there is a spitty squid in my sink.
i'm about to turn the water back on
and send him back to the hell from whence he came.
die toothpaste squid.
die.
(:
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
...My Bedbedbedbedbed. nY, nY
you are a passionfruit martini
and i want to get drunk off your eyes
make me miss your tasty blinkings
so i have things to carry in my pockets
for the long walk home
police my phrases like we're
brass knuckle boxing for quarters
on fourteenth street
and i'm left breathing peace signs
and mexican ravioli
just think everything is collapsible
and that i think so too
but i believe in forevering things
poster me on the subway and
pester me on the sidewalk
to join your reckless one
man bandwagon of a cause
to go moonward
blow me like cash at a casino
and cry for me like madonna
begged you not to... i'll be
your country...
control alt delete me
because i'm
frozen
let me lick your
spaghetti straps
and travel your
paperback spine
i want to be the thing you cut to
like 'needle in the hay' was for the boomer
or like the credits or the close up
twist me like like your speech
into logic and make of me something
wind wanting and fire breathing
try me on like a thing you would shoplift
beg for my fingers
you know your skin
is my naked piano
rewind us back to when we met
and let me retake your 'me' virginity
lets make a box of first times and then burn it
for the first time.
show me how triumphant happens
and give me a bad case of the backflips
let me be your drill sergeant
and give me twenty of everything
especially naked things.
tell me it needs more cowbell
and then laugh like you never
heard a joke before.
punch me in a banana republic
because nobody ever asked me
how i wanted to celebrate my birthday
because i would've told them that.
take to studying morse code
so i can talk to you mid movie
with just my heart beats
but first, kiss me
on my mouth
with yours
i'm asking you nicely.
and i want to get drunk off your eyes
make me miss your tasty blinkings
so i have things to carry in my pockets
for the long walk home
police my phrases like we're
brass knuckle boxing for quarters
on fourteenth street
and i'm left breathing peace signs
and mexican ravioli
just think everything is collapsible
and that i think so too
but i believe in forevering things
poster me on the subway and
pester me on the sidewalk
to join your reckless one
man bandwagon of a cause
to go moonward
blow me like cash at a casino
and cry for me like madonna
begged you not to... i'll be
your country...
control alt delete me
because i'm
frozen
let me lick your
spaghetti straps
and travel your
paperback spine
i want to be the thing you cut to
like 'needle in the hay' was for the boomer
or like the credits or the close up
twist me like like your speech
into logic and make of me something
wind wanting and fire breathing
try me on like a thing you would shoplift
beg for my fingers
you know your skin
is my naked piano
rewind us back to when we met
and let me retake your 'me' virginity
lets make a box of first times and then burn it
for the first time.
show me how triumphant happens
and give me a bad case of the backflips
let me be your drill sergeant
and give me twenty of everything
especially naked things.
tell me it needs more cowbell
and then laugh like you never
heard a joke before.
punch me in a banana republic
because nobody ever asked me
how i wanted to celebrate my birthday
because i would've told them that.
take to studying morse code
so i can talk to you mid movie
with just my heart beats
but first, kiss me
on my mouth
with yours
i'm asking you nicely.
Monday, August 16, 2010
...My Bed. NY, NY.
Something about the clear glass pane of your new screen door mixes with the dark black paint of your old front door to form a perfect mirror.
I stood there, the quietest thing on the block it seemed. I could hear cars rolling by on streets I couldn't even see. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance... chasing a cat. I think I pictured it as a black cat, and the dog as being one of those big burly bulldogs, like from the cartoons. I could hear water flushing in the sewers and I could hear the gentle click and flicker of the streetlamp at the foot of your driveway. This was a beautiful little suburb.
You'd gone inside to... what? It's so long now that some things are like the lines of a far off novel. I saw myself reflected in the glass, my leather jacket, one size too small, but I thought it looked cool somehow, the way my shirt protruded from my coat sleeves.
I thought that maybe, at that moment, I looked older, maybe it was the jacket, maybe the fact that I hadn't shaved in a while lent something to it... maybe it was you. You were definitely older. What the hell did you see in me?
I tried to see it. My eyebrows were overgrown. I looked like a smoker. Maybe that was it... my smoker's appearance. You were inside, though, I remember, and I heard your footsteps, your heel clicks, through the door even... or, wait, your living room window was open just a crack, to let in a touch of the cool night air, I suppose. Your heels clicked up the stairs I could only imagine and into some empty bedroom where he was... asleep? I assume he was a deep sleeper.
I stepped over to the driveway and took a seat on the hood of the Prius. His, I assume. You were never big on issues. But that's okay, you had other draws. You were smart, jesus christ you were smart, but... just differently. You didn't care about politics not because you didn't understand it, but because you saw it as a system outside of your control and not worth your time. The hood gave a small crunch under my weight, the way that the old Saturn used to do, with its plastic frame.
From where I was, I could spot the light coming on in your bathroom and I had one of those moments where I saw a whole set of possibilities unfolding. I saw you flushing the toilet and waking someone... the kid maybe... or even worse, him... and then it would be over. I knew that. It wasn't the end of the world, it would just mean no sex that night, which... to a 20 year old feels like the end of the world somehow.
But, it didn't. End. The world kept turning. The light went off, and then others went on and off, following you through the house like a trail of Christmas lights. You came outside and closed the door, and it was as if you were the only thing in the world. Nothing else even sounded. Your heels played down the walk and your lipstick, newly minted, kissed me from across the way. You were so fucking sexy and you knew it.
"Did you give him a kiss goodnight?" I said.
"You're so fucking stupid sometimes," you said back, walking down and getting into the car.
I stood there and stared at your doorway.
I wonder sometimes if part of me still lives in the space between the screen and the door; if some orphaned reflection lingers, looking out on that empty street, waiting for another consequential sunrise.
I stood there, the quietest thing on the block it seemed. I could hear cars rolling by on streets I couldn't even see. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance... chasing a cat. I think I pictured it as a black cat, and the dog as being one of those big burly bulldogs, like from the cartoons. I could hear water flushing in the sewers and I could hear the gentle click and flicker of the streetlamp at the foot of your driveway. This was a beautiful little suburb.
You'd gone inside to... what? It's so long now that some things are like the lines of a far off novel. I saw myself reflected in the glass, my leather jacket, one size too small, but I thought it looked cool somehow, the way my shirt protruded from my coat sleeves.
I thought that maybe, at that moment, I looked older, maybe it was the jacket, maybe the fact that I hadn't shaved in a while lent something to it... maybe it was you. You were definitely older. What the hell did you see in me?
I tried to see it. My eyebrows were overgrown. I looked like a smoker. Maybe that was it... my smoker's appearance. You were inside, though, I remember, and I heard your footsteps, your heel clicks, through the door even... or, wait, your living room window was open just a crack, to let in a touch of the cool night air, I suppose. Your heels clicked up the stairs I could only imagine and into some empty bedroom where he was... asleep? I assume he was a deep sleeper.
I stepped over to the driveway and took a seat on the hood of the Prius. His, I assume. You were never big on issues. But that's okay, you had other draws. You were smart, jesus christ you were smart, but... just differently. You didn't care about politics not because you didn't understand it, but because you saw it as a system outside of your control and not worth your time. The hood gave a small crunch under my weight, the way that the old Saturn used to do, with its plastic frame.
From where I was, I could spot the light coming on in your bathroom and I had one of those moments where I saw a whole set of possibilities unfolding. I saw you flushing the toilet and waking someone... the kid maybe... or even worse, him... and then it would be over. I knew that. It wasn't the end of the world, it would just mean no sex that night, which... to a 20 year old feels like the end of the world somehow.
But, it didn't. End. The world kept turning. The light went off, and then others went on and off, following you through the house like a trail of Christmas lights. You came outside and closed the door, and it was as if you were the only thing in the world. Nothing else even sounded. Your heels played down the walk and your lipstick, newly minted, kissed me from across the way. You were so fucking sexy and you knew it.
"Did you give him a kiss goodnight?" I said.
"You're so fucking stupid sometimes," you said back, walking down and getting into the car.
I stood there and stared at your doorway.
I wonder sometimes if part of me still lives in the space between the screen and the door; if some orphaned reflection lingers, looking out on that empty street, waiting for another consequential sunrise.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
...My Bed. Still Not Asleep. 6 A.M. NY, NY.
There are places we go in the rain. Places unsung by sunlight, unblemished by mother nature, places underneath it all.
In the rain, my mind is a collapsible jungle... springing to life, breathing in falling water. The drops leave footprints on my forehead when I walk, tracks on electronics as I steadily punch keys and twirl dials... water gets everywhere.
I forget who I am in the rain... that I am human, prone to illness, in this world-sized well I am a momentary immortal, salient and severe. I act as if, around me, there is an inch-thick force. I move with the steadiness of an eel through weeds or a knife through sand and though I am drenched by the steady downpour, I am as a water creature, sustained by its life force.
There are times when, stuck inside, I feel it in my heart somehow, the water pouring. I even look out the window, up towards the murky sky, and yet I don't see it coming down. Not one drop. I look out towards supposed nothingness and probe with acute faith... believing that there is rain, and, as if by shear force of will, my vision clears and each and every drop and speck is readily apparent.
In the rain, my mind is a rewound marathon. The systems trace back paths through dirt and sod, tracks that have long since been covered by time, written over like old tapes with new material... and yet the old places seem fresh in my mind when the rain comes. It washes away what I choose to know and brings a sheen to the real world below. And as I look, I am made crystal.
There are places I go, for the rain is my grand mapmaker, and I, its native son.
That's all for now.
In the rain, my mind is a collapsible jungle... springing to life, breathing in falling water. The drops leave footprints on my forehead when I walk, tracks on electronics as I steadily punch keys and twirl dials... water gets everywhere.
I forget who I am in the rain... that I am human, prone to illness, in this world-sized well I am a momentary immortal, salient and severe. I act as if, around me, there is an inch-thick force. I move with the steadiness of an eel through weeds or a knife through sand and though I am drenched by the steady downpour, I am as a water creature, sustained by its life force.
There are times when, stuck inside, I feel it in my heart somehow, the water pouring. I even look out the window, up towards the murky sky, and yet I don't see it coming down. Not one drop. I look out towards supposed nothingness and probe with acute faith... believing that there is rain, and, as if by shear force of will, my vision clears and each and every drop and speck is readily apparent.
In the rain, my mind is a rewound marathon. The systems trace back paths through dirt and sod, tracks that have long since been covered by time, written over like old tapes with new material... and yet the old places seem fresh in my mind when the rain comes. It washes away what I choose to know and brings a sheen to the real world below. And as I look, I am made crystal.
There are places I go, for the rain is my grand mapmaker, and I, its native son.
That's all for now.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
...My Living Room Floor, In My Boxer Shorts. NY, NY.
Preach to me, bastions of the far flung light...
Hmph.
Lily is sitting like a praying mantis. I can see her through the window of my study... out there on the lawn, daring the sprinklers to catch her. Tomorrow is her 18th birthday and I know exactly what she's trying to do. She's always wanted to feel things. To know without being told. And so I'm certain she wants to feel the turn from adolescence into... what? adulthood? At this point, I don't think so... but it'll certainly be an adult enough change.
Senior year has been a struggle for our little girl. Little is another word that changes. Obviously, getting into college was its own uphill climb, not because of grades, she has those, but because Lil isn't the sort of girl who knows what she wants from the world.
I remember when she was six years old, and I sat her down on that lawn on a particularly clear night and traced out the stars into constellations. Her favorite, I imagine because she could spot it so easily, was Orion. She liked the notion that star signs still need belts. At that moment, she made the declaration that she would swim among the stars one day. I thought this would manifest itself with a love of science and astronomy... it oddly appeared a few years later as, quite literally, a love of swimming.
Maybe I should be out there with her.
No. This is her own memory. I don't know if she realizes yet how talented she is with that particular skill. Making memories. She knows exactly how to capture, caption, and categorize her days in what I imagine is a rather grand series of file folders in her mind. I'd like to learn, while I still can, how to take these memories and tie them to my being, the calm, simple way that she does. She tells stories sometimes and I'd love to tell her that she should follow in her father's footsteps and become a writer, but the wife and I agreed not to put undue influence on her... as if raising her wasn't influence enough. But, that's beside the point. I agree, begrudgingly... she has it in her though, to be a great writer, if she ever decides to.
Or maybe she'll be a teacher? She taught me enough things in her time. I remember when I was young and computers were just coming around and I was so much better with them than my parents... and I would hold it over them. Oh, foul karma. Of course, as I grew older, technology advanced with even greater rapidity... what we knew as laptops became as outdated as... what... typewriters? I suppose. But, Lily was always patient with her Dad (her Mom was always fine with the tech... and if not, she hid it well). I could see her molding young minds. But something in me, like it or not, thinks that she's meant for some greater future than simple instruction.
She could be President... well, no I don't think she'd be much interested in that. Not that she's not politically minded... I love to argue with her about whatever cause she's taken up this week or that, and, to her credit, her counterarguments have started to become rather well articulated and convincing. What I know, though, is that she wouldn't like the thought of having such a great amount of power over such a great amount of people. She's honestly humble and at peace with herself and I don't think she'd be comfortable asserting that she belonged in a place of any greater power than anyone else.
