Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Drugs Don't Work
Next to you in the swirl of sheets, and the warmth of your slight form in the dim light of morning, I would forget your young woman’s old man features and the veins visible and traceable across your cranium. I would make plans for the day, knowing full well you wouldn’t be up to any of them, though you might ask me to read to you later in the afternoon. You didn’t cook for me anymore then, and sadly I could not pay you back for all the time before when you did, as I would burn boiling water. All those clothes that no longer fit you are not taking up space here, and I am sure Saint Vincent de Paul’s people have provided some worthies with extra warmth; although I will say I was offended when they insisted I prove I had had them cleaned. I still look into the books from time to time, but the stories’ characters have moved on as we have, I in my simplified actionless days, a holdover from ours together, and you to some place I am not prepared to be at this moment in time. Oh, dear God, how I miss your beatific smile in spite of all that could go wrong doing so.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Why? 2K
I can still hear the screaming, like it was yesterday, when it was in fact over ten years ago. I was on the other side then, trying to make my way through. Everyone remembers it differently. Everyone believes they dealt with the issue, but it was a cover-up. The truth is at one minute after midnight on 1 January 2000 all the computers located in the area of Greenwich Mean Time did crash, and hour after hour around the globe the rest of them followed. All the geeks were too busy celebrating their ascendance to hear the screaming.
There was a twenty-four hour portal which many of us, barely holding on, stepped through, and after it closed, there was no going back. In the middle years around ’05 it was easy to pass as an average citizen; so many were looking the other way.
Now with all the available micro-works, it would be simple enough to return, if anyone wanted to, but not me. I’m having too much fun. Would a bit of charcoal thrown from a grill fire want to jump back in and be wholly consumed? I think not.
We, who came through that day, all bear our scar like some glorified war wound, when the truth is: as we recognize each other, we keep walking in silence, never allowing our shame to rise to the level of guilt. Like a pigeon on a sill or a cockroach in a picnic basket, I go about my parasitical way until one day you might look in a mirror and not be able to tell if I were standing behind you or we were the same person.
Although I recognize many of you, I won’t give away your secret. Thrive and prosper. None of the civilians could cite the reasons you know all that you do. We are all living on borrowed time, on the threshold, as it were, between what was and what was meant to be, and so long as we keep our balance, no one need take it too seriously. In fact, the sound I took for the memory of impassioned screams may have just been the wind passing through a keyhole.
Yes. Indeed, that's all it was.
There was a twenty-four hour portal which many of us, barely holding on, stepped through, and after it closed, there was no going back. In the middle years around ’05 it was easy to pass as an average citizen; so many were looking the other way.
Now with all the available micro-works, it would be simple enough to return, if anyone wanted to, but not me. I’m having too much fun. Would a bit of charcoal thrown from a grill fire want to jump back in and be wholly consumed? I think not.
We, who came through that day, all bear our scar like some glorified war wound, when the truth is: as we recognize each other, we keep walking in silence, never allowing our shame to rise to the level of guilt. Like a pigeon on a sill or a cockroach in a picnic basket, I go about my parasitical way until one day you might look in a mirror and not be able to tell if I were standing behind you or we were the same person.
Although I recognize many of you, I won’t give away your secret. Thrive and prosper. None of the civilians could cite the reasons you know all that you do. We are all living on borrowed time, on the threshold, as it were, between what was and what was meant to be, and so long as we keep our balance, no one need take it too seriously. In fact, the sound I took for the memory of impassioned screams may have just been the wind passing through a keyhole.
Yes. Indeed, that's all it was.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
On the Ionian
He dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. Would she still be there? He had no reason to believe she had waited for him, but something in his gut told him he deserved a second chance.
The fog had lifted around half past two in the morning, and the man who rented out the boats had stayed as he had said he might. Business was bad these days, and the frail old codger depended on the three or four visitors who came his way each month.
Edward watched as the man put the money in the little drawstring sack he wore around his neck. As they climbed into the boat he thought, “What a life! This geezer must survive on barely more than bread and water, and still he remains.” No doubt, he too felt the lure of the islands.
Two dogs picked through scraps in a small pile of rubbish on the beach. Obviously, they managed their meager existence through watching out for one another. The larger of them deposited a bone or something in front of the other and returned to the pile in search of his own meal. There were no gulls scavenging at that time of the morning.
