cold air sweeps through my hair and I shiver but don't care because my jacket is already buttoned tight and I know I can't do anything about it.
"Fuck you, Chris Miles," she says. "Go to hell."
And I think about telling her that I've been there a few times and if she's interested in me telling her about it, then she'll have to shut up and listen.
She's mad. Something I said. But, nothing that I did. She tells me she's mad about what I "did,"
and that gets me thinking.
"You don't care, you can't care," And the Devil is screaming into the receiver telling me to go to hell. I laugh, out of irony, at all the times she sent me there herself.
But the "not caring" part seems to strike a cord with me as I switch the phone into my other hand in the cold night and stick the former one in my pocket.
Why wouldn't I care, I think as she keeps rattling on about something that she claims to know more about in the world then me but has yet to tell me what exactly that something is. How can I not care?
"What have you ever done to care?"
And hell, why is she telling me to voluntarily go to hell when I did it before, and didn't like it.
"You can't care."
I hear her say that again and I think that the conversation is dying because she's getting redundant, but at the same time it, again, stings me because, really, I do care and have gone to hell before and she should know that before she offers up both topics.
"When was it?" I mutter under my breath as she's still talking, and start thinking about that time I cared for a second.
And I remember that I was in my room, lying on my bed in mid-afternoon, a warm afternoon, tired as hell, starring at my plain white ceiling waiting for a man I needed to interview to call me. My phone was on my chest and I figured that I would feel it if it rang so I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep where I came to a world that I had blocked out for the longest time.
You see, a few weeks earlier, prior to this memory there had been a plane crash- tragedy, 50-something dead, horrible, right after take off- and I had helped cover the story...Basically writing an obituary. I wonder if she's ever written an obituary, doubt she has.
Well, I called the family and the friends and the other people that wanted to talk and they talked about the crash and their love ones I was writing about and they cried and they painted a picture of the dead people that made me want to cry too...You know, "always smiling, had a dog, just bought a new CD and called me the night before to tell me about it, talked to him the other day and was just thinking about him when I heard he was dead," that stuff. I mean, I wonder what happened to the dog because I never quite found that out. I think I cared there.
Anyways, so I fall asleep, deep sleep, and I dream and in my dream there is a plane and it is half buried in the ground and burning. Inside I hear the screams. Burning. If voices could burn because that's what they were doing, the voices were burning, and screaming, and, in my dream I just stood there until the screams woke me up and I ripped my brain from unconsciousness and was awake again, sweating, the screams still echoing in my ears.
I cared there and went to hell.
"Fuck you Chris Miles, fuck everything you do," she says.
And I say I'm sorry she's mad at me.
"But I do care," I say.
That should never be an issue, I think as I shrug on through the cold.
posted by Chris Miles at 12:48 AM
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