I'm sure her mom would love if she went into the non-profit sector. And, I've been meaning to bring up the fact that taking her to rallies and marches all the time could be considered undue influence... but, I've been to my share of protests and they've never really swayed me towards a life as an advocate for the underprivileged and ill-represented. So, I suppose if she chooses that path, it'll be her choice to make.
I could go on, I could imagine a thousand directions her life might take.
But, for myself, I think I'd like to remember her forever like this... alone on the grass.... eyes closed... her hair in communion with the soft summer breeze and her breath somehow in steady rhythm with the seconds on my wall clock.
At this point, I don't think I'll get to sleep tonight, my editor needs this manuscript in by the morning or else she'll cut me with something sharp I'm sure... or, dock my advance... which is the literary equivalent of a shiv stab.
It's a little unbelievable that I... that we all arrived here. At this moment.
I look back at my life, at all the little worries and squabbles that seemed so much larger in the moment... so mortally important... and it dawns on me that at this moment, I am perfectly happy. All the more perfect for the struggles that I faced on the way to reaching this place.
I don't know what to say, except... 5, 4, 3, 2... wow. Happy Birthday, Lil.
This is... well... This is a memory I'll hold onto.
As much as I would love to stay in this state forever, I have to return to my work... take it all in, Lil. Before you've entered the word of deadlines. Oh, I hope she'll be a procrastinator like her father. Nah... not really.
Okay... Chapter... 13.
Preach to me, bastions of the far flung light...
That's all for now.
Hmph.
Lily is sitting like a praying mantis. I can see her through the window of my study... out there on the lawn, daring the sprinklers to catch her. Tomorrow is her 18th birthday and I know exactly what she's trying to do. She's always wanted to feel things. To know without being told. And so I'm certain she wants to feel the turn from adolescence into... what? adulthood? At this point, I don't think so... but it'll certainly be an adult enough change.
Senior year has been a struggle for our little girl. Little is another word that changes. Obviously, getting into college was its own uphill climb, not because of grades, she has those, but because Lil isn't the sort of girl who knows what she wants from the world.
I remember when she was six years old, and I sat her down on that lawn on a particularly clear night and traced out the stars into constellations. Her favorite, I imagine because she could spot it so easily, was Orion. She liked the notion that star signs still need belts. At that moment, she made the declaration that she would swim among the stars one day. I thought this would manifest itself with a love of science and astronomy... it oddly appeared a few years later as, quite literally, a love of swimming.
Maybe I should be out there with her.
No. This is her own memory. I don't know if she realizes yet how talented she is with that particular skill. Making memories. She knows exactly how to capture, caption, and categorize her days in what I imagine is a rather grand series of file folders in her mind. I'd like to learn, while I still can, how to take these memories and tie them to my being, the calm, simple way that she does. She tells stories sometimes and I'd love to tell her that she should follow in her father's footsteps and become a writer, but the wife and I agreed not to put undue influence on her... as if raising her wasn't influence enough. But, that's beside the point. I agree, begrudgingly... she has it in her though, to be a great writer, if she ever decides to.
Or maybe she'll be a teacher? She taught me enough things in her time. I remember when I was young and computers were just coming around and I was so much better with them than my parents... and I would hold it over them. Oh, foul karma. Of course, as I grew older, technology advanced with even greater rapidity... what we knew as laptops became as outdated as... what... typewriters? I suppose. But, Lily was always patient with her Dad (her Mom was always fine with the tech... and if not, she hid it well). I could see her molding young minds. But something in me, like it or not, thinks that she's meant for some greater future than simple instruction.
She could be President... well, no I don't think she'd be much interested in that. Not that she's not politically minded... I love to argue with her about whatever cause she's taken up this week or that, and, to her credit, her counterarguments have started to become rather well articulated and convincing. What I know, though, is that she wouldn't like the thought of having such a great amount of power over such a great amount of people. She's honestly humble and at peace with herself and I don't think she'd be comfortable asserting that she belonged in a place of any greater power than anyone else.
I'm sure her mom would love if she went into the non-profit sector. And, I've been meaning to bring up the fact that taking her to rallies and marches all the time could be considered undue influence... but, I've been to my share of protests and they've never really swayed me towards a life as an advocate for the underprivileged and ill-represented. So, I suppose if she chooses that path, it'll be her choice to make.
I could go on, I could imagine a thousand directions her life might take.
But, for myself, I think I'd like to remember her forever like this... alone on the grass.... eyes closed... her hair in communion with the soft summer breeze and her breath somehow in steady rhythm with the seconds on my wall clock.
At this point, I don't think I'll get to sleep tonight, my editor needs this manuscript in by the morning or else she'll cut me with something sharp I'm sure... or, dock my advance... which is the literary equivalent of a shiv stab.
It's a little unbelievable that I... that we all arrived here. At this moment.
I look back at my life, at all the little worries and squabbles that seemed so much larger in the moment... so mortally important... and it dawns on me that at this moment, I am perfectly happy. All the more perfect for the struggles that I faced on the way to reaching this place.
I don't know what to say, except... 5, 4, 3, 2... wow. Happy Birthday, Lil.
This is... well... This is a memory I'll hold onto.
As much as I would love to stay in this state forever, I have to return to my work... take it all in, Lil. Before you've entered the word of deadlines. Oh, I hope she'll be a procrastinator like her father. Nah... not really.
Okay... Chapter... 13.
Preach to me, bastions of the far flung light...
That's all for now.
Monday, April 19, 2010
...Underneath the Covers. NY, NY.
The blue looked a dullish yellow-green in the light of the dusty country laundromat.
Chan, the young-looking but probably old Chinese guy at the counter just pointed me to a machine, without looking up... which I guess saved us an awkward conversation about why I was wearing a beat-up burnished blue dress and matching heels into his place. I asked for quarters... I decided to drop the attempts at the voice at this point, he wasn't looking up from the glowing box he kept beneath the counter. I imagined some sort of fetish porn going on down there. I asked simply, how can I use the machine if I don't have change? He looked up at me, and then, without pause, he reached into his pocket and tossed me a round nosed key. Told me to bring it back once i'd finished. Sex pervert or not, Chan new how to run a laundromat.
I wasn't alone in the place, either. There was a smelly looking guy sitting in what might've been his boxers and a once-white shirt next to the oscillating fan in the corner. Behind him, creating an oddly dizzying effect, were a series of dryers, all spinning what seemed to be white sheets. He looked me over and, just like Chan had moments ago, just went back on with his business. It was kind of nice, not feeling judged in this place.
My makeup was running though, I could feel it splotching against my clavicle as the sweat maneuvered around the cliff of my jawbone and slid slowly down my neck. I opened the washing machine door and, out of habit, reached my hand inside. Nothing. I always check for change or lint or... I don't know... condoms. You never know what's going to make its way into the bowels of a washing machine.
Then I remembered the zipper.
I walked over to the man in the corner. Surprisingly, he didn't smell as bad as I thought he would... a mildly unpleasant aroma of peach schnapps and burning rubber. Without my asking, he just said... turn around. As he reached for the buckle at the crest of my back, he muttered something along the lines of 'happens to the best of us, son'. I really underestimated this fella.
Now, my chest exposed to the air, I immediately felt cooler. Even somewhat more free, my torso no lounger bound by the mesh of fabric. I slipped the whole thing down past my knees and finally stepped out of the dress.
Looking at it, lying there on the olive-colored tile, I wondered how I'd ever let myself into this predicament. I mean, there comes a time in every man's life when he finds himself alone... or at least practically alone... in an Alabama laundromat... wearing a frilly blue dress. And yet, it still surprised me... the way you can be surprised by a movie even when you know what's going to happen.
I picked up the now lifeless cloth and wedged it as best as I could through the opening of the machine. I closed the door and, looking through the glass portal, the whole thing looked like some beautiful flower caught in a bottle. The bleach went in next, clean and clear like water, or poison. Finally, I put the key in the round opening below the coin slot and turned. Nothing happened. I was about to go back and get Chan when suddenly, with a shake like an old man dancing, the machine started working.
I realized I should have probably brought a magazine. And pants. Pants would've been nice. I could have left, right then... my job was done. I had become whoever it was I was supposed to become by performing this awful deed.
Instead, I stood there... transfixed by the hypnotic motion of the machine. I watched as the deep hued blues began to peel from off the fabric. I watched the dress forget them in the rapturous embrace of the water and bleach. After a few minutes, I noticed, by the scent of things, that my friend was standing beside me. It never gets old... I think he said... where do they go? The colors? Somewhere... never gets old.
And then he walked out. He gave Chan a friendly nod, which I can't imagine drew his attention away, but was nice nonetheless, like tipping an invisible hat, and walked out the door... I think I should've been worried about him... but some part of me understood that maybe there are just people that hang around in their underwear... waiting for something to happen.
I waited long enough for a small puddle of sweat to form down by my feet before I walked over to the corner and took a seat by the fan. I closed my eyes for a minute and let the cool air wash over my skin. A shrill tone let me know it was time to get my clothes. I went to the machine and pulled out the sopping wet mass and walked it over the dryer beside the fan in the corner. I opened the door, put in the load, sealed it inside, and just as before, I turned the key and the machine began to turn. I stepped back for a moment and appreciated the effect. Now alone in the place, I couldn't quite understand why all the other machines were still drying... I assumed there were orders that Chan was taking care of.
Moments later, the series was interrupted when the machine second from the left finally dinged and stopped churning. This was followed by the one next to it, and then the one to the left of my own. The other four kept on turning, but nobody, not even Chan, seemed too interested in coming to retrieve their contents.
I took a seat in the chair by the fan and my thoughts drifted somewhere else. I thought about everything that had brought me here... and for a moment I felt especially alone. It was at this point that I awoke to the sound of another ding... but this time, it was the sound of the door chiming open. The clouds that had hovered overhead on my way there seemed to have given up all pretense and gone into full blown rain. Two more machines had stopped turning, not mine yet, so I couldn't have drifted off for very long, although my eyes had the foggy feeling of sleep.
I couldn't tell who had come in, but I saw a person, or a something, leaning against the counter as I had, presumably trying to talk to Chan. I then saw what was clearly a small Asian hand pointed in my general direction. Then, a face. A boy's face. I didn't know this kid, I didn't think so at least, but he looked at me with a great deal of purpose and a slight tinge of disgust as he walked towards my corner. As he cleared each row of washers, his body came into view.
And suddenly I knew.
His dress, a warm shade of scarlet, was much nicer than mine had been... I'd gone for the cheap stuff it seemed. As he stepped closer I saw the look in his face... don't see me... I don't exist. As he walked towards me, I saw his eyes roll across what must have looked like a series of white sheets spinning in the still working dryers. I sat there waiting for him to say something, but he seemed, for a moment at least, stunned by my general appearance... sitting there, covered in sweat, in nothing but a pair of gray boxers and a set of black heels.
Finally, he opened his mouth and said, Key.
And I smiled.
Chan, the young-looking but probably old Chinese guy at the counter just pointed me to a machine, without looking up... which I guess saved us an awkward conversation about why I was wearing a beat-up burnished blue dress and matching heels into his place. I asked for quarters... I decided to drop the attempts at the voice at this point, he wasn't looking up from the glowing box he kept beneath the counter. I imagined some sort of fetish porn going on down there. I asked simply, how can I use the machine if I don't have change? He looked up at me, and then, without pause, he reached into his pocket and tossed me a round nosed key. Told me to bring it back once i'd finished. Sex pervert or not, Chan new how to run a laundromat.
I wasn't alone in the place, either. There was a smelly looking guy sitting in what might've been his boxers and a once-white shirt next to the oscillating fan in the corner. Behind him, creating an oddly dizzying effect, were a series of dryers, all spinning what seemed to be white sheets. He looked me over and, just like Chan had moments ago, just went back on with his business. It was kind of nice, not feeling judged in this place.
My makeup was running though, I could feel it splotching against my clavicle as the sweat maneuvered around the cliff of my jawbone and slid slowly down my neck. I opened the washing machine door and, out of habit, reached my hand inside. Nothing. I always check for change or lint or... I don't know... condoms. You never know what's going to make its way into the bowels of a washing machine.
Then I remembered the zipper.
I walked over to the man in the corner. Surprisingly, he didn't smell as bad as I thought he would... a mildly unpleasant aroma of peach schnapps and burning rubber. Without my asking, he just said... turn around. As he reached for the buckle at the crest of my back, he muttered something along the lines of 'happens to the best of us, son'. I really underestimated this fella.
Now, my chest exposed to the air, I immediately felt cooler. Even somewhat more free, my torso no lounger bound by the mesh of fabric. I slipped the whole thing down past my knees and finally stepped out of the dress.
Looking at it, lying there on the olive-colored tile, I wondered how I'd ever let myself into this predicament. I mean, there comes a time in every man's life when he finds himself alone... or at least practically alone... in an Alabama laundromat... wearing a frilly blue dress. And yet, it still surprised me... the way you can be surprised by a movie even when you know what's going to happen.
I picked up the now lifeless cloth and wedged it as best as I could through the opening of the machine. I closed the door and, looking through the glass portal, the whole thing looked like some beautiful flower caught in a bottle. The bleach went in next, clean and clear like water, or poison. Finally, I put the key in the round opening below the coin slot and turned. Nothing happened. I was about to go back and get Chan when suddenly, with a shake like an old man dancing, the machine started working.
