got my own flow, get you to the dance floor.

[star studded]

The canvas had no face and Holden howled at it anyway. He stood red-eyed and incoherent, his throat scored and torn to bits from screaming, his voice terrifyingly realized. Next door, his sister sat up in her bed and imitated the noise on a smaller scale. In front of the image of her, he shouted every foul obscenity he could think of. He bled himself dry. He beat himself furious. He was sweat and bone and a silver streak of horror, bruise grey against his ribs. No longer sharp angled and smooth-lined, he became a whirlwind of horrorshow feeling, the barest parts of him exposed. He screamed at the 2D image of a girl who wouldn't let the 3D body get closer than this.

With his left hand in a can of brick-red paint, he pulled his palm out to view fingers and nails covered, a mess of sticky tincture that would take ammonia and thinner to rid his skin of. He would be pink for days.

He flung his hand at the white glow of her missing face. His palm print stuck there and dragged. The image was newly annointed. The work was finished.

In two days, when the gallery representative would come to take a final look, she would narrow her eyes over the thin rim of her glasses and smile.

"Now this, Holden," she'd say smugly, "puts you in a whole new marketing bracket."

[star studded]

<center>


Moscow's still red, the young man is dead
Gone to heaven instead, the evening news says he was confused
The motorways will all merge soon, lottery winner buys the moon
They've come to save us, the space invaders are here

He thought of cars and where, where to drive them
Who to drive them with
There, there was no one, no one

There's panic at London Heathrow
Everybody wants to go up into the blue
But there's a ten year queue
Columbia is in top gear, it shouldn't snow at this time of year
Now America's shot gone and done the lot

He thought of planes and where, where to fly to
And who to fly there with
Where, there was no one, no one

He thought of cars and where, where to drive them
Who to drive them with
There, there was no one, no one.</center>


blur.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ October 18, 2006 12:31 AM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

present day: a snapshot


"Are you sick!?"

Antonia's voice rings clear as a bell when she decides to use it. Craning over me, her tiny four-year-old's hands are mashing my face and patting at my forehead. She dips down and presses her cheek to mine, imitating the way our father and mother judge temperatures without the use of thermometers. Seven has always believed in the organic way of things. A fever sweats itself out. You can clean your body out of any disease with enough liquids and sleep.

My little sister nurse doesn't seem to mind the fact that I have stretched myself out on our parents' couch, her usual sitting space for the day. Instead, she has toted out some blue and red monstrosity of a blanket that our grandfather's girlfriend made out of the goodness of her sweet little heart. Crawling on top of me, she spreads the blanket out and neatly covers me from chin to toe.

"I saw Papa make oatmeal, oatmeal is a sick food," she insisted. This is her logic. I've come to understand it after so long.

"I'm not sick," I insist, though last nights events prove otherwise. I vomited in public, something I haven't done since I was in high school. I spent the rest of my evening fighting off a headache and sleeping fitfully on a couch when I have a perfectly good bed across the hall. "Just tired."

Antonia coughs and sprawls out over me, her head on my collar. We are all just playground toys in her world-wide jungle gym. "I'm sick. Papa is making me oatmeal too."

I sympathetically pat her head. Peering over her I see my father in the kitchen, mixing a packet of oatmeal into the hot water he has in two bowls. He is in his usual attire. T-shirt, jeans, a pair of sneakers to prevent stepping on sharp things. She sniffs dramatically and kicks her legs. I stretch out even further. Beside me, on the coffee table, my phone buzzes and jitterbugs across the surface.

Delia the dealer. I've missed my meeting.

[star studded]

New York Times, Arts and Culture page 2.


