I make up memories that never happened about deep snow, a happy us, bounding dogs and joy, so much joy. The memory causes regret irritated to life by little dreams I quietly carried in the din of your ideas. You framed us big as a portrait with only your talent to paint it from.
There was no time for romance only business and the acquiring of more of what made your shabby kingdom. I pulled my slow heart through change and never really recovered from the speed and the wind of your rush. If you would have wooed me for a while, my hand would have loved to have been held in parks and under umbrellas.
But you have moved into new and vast frames with oil colors to paint new love, old lies to cover. Brush wide strokes, the mistake of our portrait. You look so fresh and innocent of a past you are responsible for.
But be the virgin queen in this new disguise and I'm sure you will seduce new bright ones. They are always good audiences for talented, shameless minds. And your silly posse of court held vaguely near, always nods yes and pats your ruffles clean of inconsistencies of character.
You really should rule a vast and powerful painting, a kingdom of the most fascinating self denial.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
a balancing act including dance and manuscripts
There was a smitten man on the crowded train, smitten with me. I would have been smitten back but I'm not inclined to the male variety. I was making eye contact with the girl six people over. The one with the straight brown gold hair, eyes perfectly green and brown. Distinctly, they were green, they were brown.
I am the courteous train passenger, melting and slinking into free spaces to avoid the jostling of ass and shoulder. I was busy, I watched the girl watch me watch her and I watched the man read and edit a manuscript while balancing his long frame lightly against a pole. The train lurched and he stepped on my foot. I was already whispering, "no worries" and shaking my head in forgiveness by the time he straightened himself and looked up to me to apologize.
His eyes widened by a fraction of a centimeter, lighting up then quickly snuffed, as to not come out of his cool. But I saw it, I was a Lego fit, at least for the rest of this ride. And from this time on he looked to me between sentences and corrections. He adjusted his position to be in front of me when I moved to sit down. I watched him watch me out of the corner of my eye as I watched the hazel eyed girl get off the train.
I kept my gaze pleasant and never quite on him as we left the train. I did that subtle dance of awareness and polite disinterest. He lingered a second or two, gentle and in step, balancing his role with mine. Then aware that the song ended he increased in speed and just before he took a flight of stairs to his next train, he looked back and smiled.
I am the courteous train passenger, melting and slinking into free spaces to avoid the jostling of ass and shoulder. I was busy, I watched the girl watch me watch her and I watched the man read and edit a manuscript while balancing his long frame lightly against a pole. The train lurched and he stepped on my foot. I was already whispering, "no worries" and shaking my head in forgiveness by the time he straightened himself and looked up to me to apologize.
His eyes widened by a fraction of a centimeter, lighting up then quickly snuffed, as to not come out of his cool. But I saw it, I was a Lego fit, at least for the rest of this ride. And from this time on he looked to me between sentences and corrections. He adjusted his position to be in front of me when I moved to sit down. I watched him watch me out of the corner of my eye as I watched the hazel eyed girl get off the train.
I kept my gaze pleasant and never quite on him as we left the train. I did that subtle dance of awareness and polite disinterest. He lingered a second or two, gentle and in step, balancing his role with mine. Then aware that the song ended he increased in speed and just before he took a flight of stairs to his next train, he looked back and smiled.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Vodka and watermelon
There was a boy, drunk and asleep on the train yesterday as I was coming home. As people were getting off, seats became available and I sat in one across from the boy. I opened up my book and settled in for the rest of the trip.
But things changed. The boy's body decided it could no longer put up with the vodka soaked watermelon he'd been eating all day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw liquid puking movement. I think I knew before the boy, he was only half aware of his own existence except for his misery.
six people and I shot up and flew to the side of the train, like mice running from water in a sinking ship. I placed myself close to the door so I could shoot out at the next stop, the boy thought this was a good idea for him as well. He lurched out of his seat and stumbled right at me. I launched myself into the crowd that had mashed themselves into a corner as he leaned over and puked in the direction of the door. I looked at all of our disgusted faces then longingly to the other side of the train where passengers sat watching, looking at us, glad they were not over here.
At this point there were ten of us crammed into a small corner in fear of this one barfing boy, 10 adults mashed together like scared prey. All because of this one slightly stupid human being who made a mistake. I felt foolish for being so grossed out.