I realized I should have probably brought a magazine. And pants. Pants would've been nice. I could have left, right then... my job was done. I had become whoever it was I was supposed to become by performing this awful deed.
Instead, I stood there... transfixed by the hypnotic motion of the machine. I watched as the deep hued blues began to peel from off the fabric. I watched the dress forget them in the rapturous embrace of the water and bleach. After a few minutes, I noticed, by the scent of things, that my friend was standing beside me. It never gets old... I think he said... where do they go? The colors? Somewhere... never gets old.
And then he walked out. He gave Chan a friendly nod, which I can't imagine drew his attention away, but was nice nonetheless, like tipping an invisible hat, and walked out the door... I think I should've been worried about him... but some part of me understood that maybe there are just people that hang around in their underwear... waiting for something to happen.
I waited long enough for a small puddle of sweat to form down by my feet before I walked over to the corner and took a seat by the fan. I closed my eyes for a minute and let the cool air wash over my skin. A shrill tone let me know it was time to get my clothes. I went to the machine and pulled out the sopping wet mass and walked it over the dryer beside the fan in the corner. I opened the door, put in the load, sealed it inside, and just as before, I turned the key and the machine began to turn. I stepped back for a moment and appreciated the effect. Now alone in the place, I couldn't quite understand why all the other machines were still drying... I assumed there were orders that Chan was taking care of.
Moments later, the series was interrupted when the machine second from the left finally dinged and stopped churning. This was followed by the one next to it, and then the one to the left of my own. The other four kept on turning, but nobody, not even Chan, seemed too interested in coming to retrieve their contents.
I took a seat in the chair by the fan and my thoughts drifted somewhere else. I thought about everything that had brought me here... and for a moment I felt especially alone. It was at this point that I awoke to the sound of another ding... but this time, it was the sound of the door chiming open. The clouds that had hovered overhead on my way there seemed to have given up all pretense and gone into full blown rain. Two more machines had stopped turning, not mine yet, so I couldn't have drifted off for very long, although my eyes had the foggy feeling of sleep.
I couldn't tell who had come in, but I saw a person, or a something, leaning against the counter as I had, presumably trying to talk to Chan. I then saw what was clearly a small Asian hand pointed in my general direction. Then, a face. A boy's face. I didn't know this kid, I didn't think so at least, but he looked at me with a great deal of purpose and a slight tinge of disgust as he walked towards my corner. As he cleared each row of washers, his body came into view.
And suddenly I knew.
His dress, a warm shade of scarlet, was much nicer than mine had been... I'd gone for the cheap stuff it seemed. As he stepped closer I saw the look in his face... don't see me... I don't exist. As he walked towards me, I saw his eyes roll across what must have looked like a series of white sheets spinning in the still working dryers. I sat there waiting for him to say something, but he seemed, for a moment at least, stunned by my general appearance... sitting there, covered in sweat, in nothing but a pair of gray boxers and a set of black heels.
Finally, he opened his mouth and said, Key.
And I smiled.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
...the Lightness of a Hotel Bed. Quakertown, PA.
Sometimes I could be drowning.
Anchors haven't the will to float, I think. Not that they couldn't... if they really wanted it, the cool free air. They lost the will to rise past the sinking pull of the deep blue water.
There are days when I'm overcome by the feeling that I'm light on will and heavy on doubt and thus, I grow cumbersome metal arms and an overwhelmingly forceful base that sends me plummeting to the depths.
With you, though... I'm not somewhere on the bottom looking up. I am like a fleck of light along the water... a fallen leaf, floating along to kiss the hulls of passing ships.
We live together in an apartment that by human standards is small, but by New York standards is somewhat moderate... though oftentimes we're on top of each other. And I love you. So that helps things. And you love me... so that helps things. Too.
I sit, sometimes, on the bed and watch you type away your research papers, or something for one of your million jobs, and am lulled into a trance by the rhythm of your precocious typing. Your gentle movements on the chair, little adjustments, ever the dancer... you reach for your water glass and I'm awake suddenly, unaware I had drifted off.
Some nights, coming home late, I stand outside our door and press my ear to the crack between the frame and the hinge and try to picture what's going on inside. I can now reliably tell where you are in the apartment in a few moments. I like to think that I could surprise you, but our deadbolt makes such a heavy thud at opening that its bark announces any intruder. Some days, though, I get lucky and you're in the bathroom. You get so mad at being surprised, but I just find it funny. Because you make a cute face when you're notactuallymad the way you get. It's awfully endearing.
You're changing, though. Like everything changes... I suppose, but I was hoping your chance magic could stick to form long enough for the rest of the world to change around us. But, you're changing. You're growing. Beautiful, brilliant, brave... and I understand its a brave thing you're doing. Leaving.
Many things are easy to understand and difficult to accept. Your going certainly falls into that category. Perhaps I lack the imagination? experience? to adequately appreciate the benefits of two beds, two rooms, two addresses.
But I love you. So that helps things. And you love me. And that grows. Too.
Perhaps we'll meet again, as strangers, on a bench in central park. And I'll sit quietly, a skill I'll acquire with the practice of solitude, and wow you with an air guitar routine that will literal knock your socks off of your feet. We'll walk barefoot on the crunchy gravel and spell our names in the stones with our fingers. You'd fall head over heels for me and we'd never leave each other again.
But I could be drowning. Maybe your adventure in the big blue world will turn you into a charisma asteroid, but it might turn me into a crater. Or at least something deep down in the earth's mantle... and somewhere in yourself, you'll need to drag out a drill, a massive, meteoric drill to catch me where I've fallen. Maybe then, you'll stretch out a mile-long arm down the mile-long hole and slowly drag me up, back to the grassy outside of this graceful little rock planet. Maybe then, covered in dust and dirt, wiping the dried chunks of lava from my face, you'll tell me I am home and I'll nod and follow you anywhere.
Until we get there, I don't know how it'll all transfigure me. If I'm certain of one thing, though... it's that I want what I see here to be true there. For you and I to be together in that field. We'll spell things in the ground and roll around in the grass and lookers on will marvel at our timeless and endless love. I want to look back at a dark time with a smile and wonder at how remarkably bright the present feels in comparison. I want so many things. And I think we'll have them.
Because I love you. And that helps things. And you love me. Wow!
Like fireworks exploding.
Anchors haven't the will to float, I think. Not that they couldn't... if they really wanted it, the cool free air. They lost the will to rise past the sinking pull of the deep blue water.
There are days when I'm overcome by the feeling that I'm light on will and heavy on doubt and thus, I grow cumbersome metal arms and an overwhelmingly forceful base that sends me plummeting to the depths.
With you, though... I'm not somewhere on the bottom looking up. I am like a fleck of light along the water... a fallen leaf, floating along to kiss the hulls of passing ships.
We live together in an apartment that by human standards is small, but by New York standards is somewhat moderate... though oftentimes we're on top of each other. And I love you. So that helps things. And you love me... so that helps things. Too.
I sit, sometimes, on the bed and watch you type away your research papers, or something for one of your million jobs, and am lulled into a trance by the rhythm of your precocious typing. Your gentle movements on the chair, little adjustments, ever the dancer... you reach for your water glass and I'm awake suddenly, unaware I had drifted off.
Some nights, coming home late, I stand outside our door and press my ear to the crack between the frame and the hinge and try to picture what's going on inside. I can now reliably tell where you are in the apartment in a few moments. I like to think that I could surprise you, but our deadbolt makes such a heavy thud at opening that its bark announces any intruder. Some days, though, I get lucky and you're in the bathroom. You get so mad at being surprised, but I just find it funny. Because you make a cute face when you're notactuallymad the way you get. It's awfully endearing.
You're changing, though. Like everything changes... I suppose, but I was hoping your chance magic could stick to form long enough for the rest of the world to change around us. But, you're changing. You're growing. Beautiful, brilliant, brave... and I understand its a brave thing you're doing. Leaving.
Many things are easy to understand and difficult to accept. Your going certainly falls into that category. Perhaps I lack the imagination? experience? to adequately appreciate the benefits of two beds, two rooms, two addresses.
But I love you. So that helps things. And you love me. And that grows. Too.
Perhaps we'll meet again, as strangers, on a bench in central park. And I'll sit quietly, a skill I'll acquire with the practice of solitude, and wow you with an air guitar routine that will literal knock your socks off of your feet. We'll walk barefoot on the crunchy gravel and spell our names in the stones with our fingers. You'd fall head over heels for me and we'd never leave each other again.
But I could be drowning. Maybe your adventure in the big blue world will turn you into a charisma asteroid, but it might turn me into a crater. Or at least something deep down in the earth's mantle... and somewhere in yourself, you'll need to drag out a drill, a massive, meteoric drill to catch me where I've fallen. Maybe then, you'll stretch out a mile-long arm down the mile-long hole and slowly drag me up, back to the grassy outside of this graceful little rock planet. Maybe then, covered in dust and dirt, wiping the dried chunks of lava from my face, you'll tell me I am home and I'll nod and follow you anywhere.
Until we get there, I don't know how it'll all transfigure me. If I'm certain of one thing, though... it's that I want what I see here to be true there. For you and I to be together in that field. We'll spell things in the ground and roll around in the grass and lookers on will marvel at our timeless and endless love. I want to look back at a dark time with a smile and wonder at how remarkably bright the present feels in comparison. I want so many things. And I think we'll have them.
Because I love you. And that helps things. And you love me. Wow!
Like fireworks exploding.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
...the Darkness of a Hotel Bed. Quakertown, PA.
I wish I had wings again.
There was a time when I could soar with the rest of the flying creatures, lifted to heights where things like dreams rest their heads. I had wings, and they were alive with beauty! Beauty akin to the first snow, or the sinking of great mysteries. Wings composed of simple things, like twigs and leaves, the stray feather here and there to make the framework whole and they would swing onto my shoulders and I would breathe them into being.
It wasn't always so easy. I began in the forest. Hidden away in a patchwork of trashcans and shrubs I collected the necessary pieces. Once they could support my weight, I began working to make them move. It's not as easy as walking, believe me. To compare flying to walking is to compare diamonds to doughnuts. It requires an inner harmony. I would begin a breathing exercise... first exhaling my doubts... everything holding me to the ground... exhale disbelief, depression, paranoia... then the big things... exhale reality... exhale certainty... exhale gravity... then, and only then, did I feel...
...taller. That's what it was at first. I grew an inch taller. And then days passed and I could grow three inches. It was another week before I realized I wasn't growing... I was floating. Just slightly. Inches above the ground. The outlines of shadows forming beneath my very own feet. I made markings with a rock against the trunk of an old elm tree beside my secret launchpad.
Weeks I spent, simply perfecting the art of floating, until eventually I could maneuver my way past the limbs of the trees and float above the treeline, and actually glimpse the surrounding houses in the distance. I saw parents pulling in to their driveways, through windows I could see kids fight over Super Nintendo... I had a key to the inside of the world. I still remember the warm breeze against my legs as the massive wings beat in time against my sides, like I was part of the wind... part of the sky.
I learned the language of other beings. The chirps of the sparrow, the calls of the proud hawk... even the thousand ways to decipher the hoots of the night owl... and let me tell you, if you let them... they will never shut up... all about mice this and rabbit that. It gets old.
I ascended to the clouds, which, if you've never been, will knock the wind out of you. I still remember colliding with a cumulus over Arlington Heights and plummeting towards the earth at a tremendous speed... don't mean to ruin the ending or anything, but I lived.
As much as I loved my life away from the boundaries that awaited me on land, I couldn't help but wonder why I was the only one like me aloft in the sky. I searched for others, even asked the birds that would speak slowly enough for me to understand... and I was apparently a unique occurrence.
I came down to the ground. Slowly. Unthinking, really. The way a child lets go of a ball without knowing. I lowered myself down, away from the sunlight, below the treetops, to where it all began.
I unstitched the wings from my teenage frame and set them down on the ground, where they became just nothings again. Just twigs and leaves and lost feathers. And I forgot the language of the flying things. I was so willing somehow to let it all go.
I stepped away, towards the western gape of the forest, towards the late afternoon sunlight, a path of trembling twigs and dead leaves in my wake. I headed out of the forest and, had I looked behind me right then, I would've seen it all changing form... trees changing direction, things that once were, being no longer... a world that I had unwittingly, though meticulously, crafted... becoming nothing more than a patch of barely suitable shelter from the seeing world.
And in the distance I could hear them... the boys of my neighborhood... their voices rattling like strung tin cans on dirt road. I wanted to join them... to live among my own kind. The unmistakable crack of a smooth round wooden bat against a smooth round rubber ball sent it gliding towards me, whistling with the speed against the current until it landed at my feet. I picked it up, and wiping it clear of dew I held it to my chest, hoping perhaps for a taste of its momentum, but it was clear that it had gone.
As I walked towards the baseball diamond, towards the pack of boys waiting to resume their game, a flight of ducks caught my eye. A part of me felt only admiration though, wonderment... as if, like all men, I had always admired them from this vantage... as if I had never traversed the northern corridor among their ranks... as if I hadn't known their names... as if I'd been human all along.
Every now and then, something in me hears the words in the birdsong... and something in me beats, once more, for wings.
That's all for now.
There was a time when I could soar with the rest of the flying creatures, lifted to heights where things like dreams rest their heads. I had wings, and they were alive with beauty! Beauty akin to the first snow, or the sinking of great mysteries. Wings composed of simple things, like twigs and leaves, the stray feather here and there to make the framework whole and they would swing onto my shoulders and I would breathe them into being.