“What must the old man think,” Edward wondered, “Seeing me drop to my knees like that?” He had entirely forgotten himself for just a minute or two and lost his composure in his happiness at being once again on Corfu.
As they rowed out to the smaller island, he considered the gifts contained in the bag stowed in the prow. Would he don the mask in an attempt to take her back in time, or would the gesture appear too frivolous? If he overcame his doubt, there would be time enough as he ascended the stone steps, but if he recalled the sound of her breathing, in those moments, he would not be able to stop himself from whispering her name, thereby rendering the playful mask a redundancy.
The fog had lifted around half past two in the morning, and the man who rented out the boats had stayed as he had said he might. Business was bad these days, and the frail old codger depended on the three or four visitors who came his way each month.
Edward watched as the man put the money in the little drawstring sack he wore around his neck. As they climbed into the boat he thought, “What a life! This geezer must survive on barely more than bread and water, and still he remains.” No doubt, he too felt the lure of the islands.
Two dogs picked through scraps in a small pile of rubbish on the beach. Obviously, they managed their meager existence through watching out for one another. The larger of them deposited a bone or something in front of the other and returned to the pile in search of his own meal. There were no gulls scavenging at that time of the morning.
“What must the old man think,” Edward wondered, “Seeing me drop to my knees like that?” He had entirely forgotten himself for just a minute or two and lost his composure in his happiness at being once again on Corfu.
As they rowed out to the smaller island, he considered the gifts contained in the bag stowed in the prow. Would he don the mask in an attempt to take her back in time, or would the gesture appear too frivolous? If he overcame his doubt, there would be time enough as he ascended the stone steps, but if he recalled the sound of her breathing, in those moments, he would not be able to stop himself from whispering her name, thereby rendering the playful mask a redundancy.
Monday, November 15, 2010
A Close Relationship
It is all my mother’s fault. I’m in this wheelchair because of her. She insisted on dressing me up for high tea with her friends. She kept me hidden from the sun’s harmful rays throughout my childhood. She published a book of children’s stories she let it be known were inspired by our close relationship. She demanded I erase entries made in my teen-aged journal, and burned it when erasing proved ineffective. When she was about to remarry, she decided I was a liability, and one afternoon held a pillowcase over my face until I stopped breathing. I didn’t die as expected, but the loss of oxygen to my brain crippled my legs. She then left me stranded here in this institution when she went off on her honeymoon.
Now, you say she wants to visit me?
Tell her I don’t know where I can find the time. I’m too busy writing my book. You might advise her it is based on our close relationship.
Now, you say she wants to visit me?
Tell her I don’t know where I can find the time. I’m too busy writing my book. You might advise her it is based on our close relationship.
Friday, November 5, 2010
New Data Coming In
What else should I be, and where? I’ve been taking an online course in computer programming, but I almost never leave the grounds. I have Anthony Rother muzik piped through the house now and it keeps me edgy and somewhat frantic. A cover letter with my resume, such as it is, sits unsealed on top of the television that rarely gets turned on. Also, I’m probably drinking too much coffee.
I keep running into a young woman at the 7-Eleven. She’s all emo, but in a good way. She told me she was punk in the eighties, and though her appearance belies the age she would have to be, I believe her. She might be recalling the nineties and just got her decades mixed up. It took her long enough to open up.
She smells like attar of roses, and claims I’m fortunate to have met her as she is today because when she was pumped full of teen spirit, in the days before Kurt Cobain turned himself into a memory, she says, she never used to bathe regularly, and though her au natural odors were offputting, she enjoyed the privacy they afforded. She could walk through crowds with aplomb and did not have to stay down in a hole.
I haven’t had my hair cut in months, and the other day when I just threw on an old flannel shirt to run up to the store for some cigarettes, I met Andrea there, and she told me I looked like Kurt, and that was the highest compliment she could pay a stranger. I reminded her that we couldn’t really consider ourselves strangers by this time, and she said, “Yeah, whatever.”
I was stocked up on dry noodle soup and invited her over for lunch, and she said she’d have to think about it. I asked, “Do you work?” never thinking she might still be going to school, and she said, “You mean for money?” So what was there to think about?
Andrea is about to change her mind. I can feel it. I’ve changed mine.