Last night, Evolution exhibited it's "Best New" collection. The collection featured seven artists selected as those for the artworld to watch. It did not disappoint. The assortment of artists was enviable and the artwork was extensive. The high light of the evening and piece de resistance came from Holden Hart. Inspired by his father, the sculptor and installationist Seven Thatcher, Hart has spent recent years experimenting with media and form. This exhibit, several months after a successful performance piece entitled "Girl in the Snow," returns him to his first medium: paint. The result is a haunting and graphic work. The artist was reluctant to say much about the painting other than it was one in a series to come. That alone was intriguing, but for those who stayed around later that night, it was not all that one got from Hart. Typically, his exhibits have always had a circus atmosphere. They draw together some of the city's finest personalities and talents. Tonight, was no exception save for the fact that it was truly Hart's turn to shine. Later in the evening, he was joined by Aemilia Prior, daughter of celebrated musician Harlen Prior and HRC activist Michael Donovan. Though the woman that the piece centers on is faceless, it soon became obvious who Hart's subject was. Shortly after her arrival, the pair engaged in a heated conversation It has been rumored in some circles that Hart and Prior have recently separated. Such speculation was put to rest last night. True to his past experiments with performance art, the explanation for the painting was acted out rather than lectured on. Bravo!

[star studded]

Side by side, they weren?t siblings but they carried on like it. Holden walked arm in arm with Harper Stanton, the oldest of the myriad of Stanton siblings, pretty and tall. Next to Jack, she was the one who resembled their father the most, all strong features and meek eyes, an infectious grin, something glinting mischievous when one knew that all of her intentions were good. How could they be anything else?

Between the high rises, the wind made clusters of debris swirl up in a mini cyclone. It looked like the seas of litter and dust parted for them, even though the idea of it was silly. It was all autumn?s fault, the chill in their noses, the way their arms clung hard. Beside him, Harper was lithe and willowy, a fashionable tribute with her pink scarf knotted tight, her gray, fingerless gloves allowing the pads of her fingers to blush with each chilly gust of wind. She reminded him nothing of Ava. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the two girls came from the same family and shared the same birthday.

?Mama thought the article was funny. She said you acted just like your mother,? Harper cooed in her soothing voice.

?Trust me, these are things that no guy wants to hear.? The comparisons to his family were plentiful, and Holden regarded them only positive when it was Seven that people found pieces of in him. Lucy?s influences were more easily found. The line of his nose, the height of his cheekbones, the curl of his mouth when he was angry. His fits. His well placed tantrums. These were all her influence and he hated the impulses in him that he didn?t know how to ignore.

?Is that Seven?s Siouxie and the Banshees shirt you?re wearing?? The twin laughed. Holden pulled his jacket tighter around the black material with the chipped white design. He had stolen it fair and square that morning, straight from the dryer while he finished laundry. If you?re going to stay in our apartment until you get your shit together, his mother had sighed, you?re going to do something useful.

?I?m still looking for a new apartment. Half of my things are packed. I?m trying to convince Stellan to move with me. Living alone is no fun. At least with Stellan, there will be paint bottles everywhere again, and wood chippings where no one expects wood chippings to be. It?s more fun when there?s company.?

Harper wound her hand over Holden?s, her fingers dividing his and creeping in between the knuckles. ?Oh??

?Are you still a virgin, Harper??

The question hammered into her at lightning speed. She didn?t know how to respond, evidenced by the widening of her eyes and the lifting of manicured, pencil-thin brows. Her pink mouth drew tight, and a gust of wind smeared hair in her face, an appropriate veil.

?I don?t mean it negatively, it?s just a question. I was wondering where someone gets the will power for something like that. For celibacy or whatever.?

?I?m not celibate,? she insisted, her step quickening beside his. ?That?s entirely different, that?s choosing to not have sex for a determined amount of time. And it implies a sacrifice, I?m not sacrificing anything.?

Holden snickered. ?Some would beg to differ.?

?I?m just waiting.?

?For a husband,? he supplied, sidestepping a couple swimming upstream.

?Maybe. For the right man. The right man who will marry me and not care that I waited so long.?

Holden kept quiet. He could have said that she would be hard pressed to find someone as level-headed at that. She was her father?s daughter, through and through, undeniably logical.

?Do you wish you would have waited? Papa says men marry virgins and break the hearts of whores. Are you looking for ??

?No. God no,? he scoffed. ?One deflowering per lifetime is enough for any man. They should put a limit on how many virgins you can have sex with. In some religions, when you die, you get a harem of virgins in heaven. That sounds more like hell to me. A harem of women who hate it for weeks, months, a harem of women who don?t know who they are.?

?Losing your virginity has nothing to do with knowing yourself,? Harper laughed. ?I mean, look at you. You?ve been screwing yourself silly since you knew what to do with it and you still have no bloody clue who you??