It wasn't always so easy. I began in the forest. Hidden away in a patchwork of trashcans and shrubs I collected the necessary pieces. Once they could support my weight, I began working to make them move. It's not as easy as walking, believe me. To compare flying to walking is to compare diamonds to doughnuts. It requires an inner harmony. I would begin a breathing exercise... first exhaling my doubts... everything holding me to the ground... exhale disbelief, depression, paranoia... then the big things... exhale reality... exhale certainty... exhale gravity... then, and only then, did I feel...
...taller. That's what it was at first. I grew an inch taller. And then days passed and I could grow three inches. It was another week before I realized I wasn't growing... I was floating. Just slightly. Inches above the ground. The outlines of shadows forming beneath my very own feet. I made markings with a rock against the trunk of an old elm tree beside my secret launchpad.
Weeks I spent, simply perfecting the art of floating, until eventually I could maneuver my way past the limbs of the trees and float above the treeline, and actually glimpse the surrounding houses in the distance. I saw parents pulling in to their driveways, through windows I could see kids fight over Super Nintendo... I had a key to the inside of the world. I still remember the warm breeze against my legs as the massive wings beat in time against my sides, like I was part of the wind... part of the sky.
I learned the language of other beings. The chirps of the sparrow, the calls of the proud hawk... even the thousand ways to decipher the hoots of the night owl... and let me tell you, if you let them... they will never shut up... all about mice this and rabbit that. It gets old.
I ascended to the clouds, which, if you've never been, will knock the wind out of you. I still remember colliding with a cumulus over Arlington Heights and plummeting towards the earth at a tremendous speed... don't mean to ruin the ending or anything, but I lived.
As much as I loved my life away from the boundaries that awaited me on land, I couldn't help but wonder why I was the only one like me aloft in the sky. I searched for others, even asked the birds that would speak slowly enough for me to understand... and I was apparently a unique occurrence.
I came down to the ground. Slowly. Unthinking, really. The way a child lets go of a ball without knowing. I lowered myself down, away from the sunlight, below the treetops, to where it all began.
I unstitched the wings from my teenage frame and set them down on the ground, where they became just nothings again. Just twigs and leaves and lost feathers. And I forgot the language of the flying things. I was so willing somehow to let it all go.
I stepped away, towards the western gape of the forest, towards the late afternoon sunlight, a path of trembling twigs and dead leaves in my wake. I headed out of the forest and, had I looked behind me right then, I would've seen it all changing form... trees changing direction, things that once were, being no longer... a world that I had unwittingly, though meticulously, crafted... becoming nothing more than a patch of barely suitable shelter from the seeing world.
And in the distance I could hear them... the boys of my neighborhood... their voices rattling like strung tin cans on dirt road. I wanted to join them... to live among my own kind. The unmistakable crack of a smooth round wooden bat against a smooth round rubber ball sent it gliding towards me, whistling with the speed against the current until it landed at my feet. I picked it up, and wiping it clear of dew I held it to my chest, hoping perhaps for a taste of its momentum, but it was clear that it had gone.
As I walked towards the baseball diamond, towards the pack of boys waiting to resume their game, a flight of ducks caught my eye. A part of me felt only admiration though, wonderment... as if, like all men, I had always admired them from this vantage... as if I had never traversed the northern corridor among their ranks... as if I hadn't known their names... as if I'd been human all along.
Every now and then, something in me hears the words in the birdsong... and something in me beats, once more, for wings.
That's all for now.
Friday, April 9, 2010
...Kat's Green, Art-Deco Futon. NY, NY.
I wonder what the musicians think... the ones who wrote these melodic, entrancing lines of trumpets, drums, and keys... I wonder what they think of their music being spewed forth this way... at obnoxious decibel levels... at all hours of the night... through car speakers and sub woofers so unregulated that they set of a car alarm with every chorus. I wonder if they hope one day that innocent residents of New York's Washington Heights will be awakened and step out into the streets and dance for joy.
As it stands, it makes me want to throw eggs.
A couple of moments have occasioned the throwing of eggs through my window. Both times involved overly loud vehicles. The first was a car whose owner was repeatedly activating the alarm with his wireless remote. That doesn't play well with me. In the acoustics of a crosstown block, noise spirals upwards, so any attempt of mine to interrupt their melee would more than likely just work to annoy the upstairs neighbors. Rather, I took action via ova and chucked an egg at the car. It was a pretty nice car too. Shiny and black. And then slimy along the hood with a bit of runny yellow yolk slinking towards the wheel well.
The second time was a truck double parked in such a fashion that a whole line of cars couldn't get past it. Now, look, this wasn't entirely the fault of the truck. Seriously, if you have such a big problem with it... back out of the damn block. But, since these are New Yorkers that'll much rather sit, honk, and yell for half an early morning hour rather than constructively back out, I had to take action... once again. This time I missed the first time and hit the street. Luckily nobody seemed to notice, the sound of the impact masked by the cacophonous chorus of car horns. The second one hit its mark... actually did better than I could've imagined. After landing on the roof, about half of it ran down the side and dripped nicely in through the passenger's side window. So they had a nice treat to return to when they got back from wherever they were vacationing at that moment.
I'm not a violent person by any means. I won't hit someone, unless I'm defending myself. But noise pollution is another matter entirely. I can't feel in balance in my home while boomboxes and trunk-housed speaker systems blast their way down the block. Maybe it's just me... but even if it is... I'm man enough to take action. At least... passive aggressively... from a good distance... with food.
That's all for now.
As it stands, it makes me want to throw eggs.
A couple of moments have occasioned the throwing of eggs through my window. Both times involved overly loud vehicles. The first was a car whose owner was repeatedly activating the alarm with his wireless remote. That doesn't play well with me. In the acoustics of a crosstown block, noise spirals upwards, so any attempt of mine to interrupt their melee would more than likely just work to annoy the upstairs neighbors. Rather, I took action via ova and chucked an egg at the car. It was a pretty nice car too. Shiny and black. And then slimy along the hood with a bit of runny yellow yolk slinking towards the wheel well.
The second time was a truck double parked in such a fashion that a whole line of cars couldn't get past it. Now, look, this wasn't entirely the fault of the truck. Seriously, if you have such a big problem with it... back out of the damn block. But, since these are New Yorkers that'll much rather sit, honk, and yell for half an early morning hour rather than constructively back out, I had to take action... once again. This time I missed the first time and hit the street. Luckily nobody seemed to notice, the sound of the impact masked by the cacophonous chorus of car horns. The second one hit its mark... actually did better than I could've imagined. After landing on the roof, about half of it ran down the side and dripped nicely in through the passenger's side window. So they had a nice treat to return to when they got back from wherever they were vacationing at that moment.
I'm not a violent person by any means. I won't hit someone, unless I'm defending myself. But noise pollution is another matter entirely. I can't feel in balance in my home while boomboxes and trunk-housed speaker systems blast their way down the block. Maybe it's just me... but even if it is... I'm man enough to take action. At least... passive aggressively... from a good distance... with food.
That's all for now.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
...My Own Bed, 10 p.m. NY, NY.
The first time I stole anything, I was in third grade. It wasn't a Playboy.
The object in question, if I remember correctly, was a chocolate bar, you know... big time larceny. My friend Martin and I walked into the corner store, having walked the mile from our houses along the main drag in our stretch of a town that seemed many miles wider at 9 years old. I remember the place was the sort of brown that encourages distraction. Everything looks better than that brown... the Klondike bars in the freezer that rattled like an overstuffed birdcage in the back, even the beers, which I knew were disgusting even at such a young age, looked great against the graveyard dirt brown of that place.
I think Martin actually did the getting... I made small talk with the man at the counter, really small... as I knew how to talk back then but not really how to make sense under any sort of pressure. That comes with time. Anyway, we stepped out of the place, our minor melting victory in Martin's back pocket, and just as we walked out, who came rolling around the corner? My Grandfather, in his rusty-since-it-was-new Grey Oldsmobile. I look at it now and it strikes me how bad a poker face I must have had back then. Somehow, he figured out we'd taken something... but couldn't quite figure what it was. He new figured it out. To this day, the way the story goes in my family is that when I was in third grade I tried to go to the corner store to steal Playboys. So maybe I was better under pressure than I give myself credit for. I had already learned the lesson that if you're going to get in trouble when you're young, if you can make your parents laugh, they won't ground you for nearly as long.
That's all for now.
The object in question, if I remember correctly, was a chocolate bar, you know... big time larceny. My friend Martin and I walked into the corner store, having walked the mile from our houses along the main drag in our stretch of a town that seemed many miles wider at 9 years old. I remember the place was the sort of brown that encourages distraction. Everything looks better than that brown... the Klondike bars in the freezer that rattled like an overstuffed birdcage in the back, even the beers, which I knew were disgusting even at such a young age, looked great against the graveyard dirt brown of that place.
I think Martin actually did the getting... I made small talk with the man at the counter, really small... as I knew how to talk back then but not really how to make sense under any sort of pressure. That comes with time. Anyway, we stepped out of the place, our minor melting victory in Martin's back pocket, and just as we walked out, who came rolling around the corner? My Grandfather, in his rusty-since-it-was-new Grey Oldsmobile. I look at it now and it strikes me how bad a poker face I must have had back then. Somehow, he figured out we'd taken something... but couldn't quite figure what it was. He new figured it out. To this day, the way the story goes in my family is that when I was in third grade I tried to go to the corner store to steal Playboys. So maybe I was better under pressure than I give myself credit for. I had already learned the lesson that if you're going to get in trouble when you're young, if you can make your parents laugh, they won't ground you for nearly as long.
That's all for now.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
...Atop a Blanket in the Living Room. NY, NY.
Winter is taking her final breaths tonight. She's flipping through her songbook and playing her way down the coastline towards the next hemispheres. And I, for one, couldn't be happier.
Tomorrow will mark a change in this city. The women will hit the streets in fresh skirts and short sleeves, sunglasses and sharp colors. Spring in New York City is a season of display. I, for one, will be out in Central Park enjoying my ritual 7-mile track in rollerblades.
But before tomorrow is tonight.
Tonight, the full moon's gleam sits like a glaze on the rooftops of Upper Manhattan.
And tonight I'm thinking about Lily.
Lillian, or Lily as she likes to be called, is the kind of girl who you never need to meet to know. Too young, perhaps, to hide her flaws, which are few, and too lovely for them to really matter. Though merely eight years old, she has the stance and strut of an eighteen year old, which scares the living bejeezus out of her father.
I don't know what makes her come to mind... something in the way the light passes through my murky window paints the mind a thousand different shades of curious. Maybe it's the thought of Spring.
Lily loves springtime. This she likely gets from her mother, as her father... more from birth than choice, loves the thought of a warm shelter in a cold climate, while her mother loves any excuse to shed her layers and, flower-like, lock lips with the midday sun. The girl runs away, though, and this is worrisome. Not away from home, not even away really, just... runs. As if the world were made of corners around which lie an even greater adventure.
And perhaps it is. I mean, in the eyes of an eight year old girl, everything has the potential for adventure. Some part of me misses that. I miss the days when there were more questions than answers... knowledge is a cruel neighbor.
Eight is a beautiful age. Long before the drama of judgmental 7th graders or the lascivious libidos of high school boys, she is this perfect innocent creature. I don't know how her father will deal with a thirteen year old Lily... I couldn't even imagine. I suppose one becomes the parent they need to be when they need to be it. Parents grow too, it would seem. I never thought about that. And Lily will have dreams of greater things, of real things. You see, when a child dreams, she dreams of fantastical things... castles and riches and handsome princes... but they don't have faces in dreams. They don't have names or addresses. But as she grows, she collects these things... she finds her real life princes and learns that princes can be villains and that castles aren't always on steady ground. And something in me already wants to shield her from such things.
I think of Lily and I wonder who she'll be when she grows into Lillian. It's amazing that we grow into anything at all, really. I'm daily inspired by the changes in people; how we think of ourselves as standing still, while the world evolves us all every minute. It's a beautiful and powerful thing, change. But for now, Lily remains changeless... or at least, unblemished by the world.
And just like that, she disappears. Nights like this, I can see her as clearly as I can see my own moonlit hands, and yet when she goes, no image remains. Just a feeling... and until I see her again, that feeling is enough to keep me wondering.
Lily is my daughter.
Maybe.
Someday.
For now, though, she's just a dream.
That's all for now.
Tomorrow will mark a change in this city. The women will hit the streets in fresh skirts and short sleeves, sunglasses and sharp colors. Spring in New York City is a season of display. I, for one, will be out in Central Park enjoying my ritual 7-mile track in rollerblades.
But before tomorrow is tonight.
Tonight, the full moon's gleam sits like a glaze on the rooftops of Upper Manhattan.
And tonight I'm thinking about Lily.
Lillian, or Lily as she likes to be called, is the kind of girl who you never need to meet to know. Too young, perhaps, to hide her flaws, which are few, and too lovely for them to really matter. Though merely eight years old, she has the stance and strut of an eighteen year old, which scares the living bejeezus out of her father.
I don't know what makes her come to mind... something in the way the light passes through my murky window paints the mind a thousand different shades of curious. Maybe it's the thought of Spring.