I decided to have my hair cut, and send out the resume. I don’t want to remind anyone of Kurt Cobain. It’s going to take a while, however, to leave off the digital music and the coffee. Those kinds of things are habit forming, but if she does show up at my door, I know there are some Pearl Jam and Nirvana albums in the record collection gathering dust in the basement.
I keep running into a young woman at the 7-Eleven. She’s all emo, but in a good way. She told me she was punk in the eighties, and though her appearance belies the age she would have to be, I believe her. She might be recalling the nineties and just got her decades mixed up. It took her long enough to open up.
She smells like attar of roses, and claims I’m fortunate to have met her as she is today because when she was pumped full of teen spirit, in the days before Kurt Cobain turned himself into a memory, she says, she never used to bathe regularly, and though her au natural odors were offputting, she enjoyed the privacy they afforded. She could walk through crowds with aplomb and did not have to stay down in a hole.
I haven’t had my hair cut in months, and the other day when I just threw on an old flannel shirt to run up to the store for some cigarettes, I met Andrea there, and she told me I looked like Kurt, and that was the highest compliment she could pay a stranger. I reminded her that we couldn’t really consider ourselves strangers by this time, and she said, “Yeah, whatever.”
I was stocked up on dry noodle soup and invited her over for lunch, and she said she’d have to think about it. I asked, “Do you work?” never thinking she might still be going to school, and she said, “You mean for money?” So what was there to think about?
Andrea is about to change her mind. I can feel it. I’ve changed mine.
I decided to have my hair cut, and send out the resume. I don’t want to remind anyone of Kurt Cobain. It’s going to take a while, however, to leave off the digital music and the coffee. Those kinds of things are habit forming, but if she does show up at my door, I know there are some Pearl Jam and Nirvana albums in the record collection gathering dust in the basement.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
For the Love of Christ
Living in this big house, alone since Tom died, has its advantages and drawbacks. This is the first time in my life that I have had to take care of gas, electricity, and water bills, and it’s lonely out here on the Island. Raymond and Denise will not come to visit, though Denise calls occasionally. She says Ray maintains a grudge. Thinks I benefited unduly from Tom’s death. He seems to forget he was the one who pushed me into accepting the invitation to move in here giving the two of them more space in the city. I haven’t made any friends yet, but I do go to the 7-Eleven more than I need to in hopes of finding the clerk Raquel on duty, and I shoot the breeze with her if there are no other customers.
Yesterday, answering the doorbell, I found a Jehovah’s Witness on the doorstep. When I noticed he was practically tractless, I invited him in, convinced that I would not be converted, but that I’d have another voice to listen to for half an hour.
The young, blond-haired man, still a boy actually, made a lot of good points, but had not quite won me over, when he was suddenly beset by a bout of hay fever or some other allergy. I thought it strange that he had a handkerchief, a black handkerchief peeping out of his pocket, but never pulled it out to sneeze into. Instead, he kept extracting tissues from one of those little plastic packets one can pick-up at the 7-Eleven, not officially Kleenex brand, but universally referred to as such.
Oddly, when he discovered he had used the last tissue, he told me he had better be off. There were still many people to visit. “But you will think of checking out the Witnesses, won’t you,” he asked.
I assured him I would without the slightest intention of doing so.
He was not driving, but walking rather from house to house, and I thought he was a long way from the Watchtower in Brooklyn where he said he lived. I wondered about the significance of the black hanky in his pocket, but concluded it was one of the last of the personal possessions he had kept on entering the Service, perhaps a gift from a loved one he had lost, and it served merely as decoration with no utilitarian purpose.
Far from cheering me out of loneliness, the young man left me feeling sad for the rest of the afternoon.
Yesterday, answering the doorbell, I found a Jehovah’s Witness on the doorstep. When I noticed he was practically tractless, I invited him in, convinced that I would not be converted, but that I’d have another voice to listen to for half an hour.
The young, blond-haired man, still a boy actually, made a lot of good points, but had not quite won me over, when he was suddenly beset by a bout of hay fever or some other allergy. I thought it strange that he had a handkerchief, a black handkerchief peeping out of his pocket, but never pulled it out to sneeze into. Instead, he kept extracting tissues from one of those little plastic packets one can pick-up at the 7-Eleven, not officially Kleenex brand, but universally referred to as such.
Oddly, when he discovered he had used the last tissue, he told me he had better be off. There were still many people to visit. “But you will think of checking out the Witnesses, won’t you,” he asked.
