Kay Jones

“Go on, cry your salty tears into my wounds. Cut me down with your words and hide the tools to build me again. Just know there is a place you cannot reach, a place your neglectfulness turns to a stockpile of resentment. Know that room is almost full.” – from a page in Luke Jacobi’s moleskin, dated September 1996.  

If we were able to describe people using ideas instead of personality types or physical descriptions, you know, the typical traits we attribute to those we know or are telling a friend about, Kay Jones’ description would need someone like Hegel or Heidegger to explain. Those two would need to write draft upon peer-reviewed draft before publishing. It would be a piece worthy of a forum far beyond a social networking site “about me” blurb. No, it would require the audience of those who read print from one of the top three most accredited of the university presses. Graduate students would take classes that required those texts as course material and they would write papers on it and receive grades that would destroy their flawless GPAs all as a result of trying to crack the etymological codes presented within those words and even then they might only be close to having a sense, however brief, of what or who she is, but they would have only just begun to lift the first layer of the onion and have an extremely short-lived glimpse to what lies beneath.

Although it was usually fruitless to do so, she went to long lengths explaining to those in her family and whom she was intimate with everything about her thought process and how she operated psychologically and sociologically. Most of the people she described these methods to thought the lopsided conversations were a terrific waste of time, unless Kay had already cast her spell upon them.

The ingredients needed for the formula of Miss Jones’ enchantment, if we pretend for a moment that it can be boiled down to mere primal elements, are as follows: one part intense and magnetic eye contact, with the way those smoldering grey eyes purposefully rolled into the back of their sockets when she kissed the lips of someone she truly wanted, accompanied by a soft groan, insinuating the internal intensity she so desperately needed to suppress. One part true emotional and intellectual honesty; she was a nudist of the soul, even when it meant she would spend hours or days in the company of no one but herself because the words she’d spoken pushed those who loved her away. The final element to the formula perhaps outweighed the first two, but in the same sense relied on them as our planet relies on the sun. The last ingredient to Kay Jones’ allure was her unquenchable taste for red-hot, passionate, illicitly audio-visual sex.

All this, it isn’t really about the girl who no one, including herself, can fully explain. It’s more about the events leading up to her being slammed with ungodly force into an aluminum garage door with the hand a boy she knew from school fixed around her neck. The happenings leading up to that moment, like our female protagonist, have no reasonable explanation, but they may prove to be understood on some level of absurd narrative presentation. What may never be known is how that boy’s angry hand came to hold the pen that wrote those words…

More to come…

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2 thoughts on “Kay Jones

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