Lily loves springtime. This she likely gets from her mother, as her father... more from birth than choice, loves the thought of a warm shelter in a cold climate, while her mother loves any excuse to shed her layers and, flower-like, lock lips with the midday sun. The girl runs away, though, and this is worrisome. Not away from home, not even away really, just... runs. As if the world were made of corners around which lie an even greater adventure.
And perhaps it is. I mean, in the eyes of an eight year old girl, everything has the potential for adventure. Some part of me misses that. I miss the days when there were more questions than answers... knowledge is a cruel neighbor.
Eight is a beautiful age. Long before the drama of judgmental 7th graders or the lascivious libidos of high school boys, she is this perfect innocent creature. I don't know how her father will deal with a thirteen year old Lily... I couldn't even imagine. I suppose one becomes the parent they need to be when they need to be it. Parents grow too, it would seem. I never thought about that. And Lily will have dreams of greater things, of real things. You see, when a child dreams, she dreams of fantastical things... castles and riches and handsome princes... but they don't have faces in dreams. They don't have names or addresses. But as she grows, she collects these things... she finds her real life princes and learns that princes can be villains and that castles aren't always on steady ground. And something in me already wants to shield her from such things.
I think of Lily and I wonder who she'll be when she grows into Lillian. It's amazing that we grow into anything at all, really. I'm daily inspired by the changes in people; how we think of ourselves as standing still, while the world evolves us all every minute. It's a beautiful and powerful thing, change. But for now, Lily remains changeless... or at least, unblemished by the world.
And just like that, she disappears. Nights like this, I can see her as clearly as I can see my own moonlit hands, and yet when she goes, no image remains. Just a feeling... and until I see her again, that feeling is enough to keep me wondering.
Lily is my daughter.
Maybe.
Someday.
For now, though, she's just a dream.
That's all for now.
Monday, March 29, 2010
...My Maroon Futon. NY, NY.
The rain is slapping patches on the window. It all brings me back.
To water colors. Grade school. Afternoons where my hands ran slipshod across paper, rampant and stupid and somehow, impossibly, uncaring whether they reach something great or just make a mess.
Somewhere in life we start cleaning up after ourselves.
There comes a time when it's not alright anymore to just see where the road takes us... too many dead ends or something, right? I miss the days when we walked the halls, our muddied, paint dripping hands against our slowly dirtying clothes, nonplussed by the whole affair. Or maybe enjoying it... small validation of existence that they are... our little stains.
What happens to these marks along the way? Detergent. Brooms and mops and vacuums... we live in a society that grows out of its roots, or rather is pulled, weed-like, from the fertile earth of adolescence... into the world of expectations. The world of consequences and no more second chances.
I can see it now, the two of us standing next to the lake... the rain is just beginning... the mosquitoes fleeing the scene, making room for the lightning to come... we look at each other and without words have the conversation we'd had all week... about Summers and worlds apart and consequences and the sweetness of subtle mistakes... about nothing really but in the moonlight it seems like everything just then.
I see myself running through the rain... down Lexington in the midst of a brutally sudden downpour. The sky, shades of violet and peach, with a sliver of green... the drops, wet gobs... tiny bursts with each impact. Several times I look behind me to see if a stranger has cared to follow my momentary footprints in the water, but they fall flat and rejoin the pool before others can enjoy their sanctuary. Warm though, the mid-September rain.
I hear the crack of thunder and I can almost feel the power go out of the house... like one big whip extinguishing the light from a candle. It shakes the place... the walls shudder at the tremendous force of it all and the stillness that follows rings like a church bell in my chest. We begin to think of things to do... my mind always devising adventures... maybe there's a body to be found somewhere in some quarry! Perhaps a book that's been left unread all these years will finally get its due. Or maybe, and this is the most likely of all scenarios, I'll see how long the electric devices in the house can operate on batteries... and then reach for my guitar.
This nearly April rain has the kiss of spring in her heart. She is that flicker warm, like the first moments of a bonfire or the sunrise. She promises that soon the rest will follow. Soon there will be grass, and trees filled with new life, parents chasing children into the cavernous depths of our most sublime Central Park. She says, in a voice that is a whisper in my ear during a rousing chorus of applause, that after the rain, the world is always a little more alive. And everything is new again.
That's all for now.
To water colors. Grade school. Afternoons where my hands ran slipshod across paper, rampant and stupid and somehow, impossibly, uncaring whether they reach something great or just make a mess.
Somewhere in life we start cleaning up after ourselves.
There comes a time when it's not alright anymore to just see where the road takes us... too many dead ends or something, right? I miss the days when we walked the halls, our muddied, paint dripping hands against our slowly dirtying clothes, nonplussed by the whole affair. Or maybe enjoying it... small validation of existence that they are... our little stains.
What happens to these marks along the way? Detergent. Brooms and mops and vacuums... we live in a society that grows out of its roots, or rather is pulled, weed-like, from the fertile earth of adolescence... into the world of expectations. The world of consequences and no more second chances.
I can see it now, the two of us standing next to the lake... the rain is just beginning... the mosquitoes fleeing the scene, making room for the lightning to come... we look at each other and without words have the conversation we'd had all week... about Summers and worlds apart and consequences and the sweetness of subtle mistakes... about nothing really but in the moonlight it seems like everything just then.
I see myself running through the rain... down Lexington in the midst of a brutally sudden downpour. The sky, shades of violet and peach, with a sliver of green... the drops, wet gobs... tiny bursts with each impact. Several times I look behind me to see if a stranger has cared to follow my momentary footprints in the water, but they fall flat and rejoin the pool before others can enjoy their sanctuary. Warm though, the mid-September rain.
I hear the crack of thunder and I can almost feel the power go out of the house... like one big whip extinguishing the light from a candle. It shakes the place... the walls shudder at the tremendous force of it all and the stillness that follows rings like a church bell in my chest. We begin to think of things to do... my mind always devising adventures... maybe there's a body to be found somewhere in some quarry! Perhaps a book that's been left unread all these years will finally get its due. Or maybe, and this is the most likely of all scenarios, I'll see how long the electric devices in the house can operate on batteries... and then reach for my guitar.
This nearly April rain has the kiss of spring in her heart. She is that flicker warm, like the first moments of a bonfire or the sunrise. She promises that soon the rest will follow. Soon there will be grass, and trees filled with new life, parents chasing children into the cavernous depths of our most sublime Central Park. She says, in a voice that is a whisper in my ear during a rousing chorus of applause, that after the rain, the world is always a little more alive. And everything is new again.
That's all for now.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
...My Own Bed, Midday. NY, NY
The wax trails between my brain and my body are reconvening. They are forming new paths to new places and unstitching old habits. Slowly. I lay in bed and watch the midday sun play royally across the hazy, cloud swept afternoon sky this Saturday after a morning of readying my book for auditions tomorrow. Back to the old grindstone. I explained to Kat that my love for auditioning is almost matched by my loathing for thinking about auditioning. Like working out. I hate thinking about exercising... the thought of waking up early mornings, going to the gym... but actually exercising is really quite enjoyable.
I hope I can make some plans for tonight. Kat is having a girls' night and I haven't been able to reach any friends to make arrangements. If you're a friend... call, won't you? Be a pal. Anyway... I'm off to continue my work, just checking in.
That's all for now.
I hope I can make some plans for tonight. Kat is having a girls' night and I haven't been able to reach any friends to make arrangements. If you're a friend... call, won't you? Be a pal. Anyway... I'm off to continue my work, just checking in.
That's all for now.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
...My Own (well, my side of the) Bed, NY, NY.
Ah... joyous night!
Back in my lovely city at last! It has been far too long.
I forgot how much I love the shade of red paint on my bedroom ceiling... it's amazing what we lose in such a short time. I forgot the funny wonderful stale warm smell of this place when you walk through the door, and how clean it is when I'm not around for a while (Kat is to blame for the tidiness). It's good to be home.
Let's backtrack to the exciting story of leaving Wauconda, though... for those of you following along.
By about Noon central time, Vicki, in a feat of superhuman resiliency on her part (if she had anywhere near the severity of symptoms as I myself had just a day before) was ready to leave the house and head out with us towards New York. During the drive, I read my book for a little while (a delightful novel called "How to Buy A Love of Reading" by Tanya Egan Gibson... give it a read!) and then ventured into a favorite pastime called "Sleeping in a Crowded Van" which mainly consists of crunching yourself into an inhuman, beyond yoga even position where your only hope is that your uncomfortable parts fall asleep or at least numb quickly so as to allow a measure of comfort in sleep.
After a couple hours of napping, and a stop at a rest-stop/eatery-palooza that was more overpriced than most New York establishments (a Whopper for 5 bucks? bitch please), I decided to watch a couple movies I had packed with me for the three weeks away but had yet to view. I started with the Robert DeNiro movie, Everybody's Fine. The movie was really quite endearing, but after an hour and a couple minutes, the disc started skipping uncontrollably, so I had to stop. Sad day. I decided I would finish it when I get home. Um... which is now. So... it'll be done soon enough I suppose. Anyway, the part I saw was really quite satisfying... to a person who is satisfied by morose characters.
After that, I watched It's Complicated. I liked it a lot. Alec Baldwin delivers a great performance, as does Meryl Streep (which practically goes without saying at this point in her career--I'm pretty sure her bowel movements get nominated for something or other). Steve Martin was good, if a slight bit underused for how the film had been promoted. I thought it was going to be this big conflict between the boyfriend and the ex-husband, when it's really more of a conflict between two ex-lovers with the boyfriend thrown in last minute to offer Streep's character a chance for some kind of external redemption. Fine enough, works for me. Of course, John Krasinski is great in this too. Oh you didn't know he was in it? Yeah. He is. And he's outstanding. I don't even care that most of his characters are the same... he as an individual is outrageously likable and dammit I'll buy it every time.
Anyway, the movie had me laughing and then I realized that I was feeling good. Not just better, but good. My body was producing endorphins again! It was like an immense sugar rush that lasted for hours, but without the awkward jitters or the crash... just natural high. Good stuff.
Anyway, soon after this, we were approaching the 7 hour mark on our journey and Kris tells us we have to exit the highway and find a hotel. Why, you ask? Because she is Nauseous! The nefarious virus strikes AGAAAAIN!
So, we begrudgingly check in to this Econo Lodge in Youngstown, OH for the night and make camp there. Mike and I left to get food and we got some pretty decent Chinese food in town (IMPORTANT DETAIL!!!) and brought it back to the motel to eat and then go to sleep. I ate the large Wonton Soup (which was really good) and a little bit of my Chow Mein and then I went to bed an hour or so later.)
I woke up feeling like a dumpster filled with vomit and tears... and my head felt like there was another head inside it trying to tunnel its way out to see the new world. Neither of these were appreciated, obviously, as I had hoped the euphoric feeling of the night before was a sign of my return to good health and the banishment of this horrible disease from my system.
We got in the car and headed out on the road dreadfully early. Well, 8 a.m. But... yeah, dreadfully early. Vicki graciously took first shift at driving, because of my aforementioned state of being, and I just went to sleep in the back. Some four hours later (hoping that if I didn't move, people would just keep driving until we made it to New York) I was nudged to take the wheel. Dammit. So, I got out of the car, took a few steps and my stomach felt okay... but... woah... my head felt a hot air balloon fastened to my neck by a rickety tin hinge. I wasn't going to say I couldn't drive... it was time to, as the side of the truck from Texas sitting beside us read, "Cowboy Up". So, I went inside to find the appropriate medicinal relief for this ailment. Finally Kris found something in her purse that was supposed to help whatever it was that was affecting me. So, I popped the pills and headed out on the road.
The first hour or so of driving was kind of terrifying... for me. Everyone else was conked out asleep. I was driving around eighty miles an hour in this damn van and my head was about as foggy as a worn out magic eight ball so I had to work to keep the car in between the lines. So that was fun. And potentially life threatening. After an hour or so, though, the fog lifted and my head cleared. I felt pretty much the way I felt the night before, energetic, even slightly euphoric. About half an hour outside of the city though... another emergency stop was requested...!
Now, for those of you playing at home... which castmember has yet to lose their lunch?
If you guessed Mike... you were right! However, technically didn't lose his lunch... it was... you guessed it, the Chinese Dinner from last night! (told that was important) That's right folks, in an epic display of both manliness and awfulness, I pulled over on the side of the highway and Mike let forth a geyser of disgusting proportions. It was pretty epic. Afterward, he got back in the van with the nonchalance of someone who'd just peed in an alley, seemingly back in good spirits, and we returned to the road and to New York without further impediment.
I spent the afternoon getting into my New York spring time groove. I got home and showered, oh so necessary, and headed down to West 72nd street to be among the people. I hit up Urban Outfitters for an essential pair of welcome to Spring sunglasses... they're awesome... just wait and see... and a further essential pair of frankfurters from the Gray's Papaya across the street. I sat on the benches and relished (no pun intended) the gaze of the handsome gay guys checking me out (why does this always happen? I mean not that I want women checking me out all the time... I'm in a relationship... hello? but, just, you know... it'd be nice... every once in a while. I'd be such a hot gay, it's crazy. or maybe my appeal is my straightness... hmmm... any gays reading this... please explain?) Anyway, I met up with Kat up by our apartment after we realized that we had just ridden the same train uptown for the past 20 minutes (a common New York occurrence for you outsiders) and had the perfunctory Armistice Day kiss in Times Square moment, except instead of a sailor and a nurse it was us and instead of Times Square, it was 162nd and Amsterdam, but other than that... the same. Well, I could go on with what happened after that, but I'll just let your minds wander...