I had the sneaking suspicion that we were behaving like we hadn't ever been stupid and drunk in our lives, like we were a separate sect of humans who could not consider taking part in such an experiment of bad manners and uncouth behavior. I was immediately embarrassed and deeply affected by this boys struggle to recover.
I'm not going to tell you that I helped him, I didn't. But I changed my position and became his equal again. I cared and felt no judgment anymore. it felt so good to remember there was no barrier other than the one I had imagined. All of us poured out and switched cars at the next stop, he got out and sat for a while.
But things changed. The boy's body decided it could no longer put up with the vodka soaked watermelon he'd been eating all day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw liquid puking movement. I think I knew before the boy, he was only half aware of his own existence except for his misery.
six people and I shot up and flew to the side of the train, like mice running from water in a sinking ship. I placed myself close to the door so I could shoot out at the next stop, the boy thought this was a good idea for him as well. He lurched out of his seat and stumbled right at me. I launched myself into the crowd that had mashed themselves into a corner as he leaned over and puked in the direction of the door. I looked at all of our disgusted faces then longingly to the other side of the train where passengers sat watching, looking at us, glad they were not over here.
At this point there were ten of us crammed into a small corner in fear of this one barfing boy, 10 adults mashed together like scared prey. All because of this one slightly stupid human being who made a mistake. I felt foolish for being so grossed out.
I had the sneaking suspicion that we were behaving like we hadn't ever been stupid and drunk in our lives, like we were a separate sect of humans who could not consider taking part in such an experiment of bad manners and uncouth behavior. I was immediately embarrassed and deeply affected by this boys struggle to recover.
I'm not going to tell you that I helped him, I didn't. But I changed my position and became his equal again. I cared and felt no judgment anymore. it felt so good to remember there was no barrier other than the one I had imagined. All of us poured out and switched cars at the next stop, he got out and sat for a while.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Something Else?
A witch I knew in waking visited me in a dream. I was busy at the time she arrived, leaning over into the dirt picking up colorful, fat and fuzzy ribbons, the kind little girl's moms tied pigtails with when I was young.
I was caught up, talking to myself about the importance of being able to hold all of these ribbons at once, worried about dropping them, worried about what next.
I knew she was there in her soft and willowy way. She said nothing and watched patiently, judgeless. Her feet were clean in the dirt and her dress moved silently over them as she moved in rhythm to an evolution she was humming to.
Out from the periphery she came into full view, I looked up to her and she said, "If you worry so much about holding all of this you won't have room for anything else."
I was caught up, talking to myself about the importance of being able to hold all of these ribbons at once, worried about dropping them, worried about what next.
I knew she was there in her soft and willowy way. She said nothing and watched patiently, judgeless. Her feet were clean in the dirt and her dress moved silently over them as she moved in rhythm to an evolution she was humming to.
Out from the periphery she came into full view, I looked up to her and she said, "If you worry so much about holding all of this you won't have room for anything else."
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
from all and various directions
At first, I carved my name into every tree you passed, on every bench you sat. Every street light blinked my favorite color, leaving you startled and alert for my madness, fearing such committed and unsettled acts could only lead to a harrowing encounter with a mad and wicked me.
You scan horizons for my shadow behind trees as my initials appear in every leaf you scatter. My memory sits tiny in the moss growing on the stone your house sits on and where the Cedars cling. You shake with the awareness of the audacity I have to keep myself ever present in the most unpleasant and indecipherable way.
You duck, hearing my fury wind rush you from all and various directions. I am the dust that sprinkled my corrosive image in your dreams that burned you awake. I am the ghost that breaks things and threatens to come close just before you touch the skin of a New Her.
But none of these wicked and immoral acts have I committed, but only for the sake of not knowing how. I awake from my sorted and true colors to see that this magic was for my own story and had little effect on you and yours. None of my fury holds to anything but my own neck, a wasted grip and with no consequence but for experience alone.
In the world of your kaleidescope, the only conclusion worth aiming for is one you haven't come to because the only moments your interest peaks in are created or corralled by you, the only person who is substantial and worth your respect, is you.
I have had the effect of the puddle you walk through. I stick to your boot for a while, dry to a dirt mark and fade.
You scan horizons for my shadow behind trees as my initials appear in every leaf you scatter. My memory sits tiny in the moss growing on the stone your house sits on and where the Cedars cling. You shake with the awareness of the audacity I have to keep myself ever present in the most unpleasant and indecipherable way.