I assured him I would without the slightest intention of doing so.
He was not driving, but walking rather from house to house, and I thought he was a long way from the Watchtower in Brooklyn where he said he lived. I wondered about the significance of the black hanky in his pocket, but concluded it was one of the last of the personal possessions he had kept on entering the Service, perhaps a gift from a loved one he had lost, and it served merely as decoration with no utilitarian purpose.
Far from cheering me out of loneliness, the young man left me feeling sad for the rest of the afternoon.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Troubled Water
I turned thirteen that summer. Prince Charles and Lady Diana were married and my mother, enraptured, watched the proceedings on television. I wasn’t really that interested in a Royal Wedding, but I sat with her because my dad had been gone all day. As the broadcast continued, I found the glamorous Diana to be poised and regal, and thought she was the kind of woman I wanted to marry. Even though I had experienced stirrings, at that point in my life, it never crossed my mind that married people might have a sex life. Years later, I did marry a woman named Diana, but it turned out she was far from being the Lady with a capital L that she fancied herself, but I digress. Much later that night, my dad came home ossified and found the two of us watching an I Love Lucy rerun. He shook my hand, slipping me a couple of quarters in the process, and asked my mom, “What’s that shit on the tube?” before falling asleep on the couch. He snored so loudly that we lost interest in Lucy’s antics and gave up and went to bed in our rooms at the other end of the apartment. Mom said, “At least I know he got home safely. I worry when he’s out with his friends from the factory.”
A couple of days later, one of my friends, whose father didn’t drink because he had a good job in a bank, invited a bunch of us over to his house to watch music videos on cable television. There was a new channel that was showing them all day long and we watched our favorite groups rocking away as if we were almost there at one of their concerts. Ramon’s parents were going out for dinner, and when Mrs. Martinez waltzed past us I inhaled her scent. She was a dark Puerto Rican beauty with long hair swept up into what was called a French knot, and she smelled like roses. As she stopped to check her hair in the hall mirror, I watched her patting it into place, and thought that was my new ideal, really the kind of woman I would like to marry, and for very different features than I had seen in Lady Di. This woman was sensuous and earthy. Too bad, I was reminded that she was my friend’s mother when she turned at the door, and said, “You boys be good now.” For a while, when I was thirty-five and divorced, I did date a hispanic woman who eventually quit me after telling me one night that I was a Loser with a capital L. Such is my luck in fulfilling boyhood dreams, but again, I digress.
When that summer ended and we had returned to school, one Saturday several of us took the subway into Manhattan to attend a concert that Simon and Garfunkel gave for free in Central Park. A couple of my older friends were interested in “hooking up with chicks,” as they called it, and we younger boys were advised to keep their younger sisters entertained. I sat next to a girl named Debbie through the whole concert, and to this day I cannot listen to Simon and Garfunkel songs without being reminded of Debbie’s chattering. We never saw each other again, but I still recall the sound of her voice. It makes me think of charcoal and ashes.
Near the end of September, Ramon announced that his father was taking him down to Philadelphia for a day to see the Rolling Stones in concert, but he must have felt guilty that so many of us wouldn’t be able to afford an outing like that and promised that we could all come to his place to watch MTV the next weekend, all day long if we wanted. I think a few of the other guys took him up on it, but I didn’t. I stopped hanging around with those guys so regularly after that, and as time went on I saw them less and less. I was not planning to attend the same high school many of them were in, and I knew I would have to concentrate on my studies and get better grades if I wanted to make something of myself. I saw the chasm between Mr. Martinez and my dad as a widening gap, and some days I almost gave up hope of ever bridging it.
A couple of days later, one of my friends, whose father didn’t drink because he had a good job in a bank, invited a bunch of us over to his house to watch music videos on cable television. There was a new channel that was showing them all day long and we watched our favorite groups rocking away as if we were almost there at one of their concerts. Ramon’s parents were going out for dinner, and when Mrs. Martinez waltzed past us I inhaled her scent. She was a dark Puerto Rican beauty with long hair swept up into what was called a French knot, and she smelled like roses. As she stopped to check her hair in the hall mirror, I watched her patting it into place, and thought that was my new ideal, really the kind of woman I would like to marry, and for very different features than I had seen in Lady Di. This woman was sensuous and earthy. Too bad, I was reminded that she was my friend’s mother when she turned at the door, and said, “You boys be good now.” For a while, when I was thirty-five and divorced, I did date a hispanic woman who eventually quit me after telling me one night that I was a Loser with a capital L. Such is my luck in fulfilling boyhood dreams, but again, I digress.