I suppose that's all for now.
Back in my lovely city at last! It has been far too long.
I forgot how much I love the shade of red paint on my bedroom ceiling... it's amazing what we lose in such a short time. I forgot the funny wonderful stale warm smell of this place when you walk through the door, and how clean it is when I'm not around for a while (Kat is to blame for the tidiness). It's good to be home.
Let's backtrack to the exciting story of leaving Wauconda, though... for those of you following along.
By about Noon central time, Vicki, in a feat of superhuman resiliency on her part (if she had anywhere near the severity of symptoms as I myself had just a day before) was ready to leave the house and head out with us towards New York. During the drive, I read my book for a little while (a delightful novel called "How to Buy A Love of Reading" by Tanya Egan Gibson... give it a read!) and then ventured into a favorite pastime called "Sleeping in a Crowded Van" which mainly consists of crunching yourself into an inhuman, beyond yoga even position where your only hope is that your uncomfortable parts fall asleep or at least numb quickly so as to allow a measure of comfort in sleep.
After a couple hours of napping, and a stop at a rest-stop/eatery-palooza that was more overpriced than most New York establishments (a Whopper for 5 bucks? bitch please), I decided to watch a couple movies I had packed with me for the three weeks away but had yet to view. I started with the Robert DeNiro movie, Everybody's Fine. The movie was really quite endearing, but after an hour and a couple minutes, the disc started skipping uncontrollably, so I had to stop. Sad day. I decided I would finish it when I get home. Um... which is now. So... it'll be done soon enough I suppose. Anyway, the part I saw was really quite satisfying... to a person who is satisfied by morose characters.
After that, I watched It's Complicated. I liked it a lot. Alec Baldwin delivers a great performance, as does Meryl Streep (which practically goes without saying at this point in her career--I'm pretty sure her bowel movements get nominated for something or other). Steve Martin was good, if a slight bit underused for how the film had been promoted. I thought it was going to be this big conflict between the boyfriend and the ex-husband, when it's really more of a conflict between two ex-lovers with the boyfriend thrown in last minute to offer Streep's character a chance for some kind of external redemption. Fine enough, works for me. Of course, John Krasinski is great in this too. Oh you didn't know he was in it? Yeah. He is. And he's outstanding. I don't even care that most of his characters are the same... he as an individual is outrageously likable and dammit I'll buy it every time.
Anyway, the movie had me laughing and then I realized that I was feeling good. Not just better, but good. My body was producing endorphins again! It was like an immense sugar rush that lasted for hours, but without the awkward jitters or the crash... just natural high. Good stuff.
Anyway, soon after this, we were approaching the 7 hour mark on our journey and Kris tells us we have to exit the highway and find a hotel. Why, you ask? Because she is Nauseous! The nefarious virus strikes AGAAAAIN!
So, we begrudgingly check in to this Econo Lodge in Youngstown, OH for the night and make camp there. Mike and I left to get food and we got some pretty decent Chinese food in town (IMPORTANT DETAIL!!!) and brought it back to the motel to eat and then go to sleep. I ate the large Wonton Soup (which was really good) and a little bit of my Chow Mein and then I went to bed an hour or so later.)
I woke up feeling like a dumpster filled with vomit and tears... and my head felt like there was another head inside it trying to tunnel its way out to see the new world. Neither of these were appreciated, obviously, as I had hoped the euphoric feeling of the night before was a sign of my return to good health and the banishment of this horrible disease from my system.
We got in the car and headed out on the road dreadfully early. Well, 8 a.m. But... yeah, dreadfully early. Vicki graciously took first shift at driving, because of my aforementioned state of being, and I just went to sleep in the back. Some four hours later (hoping that if I didn't move, people would just keep driving until we made it to New York) I was nudged to take the wheel. Dammit. So, I got out of the car, took a few steps and my stomach felt okay... but... woah... my head felt a hot air balloon fastened to my neck by a rickety tin hinge. I wasn't going to say I couldn't drive... it was time to, as the side of the truck from Texas sitting beside us read, "Cowboy Up". So, I went inside to find the appropriate medicinal relief for this ailment. Finally Kris found something in her purse that was supposed to help whatever it was that was affecting me. So, I popped the pills and headed out on the road.
The first hour or so of driving was kind of terrifying... for me. Everyone else was conked out asleep. I was driving around eighty miles an hour in this damn van and my head was about as foggy as a worn out magic eight ball so I had to work to keep the car in between the lines. So that was fun. And potentially life threatening. After an hour or so, though, the fog lifted and my head cleared. I felt pretty much the way I felt the night before, energetic, even slightly euphoric. About half an hour outside of the city though... another emergency stop was requested...!
Now, for those of you playing at home... which castmember has yet to lose their lunch?
If you guessed Mike... you were right! However, technically didn't lose his lunch... it was... you guessed it, the Chinese Dinner from last night! (told that was important) That's right folks, in an epic display of both manliness and awfulness, I pulled over on the side of the highway and Mike let forth a geyser of disgusting proportions. It was pretty epic. Afterward, he got back in the van with the nonchalance of someone who'd just peed in an alley, seemingly back in good spirits, and we returned to the road and to New York without further impediment.
I spent the afternoon getting into my New York spring time groove. I got home and showered, oh so necessary, and headed down to West 72nd street to be among the people. I hit up Urban Outfitters for an essential pair of welcome to Spring sunglasses... they're awesome... just wait and see... and a further essential pair of frankfurters from the Gray's Papaya across the street. I sat on the benches and relished (no pun intended) the gaze of the handsome gay guys checking me out (why does this always happen? I mean not that I want women checking me out all the time... I'm in a relationship... hello? but, just, you know... it'd be nice... every once in a while. I'd be such a hot gay, it's crazy. or maybe my appeal is my straightness... hmmm... any gays reading this... please explain?) Anyway, I met up with Kat up by our apartment after we realized that we had just ridden the same train uptown for the past 20 minutes (a common New York occurrence for you outsiders) and had the perfunctory Armistice Day kiss in Times Square moment, except instead of a sailor and a nurse it was us and instead of Times Square, it was 162nd and Amsterdam, but other than that... the same. Well, I could go on with what happened after that, but I'll just let your minds wander...
I suppose that's all for now.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
...a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL
It is 11:52 a.m.
At 9:00 a.m. myself and my castmates were supposed to have left Wauconda for New York City (stopping for the night in State College, PA).
Needless to say, this is not the blog posting I had planned for today.
A bit of background:
I spent the good part of the past week coughing up everything coughable, having succumbed to some respiratory illness. Vicky, my fellow cast member, somewhat sick for most of the tour, also seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms. We spent two days in a Madison hotel room being ill and nothing more.
After Madison, we made our way North to Rhinelander, WI. I noticed something was off when we stopped for lunch and the garlic bread tasted funny. Either I was turning into a vampire, or something else was affecting my nerves and my system. The next 12 or so hours were spent vomiting in a hotel room toilet... good times, beyond compare. Assuming this was food poisoning, as I had experienced in the past, I took solace in knowing it would be over by the next day.
Which it was. To a point. I felt awful in the morning. Without energy, my body not absorbing any nutrients over the past day, I had to begin the difficult process of slowly refueling. We performed two shows that day. I felt like I was watching the whole thing on Closed Circuit Television, like I was sitting in the audience or something... my limbs were moving, sound was issuing from my mouth, but I didn't feel like I was controlling much of any of it. From Rhinelander, we piled into the van and traveled south, to rest for the night in Wauconda, IL (at my Dad's house) before continuing on to Pennsylvania and then back, finally, to New York City.
Which brings us here.
In the night, it seems, Vicki's system began acting precisely as mine had just days before, which goes to the point that what I had suffered was not food poisoning but something far more insidious. Now we sit and wait for some sort of sign that we can get on the road... which isn't looking too damn likely at the moment.
I miss home. An inordinate amount. I want to be in my bed, with my love, and not, comfortable as it is, in a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL. I've been away from New York City about as long as I'm comfortable for the moment and away from my girlfriend longer than I comfortable with.
In other words... we need to get the hell out of dodge and we need to do it now.
That's all for now.
At 9:00 a.m. myself and my castmates were supposed to have left Wauconda for New York City (stopping for the night in State College, PA).
Needless to say, this is not the blog posting I had planned for today.
A bit of background:
I spent the good part of the past week coughing up everything coughable, having succumbed to some respiratory illness. Vicky, my fellow cast member, somewhat sick for most of the tour, also seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms. We spent two days in a Madison hotel room being ill and nothing more.
After Madison, we made our way North to Rhinelander, WI. I noticed something was off when we stopped for lunch and the garlic bread tasted funny. Either I was turning into a vampire, or something else was affecting my nerves and my system. The next 12 or so hours were spent vomiting in a hotel room toilet... good times, beyond compare. Assuming this was food poisoning, as I had experienced in the past, I took solace in knowing it would be over by the next day.
Which it was. To a point. I felt awful in the morning. Without energy, my body not absorbing any nutrients over the past day, I had to begin the difficult process of slowly refueling. We performed two shows that day. I felt like I was watching the whole thing on Closed Circuit Television, like I was sitting in the audience or something... my limbs were moving, sound was issuing from my mouth, but I didn't feel like I was controlling much of any of it. From Rhinelander, we piled into the van and traveled south, to rest for the night in Wauconda, IL (at my Dad's house) before continuing on to Pennsylvania and then back, finally, to New York City.
Which brings us here.
In the night, it seems, Vicki's system began acting precisely as mine had just days before, which goes to the point that what I had suffered was not food poisoning but something far more insidious. Now we sit and wait for some sort of sign that we can get on the road... which isn't looking too damn likely at the moment.
I miss home. An inordinate amount. I want to be in my bed, with my love, and not, comfortable as it is, in a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL. I've been away from New York City about as long as I'm comfortable for the moment and away from my girlfriend longer than I comfortable with.
In other words... we need to get the hell out of dodge and we need to do it now.
That's all for now.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
...a Carpeted Hallway in a Madison
The Best Western is a comfortable enough place to be ill. Soft sheets, cable television (no Comedy Central somehow...) and free breakfast (not that I woke up anywhere near early enough to partake). I spent most of the day in bed avoiding the daylight behind the curtains. The room stayed in twilight till about 2 in the afternoon when I finally left for a bit of air and a bite to eat.
I walked to the Panera to get a salad for lunch. For some reason, I donned a Scottish accent when the lady asked me what I wanted. It's my way of not dealing with people when I'm not in the mood. I pretend I have a much better goal in life at the moment, an import Scottish goal that I will be dealing with just as soon as I pick up my salad and leave this place. I don't obviously, so when I leave I walk along the road for 25 minutes aimlessly.
This floor is a dreadful deep green with a pattern of dirty red and yellow flowers streaking down the hallway. I wonder who chooses these patterns? It makes me think of Casinos--how they purposefully design the places, the lighting, the music, whatever, just to put people in a gambling state of mind. What then is this dreary pattern meant to pull me towards? Suicide? I guess not... it's really just peculiar enough to notice but not special enough to remember. It's background... or I suppose... just ground.
Hotels are fascinating places. No matter what, they have this fantastical element to them. To some, they are an escape, to others, a chore, and yet there are still others who come to work at hotels everyday.
I wonder what it's like to be one of the million hotel staff that work every day in this country. I suppose I could imagine working at the front desk. It's not dissimilar to my work at the restaurant... greeting people, dealing with their arrival, their needs. Fine. I could perhaps see myself as a busboy. But only for the stories... I imagine that busboys have the advantage of really seeing the hidden world of these places... they know the regulars, they know who takes towels, who doesn't tip... busboys learn how to size up other people fairly readily. Then, of course, we have the housekeepers. This is a job beyond my own imagination. I can't believe anybody would choose to do such a job. I understand the propensity towards keeping your area clean, I live with Kat Barnes... this goes without saying, but I don't understand how you could make a living cleaning up other peoples messes for a living. Part of the joy of living is making messes, and it makes cleaning a little less strenuous... knowing that at least it was fun at the time, it was worth the repair. I understand that people need to scratch out a living, and there are far worse ways to earn a living... I would just never choose to be a housekeeper.
I've made a small mountain out of balled up tissues on my nightstand... Mt.Killamanslowly. It hurts less to cough tonight than it did this morning, but i don't see much hope for improvement very soon.
Side note, I've figured out the source material for my upcoming project which is exciting. I'll slowly be telling the relevant parties, but I won't be going public with it until the project is in some sort of viable stage. This is both for reasons of keeping it secure, also avoiding any potential legal issues before securing the rights, and also to ensure the creative integrity of the process. Sorry guys, but you'll just have to find out with everyone else. If you're involved in the project, though, you'll be informed when we meet.
That's all for now.
I walked to the Panera to get a salad for lunch. For some reason, I donned a Scottish accent when the lady asked me what I wanted. It's my way of not dealing with people when I'm not in the mood. I pretend I have a much better goal in life at the moment, an import Scottish goal that I will be dealing with just as soon as I pick up my salad and leave this place. I don't obviously, so when I leave I walk along the road for 25 minutes aimlessly.