You duck, hearing my fury wind rush you from all and various directions. I am the dust that sprinkled my corrosive image in your dreams that burned you awake. I am the ghost that breaks things and threatens to come close just before you touch the skin of a New Her.
But none of these wicked and immoral acts have I committed, but only for the sake of not knowing how. I awake from my sorted and true colors to see that this magic was for my own story and had little effect on you and yours. None of my fury holds to anything but my own neck, a wasted grip and with no consequence but for experience alone.
In the world of your kaleidescope, the only conclusion worth aiming for is one you haven't come to because the only moments your interest peaks in are created or corralled by you, the only person who is substantial and worth your respect, is you.
I have had the effect of the puddle you walk through. I stick to your boot for a while, dry to a dirt mark and fade.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Now nothing
I wilt into the paint of a wall that rests somewhere against my back. In the pressure of your gaze, I am becoming a wallpaper print, loud and long. Peel me, then throw me to a wooden planked or tiled forgotten room, grind me to a rust, a dust. Then wander we will in slow forgotten drafts on dirty floors finding new corners to clutter.
I remember and forget the whys we came this direction. Scuttle and cluster, we're filling drafts with words irrelevant and sorrowful. Ghostly settling, still. All that seemed solid and cared for, invested to the tops of broken hearts, we filled with vexing toasts of angst.
Meaningless silence now empties the room and finally, nothing. Words in their senseless intent, could be no better as they are as nothing. And we fill this place, this space with our old and dead misdeeds and clearly it is preferred, temporarily to another kind of love that lives in the newness of olden dead. But what I mean to say is that this sweet room belongs to the words from then. And now, the now is new and belongs elsewhere in a blue and golden view.
Again, let's love this death, empty broken bodies of so much offered into nothing. All the profound and glorious importance gathered into the folly of irrelevance makes for the most ultimate joke to tell on each other. so let's us laugh as we have equalled out to even. Turn to the right, there is blue and golden view. We are just the same and better for it.
I remember and forget the whys we came this direction. Scuttle and cluster, we're filling drafts with words irrelevant and sorrowful. Ghostly settling, still. All that seemed solid and cared for, invested to the tops of broken hearts, we filled with vexing toasts of angst.
Meaningless silence now empties the room and finally, nothing. Words in their senseless intent, could be no better as they are as nothing. And we fill this place, this space with our old and dead misdeeds and clearly it is preferred, temporarily to another kind of love that lives in the newness of olden dead. But what I mean to say is that this sweet room belongs to the words from then. And now, the now is new and belongs elsewhere in a blue and golden view.
Again, let's love this death, empty broken bodies of so much offered into nothing. All the profound and glorious importance gathered into the folly of irrelevance makes for the most ultimate joke to tell on each other. so let's us laugh as we have equalled out to even. Turn to the right, there is blue and golden view. We are just the same and better for it.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Rummaging through the dead
I'm sitting next to an etching of St. Marks Square in Venice. It's quite lovely, a view from the water looking into the square through the gondolas. I bought it and another for $30 from an apartment sale who's owners died. they had no children, just a gruff brother and a wacky neighbor who volunteered to give away and sell their things to the random strangers who answered the ad.
One by one people came, entering meekly, stopping to stand in the living room, visually absorbing the scene. At first look, it wasn't promising. Seventies decor in the front room, and the kitchen filled with odd dishes and ancient utensils.
When I came to the door it wasn't by way of the ad the neighbor had placed. I'd met a woman in the elevator who was heading to the apartment. She told me someone was giving everything away. She was furnishing her new apartment.
I rang the bell and the wacky neighbor answered looking as if I was the first person to ring it, ever. I fumbled for words, "Hi I just met a woman who said you were giving things away." Blank stare from the lady so I fumbled some more, "She said you put out an ad? That people were stopping by?" After a series of pointless questions I was finally approved and allowed in to wander through the stuff.
When I first came in I spotted the two etchings I eventually took home. I knew they were worth more than I was going to pay for them. I asked the overseer how much they were, "$20 each." "Will you give them both to me for $30?" Lady lets a flicker of defeat cross her face then, "Ok."
I walked around the front room feeling odd about rummaging though dead peoples things. It was clear they were elderly and had collected these things their whole lives. A prickly feeling crept over me. I felt rude pushing things aside to get to another, picking that up, pulling this out. It seemed wrong and weird.