She paused. Holden had stilled himself, stiff beside her. His blue eyes were turned up to the side of a building, where a familiar, larger than life fashion ad loomed. Beneath the ad, workers were smoothing out a new piece of economy over the model?s legs, up to her waist. Some product to be pushed. A new energy drink, perhaps. He watched as one of the last of the Prada ads that had haunted he and Marla Spellman disappeared under time, like old silt, or fossils. The world was eating her alive. His breath caught.

?I?m sorry, Holden,? Harper offered carefully.

?I?m not,? he insisted.

[star studded]

<center>

The problem of leisure
What to do for pleasure
Ideal love, a new purchase
A market of the senses
Dream of the perfect life
Economic circumstances
The body is good business
Sell out, maintain the interest

Remember Lot's wife
Renounce all sin and vice
Dream of the perfect life
This heaven gives me migraine

The problem of leisure
What to do for pleasure

Coercion of the senses
We are not so gullible
Our great expectations
A future for the good
Fornication makes you happy
No escape from society
Natural is not in it
Your relations are of power
We all have good intentions
But all with strings attached

Repackaged sex keeps your interest</center>


gang of four.

[star studded]

Part One.
Full Name: Holden Michael Hart
Goes by: Holden.
Current location: Manhattan, New York City, New York.
Occupation: Painter on commission, weekend DJ at Wrecked.
Current age: Twenty-three.
Date of birth: December 7th
Birthplace: New York, New York.

Name(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):
Lucille Hart - Fashion designer, professional harpie.
Seven Thatcher - Sculptor.

Name(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):
Antonia Thatcher, 4. Professional Dinosaur.
Esther Thatcher, 8 months, Professional Baby

Height: 6'1"
Weight: 150
Hair color: Brown.
Eye color: Blue
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Left-Handed
Heritage/Nationality: Melting pot.
Religion: Open for discussion.
Education: College drop out.

Part Two.
Likes: Picasso, Monet, Dada, surrealism, peanut butter, clocks, politics, protests, classic rock, abstract thought, lack of conventions, music
Dislikes: Flat art, meaningless music, being picked at, being ignored.

Favorite Music: M.I.A., Diplo, DFA remixes, anything Big Beat, Daft Punk, Chemical Brothers, Niyaz, world music, Goten Project, Goldfrapp, Gang of Four, Siouxie and the Banshees, The Turtles, The Zombies, Elvis Costello, The Cars, David Bowie, ELO, Blondie.

Favorite Films: An American Soldier, The Marriage of Maria Braun, Berlinalexanderplatz!. Anything Fassbinder except In A Year of 13 Moons. A Bout de Souffle, Pierre Le Fou, Un Chien Andalou, L'Etoile Du Mer, Entr'acte, Modern Times.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ May 23, 2007 12:05 AM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

I proposed to Aemilia Donovan-Prior on the fifth anniversary of the death of Marla Spellman. This doesn?t occur to me until later, when we?re at home and she?s sprawled beneath me, the arch of her back hitching her chest up against mine, her hips driving, her mouth cracked open in a subtle, silent warp. I watch as her teeth fold over her bottom lip and feel her thighs spread wider. I fill the required space with a shiver. My spine winds and rolls. The pink diamond on my fianc?e?s finger glimmers like a distant star as her fingers curl around the sheets. When she comes, it is with a waver of her alto voice and a flutter of her eyes. Her sharp hips drive up and her knees squeeze at my hips. She disappears for a moment, and it is Marla who looks back up at me. I close my eyes and she is gone, buried again, under mounds of snow and a pretty headstone.

Beside Aemilia, I stretch out and reach for my pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Plugging my mouth with the filter, I click my lighter and the sound is crisp and quiet. It?s the perfect sound for fire. Outside, it snows. Aemilia watches the fluttery flakes with an almost childlike intensity. The blue light of Brooklyn turns her into a silhouette, a dark body and a curved line over the mattress. My hand, without the insistence of my brain, moves from the skinny line of her shoulder and down her side. It dips in at her waist and runs over her rear end. My fingers disappear between the crux of her legs and she shifts. They move down, down, to her thighs, her knees. My lungs fill up with smoke.