This floor is a dreadful deep green with a pattern of dirty red and yellow flowers streaking down the hallway. I wonder who chooses these patterns? It makes me think of Casinos--how they purposefully design the places, the lighting, the music, whatever, just to put people in a gambling state of mind. What then is this dreary pattern meant to pull me towards? Suicide? I guess not... it's really just peculiar enough to notice but not special enough to remember. It's background... or I suppose... just ground.
Hotels are fascinating places. No matter what, they have this fantastical element to them. To some, they are an escape, to others, a chore, and yet there are still others who come to work at hotels everyday.
I wonder what it's like to be one of the million hotel staff that work every day in this country. I suppose I could imagine working at the front desk. It's not dissimilar to my work at the restaurant... greeting people, dealing with their arrival, their needs. Fine. I could perhaps see myself as a busboy. But only for the stories... I imagine that busboys have the advantage of really seeing the hidden world of these places... they know the regulars, they know who takes towels, who doesn't tip... busboys learn how to size up other people fairly readily. Then, of course, we have the housekeepers. This is a job beyond my own imagination. I can't believe anybody would choose to do such a job. I understand the propensity towards keeping your area clean, I live with Kat Barnes... this goes without saying, but I don't understand how you could make a living cleaning up other peoples messes for a living. Part of the joy of living is making messes, and it makes cleaning a little less strenuous... knowing that at least it was fun at the time, it was worth the repair. I understand that people need to scratch out a living, and there are far worse ways to earn a living... I would just never choose to be a housekeeper.
I've made a small mountain out of balled up tissues on my nightstand... Mt.Killamanslowly. It hurts less to cough tonight than it did this morning, but i don't see much hope for improvement very soon.
Side note, I've figured out the source material for my upcoming project which is exciting. I'll slowly be telling the relevant parties, but I won't be going public with it until the project is in some sort of viable stage. This is both for reasons of keeping it secure, also avoiding any potential legal issues before securing the rights, and also to ensure the creative integrity of the process. Sorry guys, but you'll just have to find out with everyone else. If you're involved in the project, though, you'll be informed when we meet.
That's all for now.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
...a Third Story Window in Madison
Red lights hang like low-flying stars tonight.
In the distance, radio towers send out tendrils of music, voices calling out in the darkness towards the cars rolling along the expressway towards their myriad destinations. The home depot sits steady and glowing orange across the way.
The cold air travels through the cotton of my socks, to the tips of my toes, through my nerves, synapses sending shivers to my chest. My shaking is a wrestling match between this disease and my white blood cell battalions. Obviously I'm rooting for my immune system... supplying it with endless vitamins and rest (at least a days worth in a hotel if one can call that rest).
The song playing in my headphones is Sarah by Ray Lamontagne. It makes me think of the many Sarahs that have crossed my path. On average, Sarah (or Sara as she'll sometimes spell it) is a pretty normal girl if you don't get to know her, but there's always a hidden force. There's some indie retro gloss under that plain pretty packaging. Sara(h) has always had friends, never had too much trouble fitting in, or at least not by the time we meet. By then, she's found her place in the world. More often than not, she's Jewish. For Ray Lamontagne, Sarah draws up memories of childhood. Running around reckless in the grain... wild childish abandon... in me, she draws up memories of the conservative Sarah of Hebrew School, the cute, wild cheerleader Sara of AP Junior English and the indie rocker Sara from Elementary School all the way to Senior Year Creative Writing with Jim Barnabee. Sarahs can stick to your brain sometimes, without your choosing. And sometimes you don't even know they're there... like a burr that catches you when you're not looking. Hello Sarahs. Wherever you are.
Sufjan Stevens is singing now. About my home state of Illinois no less. I suppose when you set a simple thing to music, it because much more magical. Its why I choose to look at the world through my ears before anything else... my ears can be better diggers than my other senses, clawing their way through the distractions to the truth of the matter. So long as I don't keep playing my music this loudly, I suppose.
No seeing stars here, I'm afraid. Not the real stars anyway. I can see the big dipper and some of Orion... there's Sirius hanging in the sky, these are just the greatest hits. I'm much more a fan of those places of pure black when the stars almost light the way... so remarkably stark against the deep dark sky and the ground under foot that they seem to etch trails through the grass... those are stars.
I wonder, if one day we'll use satellites to simulate starlight. Once we've artificially lit the whole world and night is simply the flip of a switch, will we hang the stars ourselves? Will we redraw the constellations to tell a new story? Will my horoscope no longer matter? So many questions...
That's all for now.
In the distance, radio towers send out tendrils of music, voices calling out in the darkness towards the cars rolling along the expressway towards their myriad destinations. The home depot sits steady and glowing orange across the way.
The cold air travels through the cotton of my socks, to the tips of my toes, through my nerves, synapses sending shivers to my chest. My shaking is a wrestling match between this disease and my white blood cell battalions. Obviously I'm rooting for my immune system... supplying it with endless vitamins and rest (at least a days worth in a hotel if one can call that rest).
The song playing in my headphones is Sarah by Ray Lamontagne. It makes me think of the many Sarahs that have crossed my path. On average, Sarah (or Sara as she'll sometimes spell it) is a pretty normal girl if you don't get to know her, but there's always a hidden force. There's some indie retro gloss under that plain pretty packaging. Sara(h) has always had friends, never had too much trouble fitting in, or at least not by the time we meet. By then, she's found her place in the world. More often than not, she's Jewish. For Ray Lamontagne, Sarah draws up memories of childhood. Running around reckless in the grain... wild childish abandon... in me, she draws up memories of the conservative Sarah of Hebrew School, the cute, wild cheerleader Sara of AP Junior English and the indie rocker Sara from Elementary School all the way to Senior Year Creative Writing with Jim Barnabee. Sarahs can stick to your brain sometimes, without your choosing. And sometimes you don't even know they're there... like a burr that catches you when you're not looking. Hello Sarahs. Wherever you are.
Sufjan Stevens is singing now. About my home state of Illinois no less. I suppose when you set a simple thing to music, it because much more magical. Its why I choose to look at the world through my ears before anything else... my ears can be better diggers than my other senses, clawing their way through the distractions to the truth of the matter. So long as I don't keep playing my music this loudly, I suppose.
No seeing stars here, I'm afraid. Not the real stars anyway. I can see the big dipper and some of Orion... there's Sirius hanging in the sky, these are just the greatest hits. I'm much more a fan of those places of pure black when the stars almost light the way... so remarkably stark against the deep dark sky and the ground under foot that they seem to etch trails through the grass... those are stars.
I wonder, if one day we'll use satellites to simulate starlight. Once we've artificially lit the whole world and night is simply the flip of a switch, will we hang the stars ourselves? Will we redraw the constellations to tell a new story? Will my horoscope no longer matter? So many questions...
That's all for now.
Monday, March 15, 2010
...the Same Too Small Twin Bed
Illness is like stillness. I can't stand it. Ironically one induces the other. I mention it because I feel the grip of la grippe closing in on me... some devilish mix of what feels like Mono with a side of ass kick to the face. Being sick doesn't hit me well. I guess nobody goes gracefully into the arms of a disease, but it's just difficult for me because it always affects what I need most... my voice and my energy. I suppose however, this is just karmic retribution for their overuse all the healthy days of my life, so I can't say it isn't without its merits. Just timing-wise it sort of blows with a capital LOWS.
Chicago presented herself in all her frail bitter wonder today, as we managed to escape suburbia for the afternoon and jet on up to the city for a deep dish lunch and a mid-day stroll. I didn't trust the flashing bank signs that displayed the temperature as 52 degrees. Possibly because it felt much colder, but also maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had yet to adjust the clock to the new correct time.
Ellen and I met in the evening for a meal... well, she ate and I had a cookie and chocolate milk because I was more than full from the deep dish. We talked about the state of the inner city school she was working in... and her struggles with the various men coming in and out of her life. Ellen doesn't realize it, but if she were a writer, her memoir would be a great read. She has a great way of telling a story about anything and making it seem like something out of a novel.
On the train back I kept falling asleep between stations and death cab for cutie songs, not knowing the route exactly, one ear was always waiting for the announcement of my stop. Two giant fat girls were making fun of themselves in the nearby seats and they were glad I chuckled when I overheard them discussing their fear of disembarking from the train, having to jump onto the platform and quite possibly falling face first on the pavement. I don't mind big fat people who don't mind being big and fat. It's kind of refreshing in a strange way. Like handicapped people who don't live their lives as a constant reminder to everyone that they're handicapped.
I miss Kat. I can tell she misses me more than she wants to say. I think we level each other out when we're around one another. Things never get too stressful or harsh. It's like I'm the saucer to her teacup. She knows that she can always spill over onto me and it'll cool things off right away. I love her. My lovely teacup. And to me... she's like the green thumb to my bonsai tree. She takes my complex miniature chaos and keeps it from overwhelming the bounds of grounded, potted life. Thanks baby, for your zen. And for watering me daily.
That's all for now.
Chicago presented herself in all her frail bitter wonder today, as we managed to escape suburbia for the afternoon and jet on up to the city for a deep dish lunch and a mid-day stroll. I didn't trust the flashing bank signs that displayed the temperature as 52 degrees. Possibly because it felt much colder, but also maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had yet to adjust the clock to the new correct time.
Ellen and I met in the evening for a meal... well, she ate and I had a cookie and chocolate milk because I was more than full from the deep dish. We talked about the state of the inner city school she was working in... and her struggles with the various men coming in and out of her life. Ellen doesn't realize it, but if she were a writer, her memoir would be a great read. She has a great way of telling a story about anything and making it seem like something out of a novel.
On the train back I kept falling asleep between stations and death cab for cutie songs, not knowing the route exactly, one ear was always waiting for the announcement of my stop. Two giant fat girls were making fun of themselves in the nearby seats and they were glad I chuckled when I overheard them discussing their fear of disembarking from the train, having to jump onto the platform and quite possibly falling face first on the pavement. I don't mind big fat people who don't mind being big and fat. It's kind of refreshing in a strange way. Like handicapped people who don't live their lives as a constant reminder to everyone that they're handicapped.
I miss Kat. I can tell she misses me more than she wants to say. I think we level each other out when we're around one another. Things never get too stressful or harsh. It's like I'm the saucer to her teacup. She knows that she can always spill over onto me and it'll cool things off right away. I love her. My lovely teacup. And to me... she's like the green thumb to my bonsai tree. She takes my complex miniature chaos and keeps it from overwhelming the bounds of grounded, potted life. Thanks baby, for your zen. And for watering me daily.
That's all for now.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
...a Twin Bed in a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL
There are people in this world that make you absolutely certain of your worth. Noelle is one of those people. Breakfast today was wonderfully relaxing and strange, the way most of our interactions seem to be. She has dreams that only few people get to hear and I'm really fortunate to be one of them. We're two people with a perpetual force called 'tension you can cut with a knife' but we manage to balance it on our heads like the women carrying water buckets in Nairobi.
After we went our separate ways, I drove around the area looking for places to waste some disposable income. I went to my favorite clothing stores, the mall, best buy, even target... didn't spend a penny. I'm quite proud of the fact.
I also stopped by a cosmetics store at worked at through high school to find that Kay, a retired school teacher,who used to work with me in fragrance is still working there. It was nice to see her, of course, but she looked a little bit worse for the wear. Also, she was telling me about her nearly finalized divorce from a husband she called a 'lazy bloodsucking bum' and it stung to hear her talk about him that way. I say that because, years ago, when I worked at the store, she would talk about him with such pride... describe all the things he was working on and to see that relationship turn sour hurts somehow. Either way, I hope it's for the best and that she'll be happy now, she's a sweet woman and certainly deserves it.
I keep hoping I'll run into people I know here at the stores or in the streets. Maybe it's because so many people who start here never get too far away from their beginnings. Most people who grow up in these suburbs stay around for the rest of their lives. It's so different from the city, I think, because even a person who lives their whole life in the city has dramatic changes every few years. The city has a different world every few blocks, and my Spanish Harlem years are nothing like my Washington Heights years, just like my Upper East Side years are nothing like my Brooklyn years. Maybe it's just an urban bias rearing its ugly head, but I think I need the city to survive. Not necessarily New York City, but... the city.
That's all for now.
After we went our separate ways, I drove around the area looking for places to waste some disposable income. I went to my favorite clothing stores, the mall, best buy, even target... didn't spend a penny. I'm quite proud of the fact.
I also stopped by a cosmetics store at worked at through high school to find that Kay, a retired school teacher,who used to work with me in fragrance is still working there. It was nice to see her, of course, but she looked a little bit worse for the wear. Also, she was telling me about her nearly finalized divorce from a husband she called a 'lazy bloodsucking bum' and it stung to hear her talk about him that way. I say that because, years ago, when I worked at the store, she would talk about him with such pride... describe all the things he was working on and to see that relationship turn sour hurts somehow. Either way, I hope it's for the best and that she'll be happy now, she's a sweet woman and certainly deserves it.
I keep hoping I'll run into people I know here at the stores or in the streets. Maybe it's because so many people who start here never get too far away from their beginnings. Most people who grow up in these suburbs stay around for the rest of their lives. It's so different from the city, I think, because even a person who lives their whole life in the city has dramatic changes every few years. The city has a different world every few blocks, and my Spanish Harlem years are nothing like my Washington Heights years, just like my Upper East Side years are nothing like my Brooklyn years. Maybe it's just an urban bias rearing its ugly head, but I think I need the city to survive. Not necessarily New York City, but... the city.