I slipped to the back bedroom to get away from the overseer, who's voice seemed loud and out of place, increasing the feeling that we all should be ashamed of ourselves. In the back room there was a young man who was in earnest in his quest to find stuff. He was latino and gay, two of my favorite attributes in a man so I pushed into the room and hovered around him to make myself feel better.
The space was strange and dusty. It was at some point a work room, filled with homemade radios and other electrical hoo haas I knew nothing of. My new friend here was finding old photography equipment, light sensors, film rollers and cameras. All of this was a boon for him as he was a photographer. He told me he was here helping the wacky overseer find things of interest to put on Ebay for sale.
I stood watching mostly, still feeling strange about these old dead things left in this room since the 50s. Dirty and forgotten now being pulled out, opened and set aside. I positioned myself in the center and decided to pickup only the things that peeked my interest. I found a small framed picture of the dead couple with family and I had a desire to slip it into my bag unnoticed, to save it from the onslaught of strangers to come.
With a pile of ancient old pillows stowed for whatever reason, came out an old photo album and with it my friend tells me what he knows of the people. "Oh look at thissss, it is the woman's family album from when she is a child with her family. She and her husband were Jewish, Austrian refugees from World War II."
The pictures were so charming and sad considering the families eventual status in that part of the world. They looked like upper middle class gentiles fitting all the stereotypes of the ideal Hitler aryan family. Fat blond haired children, content and happy, fed too much, representing abundance at it's most successful. The father was dapper, not handsome but he carried himself as if he were irresistible.
Most of the photos were summers at the beach through the years. In recline in the sun with the wind lazily pushing at their hair. Somewhere in each frame, beach balls, picnic baskets and the water reflecting the warmth that made their skin brown . My favorite photo was of the mother laying on her stomach looking off with a soft squint in her eyes. Happy and motherly, she was as content and relaxed as I could ever wish to be.
In the middle of the album were two unopened letters dated in the 1950's. They were from a locksmith in Manhattan. From a locksmith? Could these be from a lover? Or are they just forgotten mail she used as a bookmark way back then as she absentmindedly paged through her memories? Then I wondered, has she not looked through the pictures since then? I fought the urge to open them, I fought the urge to slip them in my bag.
I could have stayed longer but I had duties to attend to. So I slipped out with my two etchings wondering how I'll carry them onto a crowded subway. Wondering if my weird feelings and sorrow for the dead people and their long forgotten things were worth considering. Do I really care that the things they loved or at least liked went out of their apartment to new homes? Besides we're giving the stuff a new life in new environments. New drawers to sit in, walls to hang on, floors to stand on.
I guess, considering the people's life experience it would have been nice to have known their story. Maybe the wacky neighbor and the gruff brother could have written a page or two, made copies and handed them to each of us as we came into the apartment. It would start: These things you take from here today were owned and loved by two people who lived and survived an extraordinary story, it went like this...
One by one people came, entering meekly, stopping to stand in the living room, visually absorbing the scene. At first look, it wasn't promising. Seventies decor in the front room, and the kitchen filled with odd dishes and ancient utensils.
When I came to the door it wasn't by way of the ad the neighbor had placed. I'd met a woman in the elevator who was heading to the apartment. She told me someone was giving everything away. She was furnishing her new apartment.
I rang the bell and the wacky neighbor answered looking as if I was the first person to ring it, ever. I fumbled for words, "Hi I just met a woman who said you were giving things away." Blank stare from the lady so I fumbled some more, "She said you put out an ad? That people were stopping by?" After a series of pointless questions I was finally approved and allowed in to wander through the stuff.
When I first came in I spotted the two etchings I eventually took home. I knew they were worth more than I was going to pay for them. I asked the overseer how much they were, "$20 each." "Will you give them both to me for $30?" Lady lets a flicker of defeat cross her face then, "Ok."
I walked around the front room feeling odd about rummaging though dead peoples things. It was clear they were elderly and had collected these things their whole lives. A prickly feeling crept over me. I felt rude pushing things aside to get to another, picking that up, pulling this out. It seemed wrong and weird.
I slipped to the back bedroom to get away from the overseer, who's voice seemed loud and out of place, increasing the feeling that we all should be ashamed of ourselves. In the back room there was a young man who was in earnest in his quest to find stuff. He was latino and gay, two of my favorite attributes in a man so I pushed into the room and hovered around him to make myself feel better.