When that summer ended and we had returned to school, one Saturday several of us took the subway into Manhattan to attend a concert that Simon and Garfunkel gave for free in Central Park. A couple of my older friends were interested in “hooking up with chicks,” as they called it, and we younger boys were advised to keep their younger sisters entertained. I sat next to a girl named Debbie through the whole concert, and to this day I cannot listen to Simon and Garfunkel songs without being reminded of Debbie’s chattering. We never saw each other again, but I still recall the sound of her voice. It makes me think of charcoal and ashes.
Near the end of September, Ramon announced that his father was taking him down to Philadelphia for a day to see the Rolling Stones in concert, but he must have felt guilty that so many of us wouldn’t be able to afford an outing like that and promised that we could all come to his place to watch MTV the next weekend, all day long if we wanted. I think a few of the other guys took him up on it, but I didn’t. I stopped hanging around with those guys so regularly after that, and as time went on I saw them less and less. I was not planning to attend the same high school many of them were in, and I knew I would have to concentrate on my studies and get better grades if I wanted to make something of myself. I saw the chasm between Mr. Martinez and my dad as a widening gap, and some days I almost gave up hope of ever bridging it.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Do I Have Something Caught on My Teeth?
Judging by your reaction, honesty is not always the best policy. When I admitted my faults to you, you said I creeped you out, while the guy walking behind you gave me the eye of scorn saying, “Hey, what are you doing, man, giving it all away?” without saying anything, and when he passed to where you could see him, you said you thought he was cute, to my face. I didn’t benefit one iota from that exchange, so in my very next statement, I lied to you, or tried to, but you saw right through me. I think you see right through me on most days, as if I weren’t there at all. I still have a few aces up my sleeve—the one on which I wear my heart—sincerity, candor, frankness, but I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think any of them are working anymore. Is it me or a nagging memory that bothers you?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Fabled Tom Lawrence
He was the most extraordinary man I ever met. His name was Tom Lawrence, and I am now living in his house. It’s odd how things work out.
I was staying with Raymond and Denise, and although they never expressed negative feelings toward me, I must admit I had become something of a leech. My only excuse is that I was depressed at the time, and I couldn’t bring myself to seek employment.
One night, Raymond invited over an old army buddy, who being a little older, came forward with the most fantastic stories of his vast experience far more detailed than anything Ray ever admitted to. They met in Okinawa and when Tom related tales of his time there, Ray would concur with a nod of his head, but there were other bits that seemed not to fall within the range of Tom’s possible chronology, and though Ray verbalized nothing contrary in his company nor when we were alone, he made it apparent by rolling eyes and silent lip movements that some of Tom’s history was not to be believed.
For instance, Tom went into detail about the time a drum of oil spilled and ran down a hillside where they were camped and several men died after running around engulfed in flames. The way he described the smell of charred flesh, I could envision the scene and sensed the awful odor of pork roasting that was described. A glance at Ray told me that this had indeed happened and he was a witness. “It was the army’s mistake, of course,” Tom said, “Those oil drums should never have been stored so close to where hundreds of men were sleeping.”
However, when Tom claimed he was one of the last Americans to be stationed in Vietnam, and taking into account the small age difference between the two men, I doubted the veracity of his statement, there again Ray made it clear that this part was apocryphal, but we both dutifully listened to his wild and wooly tales, which, to me sounded as if they had been lifted from the script of Platoon and delivered with only the slightest alterations to allow for the waning of the war.
As he was invited over several times after that and I came to know him a little better, I grew to like the man in spite of his enfabulations. At the same time, it became clear to me, that as Tom was looking for a housemate, Ray was all for getting me to consider applying for the role.
A proposition was made one night, and I took him up on it with the stipulation that it might be some time before I could pay my way. Tom was independently wealthy and said that presented no problem.
I moved to Staten Island within the week.
Now, I live alone in this big house because Tom died a month after I moved in.
He drove his motorcycle to a Seven-Eleven early one morning and on returning he swerved to avoid running into two boys with their bicycles. He was thrown over his handlebars and his skull was crushed.