In the morning, I dress for work. Plain black slacks, a button down white shirt and my trademark patterned tie. This is how the students recognize me at PS 205 in Brooklyn, New York City, New York. I am Mr. Hart. Aemilia is still naked, pacing the apartment like she has something to show off, her hips ticking, the dark fall of her hair piled over one shoulder.

?Should I drop by for lunch??

?You?re not working??

?Day off. I?ll bring a sandwich, the kind you like. I can make bread this morning. I?ll meet you in your classroom??

I wink at her. I find her pretty right now, slouched against the kitchen counter, covering herself up with the angle of her arms, her hips swaying. I find myself acting like a complete swine when I?m attracted to her, winking, smirking, passing terrible lines, anything to get her to lie back and spread her legs. But right now there is no time, and the feeling crunches up in my stomach. It?s a feeling of want and disappointment as I back towards the door.

?I?ll see you at noon. In an outfit like that, you won?t have any trouble at the metal detectors.?

She bites her lip again and waggles fingers at me in a farewell wave. My stomach sinks further.

[star studded]

"The Soho Grand," Lucy drawled as she ducked into the backseat of the towncar beside her son. In winter, she was a muted alabaster queen, frozen in snow with her bare legs sticking out beneath her white coat. Black pumps were stabbed hard against the floor of the car as she settled in and slammed the door behind her.

"It's just for a little while. A vacation," Holden assured, his head rested against the side of the car's tinted window. With a rumble, they were off, the tires crunching against the feather dusting of snow that had sprinkled across Manhattan.

"A vacation on West Broadway in your own fucking town is not a vacation, Holden," she drawled. He watched as she pushed her blonde hair back and tucked the flyaway strands behind her ears. Her green envy eyes were tucked behind a massive pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses that Seven had picked out for her as a gift. Over the years, he had begun to know his wife's tastes. The Loubotin shoes on her feet were a testament, the red sole shown off with a peek when she twisted her knee.

"It's just a break while we look for new apartments. The lease is almost up."

"And you can afford to move somewhere else? A brownstone in Brooklyn, I imagine? Some place with lofty windows and a goddamned terrace? You're a high school teacher, not Donald Trump."

He couldn't tell if it was irony that his mother spoke with. He knew the legend by heart. She had been a Macy's counter girl strung out on coke and promiscuity -- a real rags to riches story. She had come from sleeping on a mattress in a one room apartment with a heroin junkie to the comfortable apartment once owned by Michael Donovan. She had moved up in the world, and stayed there. From slinging Macy's clothes and perfumes to stitching her own in a downtown shop in the East Village to being recruited for her own Bryant Park show not long after Holden's birth, Lucy Hart had known the value of lifting a finger. She had earned the right to let a town car cart her around. She raised two children without the aid of nannies or babysitters, and Holden imagined the third would be no different. She had married for love. Money had just been an afterthought.

"Where'd you get the money."

The question was a gunshot in the dark. She spat it with the quicksilver of her tongue and Holden absorbed the blow. He was a dead man either way. If he ratted out his father, he knew Seven would take the brunt of the blow later. If he kept his mouth shut, his mother would find some way to cut it out of him and punish him for his silence. At twenty-four things were still this way. His love for Lucy Hart was severe and bred deep, but his scorn and his contempt for her was right on the surface, a fine silt that covered his skin, readily available for the remembering.

"What money?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Aemilia charged the room to her black card."

"That's not the money I'm talking about." She angled towards him, pushing up on the seat and lifting her glasses. There was a beauty in her at forty-five that he couldn't understand the origins of. She had never had work done. He didn't remember seeing her face covered in bizarre creams at night as a kid. He didn't imagine that tricks with makeup could be so outstandingly deceptive.

"Well then I don't know--"

"Did Seven cut you a check?"

"No." It was the truth. There had never been a check involved.

"How much?"

"There's no money."

"How fucking much, Holden!?"