The space was strange and dusty. It was at some point a work room, filled with homemade radios and other electrical hoo haas I knew nothing of. My new friend here was finding old photography equipment, light sensors, film rollers and cameras. All of this was a boon for him as he was a photographer. He told me he was here helping the wacky overseer find things of interest to put on Ebay for sale.
I stood watching mostly, still feeling strange about these old dead things left in this room since the 50s. Dirty and forgotten now being pulled out, opened and set aside. I positioned myself in the center and decided to pickup only the things that peeked my interest. I found a small framed picture of the dead couple with family and I had a desire to slip it into my bag unnoticed, to save it from the onslaught of strangers to come.
With a pile of ancient old pillows stowed for whatever reason, came out an old photo album and with it my friend tells me what he knows of the people. "Oh look at thissss, it is the woman's family album from when she is a child with her family. She and her husband were Jewish, Austrian refugees from World War II."
The pictures were so charming and sad considering the families eventual status in that part of the world. They looked like upper middle class gentiles fitting all the stereotypes of the ideal Hitler aryan family. Fat blond haired children, content and happy, fed too much, representing abundance at it's most successful. The father was dapper, not handsome but he carried himself as if he were irresistible.
Most of the photos were summers at the beach through the years. In recline in the sun with the wind lazily pushing at their hair. Somewhere in each frame, beach balls, picnic baskets and the water reflecting the warmth that made their skin brown . My favorite photo was of the mother laying on her stomach looking off with a soft squint in her eyes. Happy and motherly, she was as content and relaxed as I could ever wish to be.
In the middle of the album were two unopened letters dated in the 1950's. They were from a locksmith in Manhattan. From a locksmith? Could these be from a lover? Or are they just forgotten mail she used as a bookmark way back then as she absentmindedly paged through her memories? Then I wondered, has she not looked through the pictures since then? I fought the urge to open them, I fought the urge to slip them in my bag.
I could have stayed longer but I had duties to attend to. So I slipped out with my two etchings wondering how I'll carry them onto a crowded subway. Wondering if my weird feelings and sorrow for the dead people and their long forgotten things were worth considering. Do I really care that the things they loved or at least liked went out of their apartment to new homes? Besides we're giving the stuff a new life in new environments. New drawers to sit in, walls to hang on, floors to stand on.
I guess, considering the people's life experience it would have been nice to have known their story. Maybe the wacky neighbor and the gruff brother could have written a page or two, made copies and handed them to each of us as we came into the apartment. It would start: These things you take from here today were owned and loved by two people who lived and survived an extraordinary story, it went like this...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Where's my fix for the day?
Ive created several distractions for myself. These distractions better help to prevent me from feeling relaxed and happy. Rather than calling them distractions lets call them, habits. Or can we be dramatic and call them...addictions?
Yes, that's what they are for me. And it's really not several, it's just one. Fear. Yes fear, it comes in all shapes and sizes, content doesn't really matter. It's that delicious fix of adrenaline I get when I sort for all that's wrong in the world and find it.
Here's how it works; Over repetitive years of shit sorting I've been able to develop an almost instant state of anxiety in myself right when I wake up. I then take this feeling to indicate that something is actually wrong rather than realizing it's just a stinky habit.
I then lay in bed pulling all the covers off of me as my temperature has risen because I'm anxiously alert and sorting for the reasons why. And believe me, I'm a very good investigator, I find what I'm looking for.
Examples follow:
"I owe so much money, I'm in debt. What bill is due? Oh shit, did I forget to pay something?! No. " A lull in the sorting then, "I've got to clean my ferrets cage and sweep the litter around it, I need to mop this floor, what am I some loser that doesn't care?" shortly after, "I need more clients, I need to make more money...why is it so slow these days? There's too much competition, I can't keep up, wonder if I never get anymore..."
I'm very affective at keeping my peace and happiness at bay. Just writing the last paragraph has risen my pulse and made me feel like a wee little good-for-nothing. And the ironic thing about this amusing past time is that it takes up all of your energy and confidence thus leaving you listless and a little paranoid. You should try it!
Kidding aside, I've determined to see this little addiction for the drama that it is, realize it's all just a silly bore and find something better to do in the morning..afternoon and night. Like being relaxed and happy.
Yes, that's what they are for me. And it's really not several, it's just one. Fear. Yes fear, it comes in all shapes and sizes, content doesn't really matter. It's that delicious fix of adrenaline I get when I sort for all that's wrong in the world and find it.
