The Writing Machine
Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham
Stealing Wings from an Angel: Excerpt Page 8
At first I couldn’t stop kicking myself2 for ruining my favorite building in the whole world. There I was dripping my guts all over her beautiful skin, tarnishing her majestic glow with my acidic entrails. The Chrysler Building, how she stands as an icon to a time when industry was God and seen as a blessing to all of mankind. She is a very sexy building even if she is a big dick trying to penetrate the virginity of the cosmos. Often I find myself comparing my inner soul to her strange curves and shiny skin (how she radiates in the late afternoon sun). I sometimes think maybe she has a soul, and if she does, I bet it is like mine, odd, hermaphroditic and beautiful. She is neither man nor woman, but she is not just a building either, and to me she is a she. I look across from Hoboken and I feel as though she were built just for me to look at, and that I am the only man in the whole world who understands her as more than just a building but as a mighty obelisk erected to the wonderful mystery of the soul. Somewhere, in some grave, lies an architect (William Van Allen to be precise) whom, if one cut open and if one were actually able to see the fossilized remains of his soul, one would find them to be in the shape of the Chrysler Building.
Looking down on her from my miserable vantage point she suddenly seemed menacing and malevolent—just another bad-ass city bitch with a dagger in her jacket sleeve—and I felt belligerent that she was truly spiked and capable delivering such a horrible death blow and I began to think if ever there were a day for the man to topple over and release the dragon, I hope it is Thanksgiving. All the happy families gathering around turkey trying for a moment or two to remember just what it is in life that they are truly thankful for besides a belly full of beer, a spread of turkey and mashed potatoes on the table, 462 hours of football, and no work for the next three days, while trying not to remember how horribly we raped the Indians of their culture when this ritual began. Well, for once, there would be nothing to be thankful for since life as we know it would cease to exist and for once, we could be thankful for something truly worth giving thanks about: the worst is over; now life on earth can begin in fresh diapers.
2 Smoke and grayness. The glass is filled with thus, or so it seems, and now it is fogged forever. Still, seven remain strong.
About Stealing Wings from an Angel
END
© 2007 Christian Cloud Abraham
Posted on October 10, 2007 in
Emotion: Anger, Type: Creative Nonfiction