That's all for now.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
...a Westbound Car Crossing Indiana
Everything translates into dots and lines of white and yellow light. Cell phones out, laptops cued... distractions abound. Mike watches the road and tries to keep us on course. The GPS is set... 122 miles to go. Ice spilled from my preparatory Iced Mocha melts on the ground beneath my shoes. My left foot edging against the driver's side seat belt release is certain to cause some discomfort, but it's really the only way I can sit without my lower extremities falling asleep, so... it'll have to do.
I love thinking about the cars passing in the opposite direction. I wonder how many of them will arrive at the place I left... life has a way of filling in the gaps, doesn't it? I wonder if the people going faster are reckless or simply, well, driven. Maybe there's urgency to their pace. We're rolling a respectable 70 at the moment, nothing to scoff at.
Just passed a mail truck. I've never met a mailman well enough to remember their name, but I respect them all. I don't understand the fat ones... just because, if your job involves walking every single day of the week (except Sunday) how do you maintain that kind of body weight? Our mail carrier in the house where I grew up had the perpetual sunburned muscular look one would expect from a postal service employee. Maybe I've just been spoiled by him.
Just passed a deer crossing sign. On the highway. Going 70. That's messed up. I think that must just be there for liability reasons, because deer or not, nothing short of divine intervention is stopping 4,000 pounds of car in any sort of time to avoid an animal. Sorry bambi.
Coming home tonight... and I think there's something there. I think we all have a different routine about coming home. Especially those of us who left for very specific reasons and moved to the other end of the country. Maybe it's just me, but I know the people I like to see when I come home, the people that basically make home somewhere to come back to, and they're not parents or siblings... they're close friends, complicated relationships that you just can't help but orbit.
Sometimes we can all be like Pluto. Just this distant dwarf rock floating in the sky far from the warmth of the heart, the shining beaming star for which we keep a hidden solitary space. I don't think it ever goes away. Even on the coldest day, once that beaming, glowing sun has us in her gaze, we're locked in for the count. But maybe there's something to be said for those far off bodies.
It's the inner conflict I love. I mean, no, obviously I hate it... but something about it oils the gears in me that somehow help me function. Sometimes I need the destruction to handle all the simple happy peace of life. Does that make any sense? I think there's something in everyone that seeks balance. For most of us that force urges us to find happiness. But what about the people who have already found their happiness? What about those old-soul trouble seekers who suddenly found the water to douse their flame? One can only live so long as a bundle of wet sticks until the longing for pure, raw heat starts to rumble. And there's nothing wrong with that. Fire shines a light, doesn't it? And as long as you don't let it burn down your house, a little light can prove very useful in dark times.
But I'm rambling.
We keep passing the sillhouettes of leafless trees in the distance. Like million fingered hands outstretched from the ground towards the sky, clawing their aged way towards greater heights... I respect their persistence, but the scars and split bark from recent lightning storms makes me question their prudence.
I wonder if the fir tree knows the distant planet. Two beings reaching for the same sun. I wonder if, moments before the lightning strikes and splits the soaking tree in two, it sees and knows everything in existence, even the other planets, or does it always understand its place in the universe?
We were all created, eons ago, by a cataclysmic cosmic collision. We really are all made of stars. We are, all of us, from our very cores, being pulled towards the same far off star.
A year from now, I'll read this and laugh. Right there. Because, as it stands, I've always looked back at myself and thought how foolish I was back then... what little I knew about the world. And I suppose that is a good thing. Better than to look back and wonder were the insight and the wisdom went. Enlightenment often means recognizing the folly of our past.
100 miles to go.
That's all for now.
I love thinking about the cars passing in the opposite direction. I wonder how many of them will arrive at the place I left... life has a way of filling in the gaps, doesn't it? I wonder if the people going faster are reckless or simply, well, driven. Maybe there's urgency to their pace. We're rolling a respectable 70 at the moment, nothing to scoff at.
Just passed a mail truck. I've never met a mailman well enough to remember their name, but I respect them all. I don't understand the fat ones... just because, if your job involves walking every single day of the week (except Sunday) how do you maintain that kind of body weight? Our mail carrier in the house where I grew up had the perpetual sunburned muscular look one would expect from a postal service employee. Maybe I've just been spoiled by him.
Just passed a deer crossing sign. On the highway. Going 70. That's messed up. I think that must just be there for liability reasons, because deer or not, nothing short of divine intervention is stopping 4,000 pounds of car in any sort of time to avoid an animal. Sorry bambi.
Coming home tonight... and I think there's something there. I think we all have a different routine about coming home. Especially those of us who left for very specific reasons and moved to the other end of the country. Maybe it's just me, but I know the people I like to see when I come home, the people that basically make home somewhere to come back to, and they're not parents or siblings... they're close friends, complicated relationships that you just can't help but orbit.
Sometimes we can all be like Pluto. Just this distant dwarf rock floating in the sky far from the warmth of the heart, the shining beaming star for which we keep a hidden solitary space. I don't think it ever goes away. Even on the coldest day, once that beaming, glowing sun has us in her gaze, we're locked in for the count. But maybe there's something to be said for those far off bodies.
It's the inner conflict I love. I mean, no, obviously I hate it... but something about it oils the gears in me that somehow help me function. Sometimes I need the destruction to handle all the simple happy peace of life. Does that make any sense? I think there's something in everyone that seeks balance. For most of us that force urges us to find happiness. But what about the people who have already found their happiness? What about those old-soul trouble seekers who suddenly found the water to douse their flame? One can only live so long as a bundle of wet sticks until the longing for pure, raw heat starts to rumble. And there's nothing wrong with that. Fire shines a light, doesn't it? And as long as you don't let it burn down your house, a little light can prove very useful in dark times.
But I'm rambling.
We keep passing the sillhouettes of leafless trees in the distance. Like million fingered hands outstretched from the ground towards the sky, clawing their aged way towards greater heights... I respect their persistence, but the scars and split bark from recent lightning storms makes me question their prudence.
I wonder if the fir tree knows the distant planet. Two beings reaching for the same sun. I wonder if, moments before the lightning strikes and splits the soaking tree in two, it sees and knows everything in existence, even the other planets, or does it always understand its place in the universe?
We were all created, eons ago, by a cataclysmic cosmic collision. We really are all made of stars. We are, all of us, from our very cores, being pulled towards the same far off star.
A year from now, I'll read this and laugh. Right there. Because, as it stands, I've always looked back at myself and thought how foolish I was back then... what little I knew about the world. And I suppose that is a good thing. Better than to look back and wonder were the insight and the wisdom went. Enlightenment often means recognizing the folly of our past.
100 miles to go.
That's all for now.
Friday, March 12, 2010
...a Still Dark Motel Room With Others Still Sleeping
It's morning here. You wouldn't know it by looking around this room, save for the light slipping past the treacherous dark curtains. Late sleeping in a room with an eastern exposure requires thick curtains. My eyes are still gunky from sleep, so I will degunkify after I'm through with this post.
It annoys me that this spell checker insists that every time I try to write "I" in lowercase rather than its prestigious upper, I am doing the term a great disservice. I prefer the lower, but have this ingrained distaste for those ugly red squiggly lines below my words. Damn all.
I do rather enjoy the mornings... I used to think I was an night person, as I do so much of my best writing in the evenings, but I really do think I'm a morning person now, as I'm filled with much more actual energy early in the day (not stored crazy person energy that greets me near bed time).
I'm slowly assembling people for a project. I hope things will come to fruition on that front... never can really tell. I hope to start a company when I get home. How I'll do that is a more difficult question, because though I'd like to think myself a good leader, I feel I'm really much more a talented member than an outstanding leader. Kat makes a good leader... she's dependable, organized, a double-checker. I'm not really a double-checker. Anyway, I'm using the advice that men and women much wiser than myself have handed down to me... surround yourself with your betters and you will learn, grow, and prosper. I hope this proves true in this endeavor.
In my mind, I stand at a precipice. The wind at my back, a subtle reminder of what brought me here, ahead of me, an ocean. Do I focus on what's clear and defined? Trace the coast line with my footprints until I circumnavigate the rest of creation? Or do I venture into the unknown with a ship fashioned out of old shoe leather and Lincoln Logs? Either way I realize the journey between where I am and where I hope to be is no less than the float across the Atlantic, and though I'm ready to do it alone, I feel comfort in knowing I don't have to.
Okay, that's all for now.
It annoys me that this spell checker insists that every time I try to write "I" in lowercase rather than its prestigious upper, I am doing the term a great disservice. I prefer the lower, but have this ingrained distaste for those ugly red squiggly lines below my words. Damn all.
I do rather enjoy the mornings... I used to think I was an night person, as I do so much of my best writing in the evenings, but I really do think I'm a morning person now, as I'm filled with much more actual energy early in the day (not stored crazy person energy that greets me near bed time).
I'm slowly assembling people for a project. I hope things will come to fruition on that front... never can really tell. I hope to start a company when I get home. How I'll do that is a more difficult question, because though I'd like to think myself a good leader, I feel I'm really much more a talented member than an outstanding leader. Kat makes a good leader... she's dependable, organized, a double-checker. I'm not really a double-checker. Anyway, I'm using the advice that men and women much wiser than myself have handed down to me... surround yourself with your betters and you will learn, grow, and prosper. I hope this proves true in this endeavor.
In my mind, I stand at a precipice. The wind at my back, a subtle reminder of what brought me here, ahead of me, an ocean. Do I focus on what's clear and defined? Trace the coast line with my footprints until I circumnavigate the rest of creation? Or do I venture into the unknown with a ship fashioned out of old shoe leather and Lincoln Logs? Either way I realize the journey between where I am and where I hope to be is no less than the float across the Atlantic, and though I'm ready to do it alone, I feel comfort in knowing I don't have to.
Okay, that's all for now.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
...a Parking Lot in Cleveland
I smell like old jacket. Or new jacket. I guess it depends on the kind of jacket. Anyway, I'm out here in this parking lot outside of Red Roof Inn and I'm enjoying the warmcold, it's my favorite sort of weather. It's not hot, it's not freezing... it's just... pleasant. I think the stars are making fun of me... hiding up above a thin veil of clouds in one of the few places on my trip I'd actually get a chance glimpse at them. Damn you celestial bodies!!!
Anyway, I've never actually sat in a parking lot in only socks, pants, and a shirt before... you know, given it the old beach treatment. I must say... it's kind of refreshing. Looking at the tire tracks, the unwashed tar, dirt mixing with paint mixing with grease.... something oddly nostalgic about the whole thing.
i wonder what would happen if dogs and humans switched habits for a day. just a thought. i could chase cars and piss outdoors for an afternoon... Scruffy could do my taxes. pretty sweet deal, in my estimation.
there's a lone camaro in this lot. the red kind (i think they stopped making them in any other color, because anything else just looks bogus). I'm imagining this car belonging to some affair having man... that would be exciting... to know that there was some tawdry affair having business just 10 feet away from me that I could be party to... if I really wanted to. But, alas, I don't. So... that mystery goes unsolved.
By the way, to those of you joining me today, for this read, please understand that you can expect this sort of rambling every single post. If it's not your style, then don't worry about it. Change your style. It's easy and more fun my way.
Speaking of my way... I thought about the expression, it's my way or the highway... now, could one offer that up as a legitimate direction in a driving situation? Such as:
Bob: well, your way takes an hour and we have to spend most of it passing harems and strip malls...
Jim: it's my way, or the highway.
Bob: well, then I suppose the highway would be best... as it is the faster route and it also has the benefit of avoiding the whorehouses.
Jim: you know Bob, you're right.
Bob: thanks Jim, you're pretty okay, though.
Jim: let's kiss.
Anyway, it's possible is all I'm saying.
Okay, well... that's all for now. See you soon!
Anyway, I've never actually sat in a parking lot in only socks, pants, and a shirt before... you know, given it the old beach treatment. I must say... it's kind of refreshing. Looking at the tire tracks, the unwashed tar, dirt mixing with paint mixing with grease.... something oddly nostalgic about the whole thing.
i wonder what would happen if dogs and humans switched habits for a day. just a thought. i could chase cars and piss outdoors for an afternoon... Scruffy could do my taxes. pretty sweet deal, in my estimation.
there's a lone camaro in this lot. the red kind (i think they stopped making them in any other color, because anything else just looks bogus). I'm imagining this car belonging to some affair having man... that would be exciting... to know that there was some tawdry affair having business just 10 feet away from me that I could be party to... if I really wanted to. But, alas, I don't. So... that mystery goes unsolved.
By the way, to those of you joining me today, for this read, please understand that you can expect this sort of rambling every single post. If it's not your style, then don't worry about it. Change your style. It's easy and more fun my way.
Speaking of my way... I thought about the expression, it's my way or the highway... now, could one offer that up as a legitimate direction in a driving situation? Such as:
Bob: well, your way takes an hour and we have to spend most of it passing harems and strip malls...
Jim: it's my way, or the highway.
Bob: well, then I suppose the highway would be best... as it is the faster route and it also has the benefit of avoiding the whorehouses.
Jim: you know Bob, you're right.
Bob: thanks Jim, you're pretty okay, though.
Jim: let's kiss.
Anyway, it's possible is all I'm saying.
Okay, well... that's all for now. See you soon!
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