Here's how it works; Over repetitive years of shit sorting I've been able to develop an almost instant state of anxiety in myself right when I wake up. I then take this feeling to indicate that something is actually wrong rather than realizing it's just a stinky habit.
I then lay in bed pulling all the covers off of me as my temperature has risen because I'm anxiously alert and sorting for the reasons why. And believe me, I'm a very good investigator, I find what I'm looking for.
Examples follow:
"I owe so much money, I'm in debt. What bill is due? Oh shit, did I forget to pay something?! No. " A lull in the sorting then, "I've got to clean my ferrets cage and sweep the litter around it, I need to mop this floor, what am I some loser that doesn't care?" shortly after, "I need more clients, I need to make more money...why is it so slow these days? There's too much competition, I can't keep up, wonder if I never get anymore..."
I'm very affective at keeping my peace and happiness at bay. Just writing the last paragraph has risen my pulse and made me feel like a wee little good-for-nothing. And the ironic thing about this amusing past time is that it takes up all of your energy and confidence thus leaving you listless and a little paranoid. You should try it!
Kidding aside, I've determined to see this little addiction for the drama that it is, realize it's all just a silly bore and find something better to do in the morning..afternoon and night. Like being relaxed and happy.
Friday, August 08, 2008
5:56 AM
With a loud crash a van drives into a building across the street. I crawl out of bed, look out window, assess situation for interest and drama value. Not much, so I don't run to get dressed.
Wander back to room, step over partially unpacked moving boxes looking for that hippy dress I use as a house frock. It's location, sandwiched between vintage pink vinyl purse containing bright pink dildo and partially unpacked box of shoes. Frock is wrinkled.
Slip into frock, shoes, grab phone as to dial 911 for the poor drunk fucker who drove into building. My mind is starting to wander, I call out in a loud and clear voice, "KEYS" in order to remind said brain what it's looking for.
I don't remember the walk down the stairs. Out on sidewalk, gypsy cab drivers have beat me to the scene and are strolling back to their cars chuckling. I have 911 operator on the phone, giving info, She asks, "Is anyone hurt?" I say, "I don't think so, the guy is sitting next to car looking like he feels stupid about running into a building, I mean, It's not like it ran out into the street in front of him.", 911 lady ignores my humor.
I stand, looking for a minute, not enough drama, my mind wanders back to the box of books a neighbor left to give away in the lobby of my building. Box of books wins my attention, I wander back to lobby and sit on floor reading. Early to work neighbors pass through lobby, see me sitting on floor, wonder what I'm doing. I put on my best, "Good Morning!" smile to convince them I'm not a transient who is camped out in the hall.
911 operator calls me back, "Hi, it's me the 911 operator, listen, the police are on the corner of 204 and Broadway and they don't see the van, can you tell me where it is again?", Me, "Well it's just south of them about 100 feet, next to the school, it's the green van on the sidewalk smashed into the building...."
I gather the ten books I've found from the box, which is good, they will refill what little space I created from getting rid of books when I moved. Go upstairs, make toast, lay in bed and read.
Wander back to room, step over partially unpacked moving boxes looking for that hippy dress I use as a house frock. It's location, sandwiched between vintage pink vinyl purse containing bright pink dildo and partially unpacked box of shoes. Frock is wrinkled.
Slip into frock, shoes, grab phone as to dial 911 for the poor drunk fucker who drove into building. My mind is starting to wander, I call out in a loud and clear voice, "KEYS" in order to remind said brain what it's looking for.
I don't remember the walk down the stairs. Out on sidewalk, gypsy cab drivers have beat me to the scene and are strolling back to their cars chuckling. I have 911 operator on the phone, giving info, She asks, "Is anyone hurt?" I say, "I don't think so, the guy is sitting next to car looking like he feels stupid about running into a building, I mean, It's not like it ran out into the street in front of him.", 911 lady ignores my humor.
I stand, looking for a minute, not enough drama, my mind wanders back to the box of books a neighbor left to give away in the lobby of my building. Box of books wins my attention, I wander back to lobby and sit on floor reading. Early to work neighbors pass through lobby, see me sitting on floor, wonder what I'm doing. I put on my best, "Good Morning!" smile to convince them I'm not a transient who is camped out in the hall.
911 operator calls me back, "Hi, it's me the 911 operator, listen, the police are on the corner of 204 and Broadway and they don't see the van, can you tell me where it is again?", Me, "Well it's just south of them about 100 feet, next to the school, it's the green van on the sidewalk smashed into the building...."