Lucy's rage had never been expressed through flat intimidation and a stern, calm voice. She had always been a screamer. Her voice bellowing through the apartment had been a childhood staple with the crashing of ceramic plates and various other destructive noises. He didn't shrink away anymore. He simply sat, blue eyes trained on his mother's matching green set, unimpressed.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars. Is that what you want to hear? He offered to give me money, to be my benefactor--"

"Bullshit. Your benefactor? Benefactor of what, Holden, you haven't touched a paintbrush since summer. Your father offered you twenty-five thousand dollars and you took it? Really?" Her hand stuck hard at her hip, despite her seated position in the town car. It was still all attitude.

"I'm tired of one bedroom in Brooklyn, I'm tired of a nine to five job.."

"Too bad. Deal with it. You don't find yourself with success magically plopped into your lap. You work for it. You work behind a counter at Macy's for years and save up to do something. You work at a school, which is a very fucking superb job for someone like you, and you teach kids who don't have the same opportunities that you did. Why do you think I didn't send you to private school? So you wouldn't turn into one of these spoonfed little shits, Holden, with Ivy and Yale on their diplomas, their hands in mummy and daddy's pockets and a fucking sense of entitlement stuck up their ass. The world does not owe you shit."

"Spare me the dramatics, mom, I'm not saying I'm entitled to anything. I'm saying I'm doing what I want to do because I have the resources to do it, because someone in this fucking family thinks I'm good enough to make something of myself." His finger jabbed against the heart of his painted tie, all brooch glimmer and paisley print.

"No one says you don't have the ability and the talent to do something important with your work. I believe that. I do. I believe in you, Holden, despite what you must think, but I also don't believe thatyou can turn yourself into your father as much as you try. You can't suck up his money like it's a direct source to his talent. It won't work. You have to do this on your own, he can't carry you through life on his shoulders. He loves you too much to hold your hand for the rest of his life."

The feeling in Holden was a broiling hot one. There was anger in it. It was hard and coal like. He felt betrayed by her. He found her a hypocrite. Swallowing hard, he cut her a harsh stare. "And what did you do? Work your way up from the bottom and turn yourself into something? A Cinderella story for the masses?"

"Nothing that glamourous, but I worked for my business. No one can say that I didn't get my success with my own two hands, do you want people telling you that your fame comes from the fact that you rode someone else's coat tails?"

"Bullshit!" he blurted at her, his volume turned up. "Bullshit! You know why you're successful? Because of him. Because once he started toting you around on his fucking arm and putting your picture up in galleries, people suddenly found you fucking interesting. Without him, you'd still be working in the fucking village, hocking home made skirts and dresses to high school kids, Bryant Park wouldn't look twice at you if you didn't sign Lucy Thatcher on your checks--"

The crack of her hand against his cheek was a startling one that chimed at the same time the car came to a stop in front the Soho Grand hotel that Holden was riding back to. Her eyes were a crack and fizzle of fury, a stern warning glow behind them.

"Don't you ever call me a no talent hack again. I am nobody's fucking Eliza Dolittle. I was prepared to raise your sorry fucking ass on my own. I didn't search anybody out to be my benefactor." Her hand reached out to snag Holden's jaw, squeezing it tight and pulling his eyes to meet hers with a violent jerk of her wrist.

"And you just fucking remember, Holden Michael Hart. That's my last name you sign the back of your paychecks with. I chose him to be your father. I chose him."

He said nothing. His mother reached over and pressed the door lock button on the console beside her, the electrics whirring as the locks were released.

"Get out of my town car."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ March 04, 2007 09:21 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

<center></center>

Over prescribed / under the mister / we had survived to / turn on the history channel / and ask our esteemed panel / why are we alive / and here's how they replied / you're what happens when two substances collide / and by all accounts you really should've died / stretched out on the tarmac / six miles south of North Platte / he can't stand to look back / at sixteen tons of HAZMAT / and it's what goes / undelivered undelivered / and it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left / it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left / exorcise your cells till you're bereft / 'cause it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left / splayed out on a bathmat / six miles north of South Platte / and he just wants his life back / what's in that paper knapsack / it's what goes undelivered / over imbibed / under the mister / barely alive we / cover the blisters in flannel / though the words we speak / are banal / not one of them's a lie / not one of them's a lie / you're what happens when two substances collide / and by all accounts you really should've / died.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ March 24, 2007 02:05 AM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>