Quantification

How does one quantify the human spirit?

I assure you that our lack of success cannot be contributed, as many other things can be, to a lack of effort. We've number-crunched through months of dark, fluorescent nights and a good few sunny afternoons, and we've yet to come up with a defined number.

Hell, not so much as the mythical 42. We'd settle for that silliness at this point, so long as we arrived at that conclusion through legal mathematical means.

But, worry not, fellow Rationalists! We will not cease until we've figured it out, eradicated the mysteries of life and humanity, and put a number on that which has no relation to numerals.

The Powers That Be

Our machinations make us deities - or at least are designed with that purpose in mind. We research, we notate, we synthesize, and, ultimately, we create.

But once it's all there, a plan on paper, we realize, once again, that while the creation is indubitably magnificent (or maybe just a piece of crap that we're slightly embarrassed of), we, the creators, are only human. The day has been long, and we are tired and spent.

We abandon our creation, our plan, our machination, leaving the paper fluttering against the grainy faux-wood of the table, and throw ourselves, exhausted, into bed. We are not omniscient, for all we know, as our heads sink into the pillow, is that a moment (of some variety) has passed.

Our eyes flutter closed, eyelashes resting, like the pull-tabs of blinds, against the sills of our cheeks. From there, we sleep.

Fake It for the Crickets

I can't guarantee that I'll go anywhere, but I can guarantee that I look the part. My clothes scream style, my shoes whisper sex, and my make up exudes sparkle. I'm a star, baby!

(The label on my silver lipstick says so.)

Oh, yes - I can fake it endlessly, idling along until I make it. (I'm sure that'll be some day soon.)

So what, I'm sitting in a corner, in the dark, all alone, scribbling instead of socializing? I look amazing, so I'm sure the situation will rectify itself. (I do self-delusion almost as well as I do sarcasm.)

I'm not going anywhere beyond this bench. Not tonight. Damn straight, I look about six times sexier than your average club bunny, but that does me no good in this silent, secluded park.

(Whoops, I forgot about the crickets.)

A Tribute to Irony

Irony is cruel, but she's all I've got, not least because she's jealous. She's the voice narrating life in the back of my head, insisting upon pointing out the flaws in anything that's said. ("If P then Q, but isn't it funny how it applies to you?") Everything runs in loops and she likes to trace them on my skin - even if I could forgive, she makes it impossible to forget.

She's pain and pleasure all at once, and she likes few facts better. Duality is her best friend; Contradiction is just her mother.

Irony is cruel, and I'm repeating myself, but she's as amusing as any I know. I might very well cry when she cracks a joke, but I'll wind up laughing after. Irony's the voice in the back of my head, mingling pain and pleasure.

Snow Patrol, You, and I

I could be happy, and you wouldn't know. It's crazy to think, but it's still so. You were never mine, so I had to go. And now that I'm happy, you'll never know.

Let's drift in silence: I've cut the line. I miss you, but that's just fine. I know for certain that I read the signs. It's for the best; you were never mine.

Life goes on and it gets so crazy. I intentionally make memories of you hazy. The future without you will be amazing. I'm better without you - breathtakingly extraordinary.

I am happy, I want you to know. In a way, yes, I'm thumbing my nose. As time has gone on, the petals fell off our rose. But I am happy, and now you know.

The Woman in Red

You were beautiful - every feature that of the femme fatale. Magickal green eyes peered beyond sooty lashes, and lips gleamed in the strobe lights, parting to show teeth that could no doubt bite - draw scarlet and sensuality simultaneously.

You were erotic - so certain of your power. You swayed slowly past in candy-red heels, absolutely unshakable. You smiled at me and other strangers with a lazy aplomb that acknowledged that everyone wanted to know you - biblically, or just your name to whisper, prayer-like, into a bundle of red silk and black lace.

More than anything else, you were strong.

On any other woman, the red would be too much, drowning her in sex and rendering her blushing, scarlet and scared. But lust cannot own you as it would own any other woman. You stand too tall and leash it too firmly to your purposes - you make lust a dealer in human flesh that simperingly offers you willing slaves wherever you go. You let others be weak, and wear your red like a hawk wears her feathers.

The Joke

The joke, ultimately, is on you.

The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.

As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.

Oh, the joke's on you, alright.

I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.

I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.

The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.

The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.

I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.

The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.

What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.

His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.

We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.

The joke is cruel, and it is on you.

I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.

"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.

My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.

"Enchantée," I purr back.

After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.

(The joke, you see, is on you.)