I gather the ten books I've found from the box, which is good, they will refill what little space I created from getting rid of books when I moved. Go upstairs, make toast, lay in bed and read.
Monday, May 26, 2008
small lions
This little cat sits in the window behind my computer screen and the old movie speaks from the tv downstairs. The cat watches the flying bees that are eating my house and the old movie sings a Christmas song even though it's May.
This is the window I looked out of when I wrote about leaves and thunder and tongues and dirt. My thoughts want to write more about the leaves and the trees because the wind is blowing my attention to them. But I'd prefer to write about this cat who ducks as the bees rush up to her from the other side of the screen.
She is Shelly, a miniature cat from the pound in NYC. Hellion, mountain lion and biter. She is beautiful and horrible. Sometimes I think I would like to crush her skull, unhinge my jaw and shove her in. Eat her whole but the cracking of bones makes me shudder so I bite her only occasionally and imagine her as dinner.
Don't feel sorry, she bites too. She bites and she growls, mostly at me, mostly at everything.
She loves dogs. She loves Sirius, The Dog Who Raised Her, yes it's her title. Sirius still picks Shelly up by her head and tries to carry her around. It's funny, very funny to see a German Shepard carry a miniature cat around by her head.
Don't feel sorry, Shelly deserves to be carried by the head by her mom-dog.
When Sirius has tired from her mothering she lets go, Shelly walks the floors like a mountain lion with a wet, sticky head. She deserves it, she doesn't watch old movies with me. She wishes she can eat bees.
There is a bird in the trees near our window and it crashed into the screen, a challenge to the miniature feline. Shelly stood up on her hunches, front paws spread wide in a welcoming embrace to the challenger with wings, thwarted only by the screen.
she was magnificent, a true lion, she would eat goats if she could catch them.
i am a leaf
I see thunder
trembling, we leaves pass eyeless looks
seeking spaces between thunder, breeze and expiring rainless seconds
trembling, we leaves pass eyeless looks
seeking spaces between thunder, breeze and expiring rainless seconds
swing to
swing fro
warm thunder, translucent ripples of vibrating buzz, hum, embrace
strike and disappear in sea-blue clouds
kiss, one drop
kiss, kiss, two
thunder to see, eyeless me
and tree to hold on to like a tongue on a face
a tongue i am, I hold to a tree and taste breeze, rain and dirt
I taste everything
and oddly, i see thunder
and it excites me
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Monday is tomorrow you know..
I turned the key to my clients apartment and slid her dog through and stepped in. The neighbor next door opened her door and with great vigor and shrill, yelled, "Take that other dog ooouut!" And slammed her door closed.
I yelled back, "Excuse me! Hello?!"
She opened her door again, phone in hand and without really looking at me yells that she is newly widowed, the dog howls in the morning, the dog is barking all the time and she's on the phone with the landlord right this second.
She was like an old shark, eyes rolled back in her head. Ranting less to give me this information and more to make sure her neighbors and the landlord on the phone knew how dire this situation was.
My attempts to respond went something like, "wait a min...excuse me..don't yell at..this isn't my dog...you're.....you're aware....that I'm the dog walk.....dog walker right?"
*
My client has two little dogs, one good, one bad. I used to walk both for the price of one because I sometimes fuck myself into arrangements I regret. But then the bad one became badder and decided she would prefer to relieve herself in the elevator, hallway or in my arms if I was holding her, on her way outside.
My client thought it would be fine for me to just clean up after the dog. No.
So I said, "Not unless you want to pay me more." She said, "Oh, no just go ahead and leave her in, she can use the wee wee pads." Which lay all over her apartment like lily pads.
But this bad dog isn't of which the angry widow speaks...
You see, my client prides herself in rescuing and fostering vicious little dogs one at a time and having me walk them with the one dog of hers I will walk.
The dog the old shark is referring to is Bruno. Bruno according to my client, has never been outside before and surely never on a leash so he would need "patience and coaxing" in his walks. What ended up happening for little Bruno, as I don't only walk this clients dog and rescues but other client dogs too is that Bruno got pulled along and adamantly refused to cooperate. So much so that the walks were more like drags.
This is irritating because a dragging dog gives a really bad impression to people walking by. It seems as if, to the average clueless observer, a dog's bad behavior is always a direct result of abuse and/or neglect by the evil person walking it and a happy, good doggy is because of something else.
The last day I walked Bruno started like this, "Hi Bruno, come're....Brunoo..no don't run away, come're.." Bruno running frantically around the apartment becoming more hysterical, me closing in on him in the bedroom where he decided me with a leash meant terrible death and proceeded to urinate on and bite me.
Through a series of notes, phone texts and calls I told my client I was through with dear Bruno and she told me she thought it would be ok for me to walk him still and proceeded to tell me how troubled and scared he was and....and I don't give a shit.
So for two weeks now Bruno has become more comfortable in his surroundings, with the wee wee lily pads and the other bad dog to stay in with and has taken to barking for long periods and howling when feeling a feeling he doesn't like, and this makes widows mad. This would make most neighbors mad. And I understand.
So instead of telling the widow to go fuck herself through the door she slammed in my face I left her a note saying I understood her situation but her business isn't my concern when she yells at me and that I don't want her to speak to me again unless she can control herself. I tried to slide it under her door but it wouldn't go through so I left it on the threshold hoping she would look down at some point in the next few days.
Must. have. last. word..
P.S. Client has left a note stating how much better Bruno is and would I please try walking him again on Monday...I wrote, Yes.
I yelled back, "Excuse me! Hello?!"
She opened her door again, phone in hand and without really looking at me yells that she is newly widowed, the dog howls in the morning, the dog is barking all the time and she's on the phone with the landlord right this second.
She was like an old shark, eyes rolled back in her head. Ranting less to give me this information and more to make sure her neighbors and the landlord on the phone knew how dire this situation was.
My attempts to respond went something like, "wait a min...excuse me..don't yell at..this isn't my dog...you're.....you're aware....that I'm the dog walk.....dog walker right?"
*
My client has two little dogs, one good, one bad. I used to walk both for the price of one because I sometimes fuck myself into arrangements I regret. But then the bad one became badder and decided she would prefer to relieve herself in the elevator, hallway or in my arms if I was holding her, on her way outside.
My client thought it would be fine for me to just clean up after the dog. No.
So I said, "Not unless you want to pay me more." She said, "Oh, no just go ahead and leave her in, she can use the wee wee pads." Which lay all over her apartment like lily pads.
But this bad dog isn't of which the angry widow speaks...
You see, my client prides herself in rescuing and fostering vicious little dogs one at a time and having me walk them with the one dog of hers I will walk.
The dog the old shark is referring to is Bruno. Bruno according to my client, has never been outside before and surely never on a leash so he would need "patience and coaxing" in his walks. What ended up happening for little Bruno, as I don't only walk this clients dog and rescues but other client dogs too is that Bruno got pulled along and adamantly refused to cooperate. So much so that the walks were more like drags.
This is irritating because a dragging dog gives a really bad impression to people walking by. It seems as if, to the average clueless observer, a dog's bad behavior is always a direct result of abuse and/or neglect by the evil person walking it and a happy, good doggy is because of something else.
The last day I walked Bruno started like this, "Hi Bruno, come're....Brunoo..no don't run away, come're.." Bruno running frantically around the apartment becoming more hysterical, me closing in on him in the bedroom where he decided me with a leash meant terrible death and proceeded to urinate on and bite me.
Through a series of notes, phone texts and calls I told my client I was through with dear Bruno and she told me she thought it would be ok for me to walk him still and proceeded to tell me how troubled and scared he was and....and I don't give a shit.
So for two weeks now Bruno has become more comfortable in his surroundings, with the wee wee lily pads and the other bad dog to stay in with and has taken to barking for long periods and howling when feeling a feeling he doesn't like, and this makes widows mad. This would make most neighbors mad. And I understand.
So instead of telling the widow to go fuck herself through the door she slammed in my face I left her a note saying I understood her situation but her business isn't my concern when she yells at me and that I don't want her to speak to me again unless she can control herself. I tried to slide it under her door but it wouldn't go through so I left it on the threshold hoping she would look down at some point in the next few days.
Must. have. last. word..
P.S. Client has left a note stating how much better Bruno is and would I please try walking him again on Monday...I wrote, Yes.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
jack and jerk
I passed a group of teenage boys the other day. I caught the middle part of their conversation, it went like this, "Do you ever jack off so much that.."
All involved were very intent on the subject. Eyes wide, baited breath. I'm guessing the answer to the question was, yes.
All involved were very intent on the subject. Eyes wide, baited breath. I'm guessing the answer to the question was, yes.
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