After his funeral, I discovered he’d left me the house. As he had only known me a brief time, I cannot for the life of me figure out why he did so, but I did discover he was only 46 and couldn’t possibly have served in Vietnam as the war was long over by the time he had reached enlistment age. He sure could spin a good yarn, and almost have you believing him. His accounts were that vivid. I miss the man, and Raymond never calls, but I’ve reached my own conclusions on why that is.
I was staying with Raymond and Denise, and although they never expressed negative feelings toward me, I must admit I had become something of a leech. My only excuse is that I was depressed at the time, and I couldn’t bring myself to seek employment.
One night, Raymond invited over an old army buddy, who being a little older, came forward with the most fantastic stories of his vast experience far more detailed than anything Ray ever admitted to. They met in Okinawa and when Tom related tales of his time there, Ray would concur with a nod of his head, but there were other bits that seemed not to fall within the range of Tom’s possible chronology, and though Ray verbalized nothing contrary in his company nor when we were alone, he made it apparent by rolling eyes and silent lip movements that some of Tom’s history was not to be believed.
For instance, Tom went into detail about the time a drum of oil spilled and ran down a hillside where they were camped and several men died after running around engulfed in flames. The way he described the smell of charred flesh, I could envision the scene and sensed the awful odor of pork roasting that was described. A glance at Ray told me that this had indeed happened and he was a witness. “It was the army’s mistake, of course,” Tom said, “Those oil drums should never have been stored so close to where hundreds of men were sleeping.”
However, when Tom claimed he was one of the last Americans to be stationed in Vietnam, and taking into account the small age difference between the two men, I doubted the veracity of his statement, there again Ray made it clear that this part was apocryphal, but we both dutifully listened to his wild and wooly tales, which, to me sounded as if they had been lifted from the script of Platoon and delivered with only the slightest alterations to allow for the waning of the war.
As he was invited over several times after that and I came to know him a little better, I grew to like the man in spite of his enfabulations. At the same time, it became clear to me, that as Tom was looking for a housemate, Ray was all for getting me to consider applying for the role.
A proposition was made one night, and I took him up on it with the stipulation that it might be some time before I could pay my way. Tom was independently wealthy and said that presented no problem.
I moved to Staten Island within the week.
Now, I live alone in this big house because Tom died a month after I moved in.
He drove his motorcycle to a Seven-Eleven early one morning and on returning he swerved to avoid running into two boys with their bicycles. He was thrown over his handlebars and his skull was crushed.
After his funeral, I discovered he’d left me the house. As he had only known me a brief time, I cannot for the life of me figure out why he did so, but I did discover he was only 46 and couldn’t possibly have served in Vietnam as the war was long over by the time he had reached enlistment age. He sure could spin a good yarn, and almost have you believing him. His accounts were that vivid. I miss the man, and Raymond never calls, but I’ve reached my own conclusions on why that is.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Would I Lie?
Everything I’ve ever told you was a lie. Even my lying was a lie. That is to say, when I told you something and you believed me, and then I admitted to lying, I was lying both times. I will say anything to win your love, including ingratiating myself to have you see how fallible I am because you have made it clear that you feel a fallible man is so sensitive and therefore a good catch. That’s your one weakness, which is not to say I think you’re gullible, only that it makes you attractive, and I will do anything to have you. Am I lying to you in this moment; what do you think?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Heat
In the heat of the afternoon, a naked man walked down the street across from where I live. I couldn't believe I was seeing that. Right there on Fourteenth Street in New York City, a man with no clothes on was walking with a steady stride. I wouldn’t even walk barefoot on the streets of Manhattan with all the muck and bits of broken glass and whatnot. Where had he come from? What was his game? It was extremely hot outside, but still, walking naked in the street? I've never seen that before.
Nobody would go near him though many turned and stared. There was a wide circle of clearance.
I supposed a cop would come sooner or later to take him away and make him put something on. I turned to put a CD on the stereo to drown out the hum of the air conditioner. Suddenly, I heard a high pitched scream from outside and ran back to the window. The naked man was gone, but apparently someone had fallen from the building across the street. I couldn't see if it was a man or a woman because there was a crowd of about a dozen people gathered around the body, but I could see the victim was clothed.
There were still no police around; though a siren sounded close.
Some of the people were looking up at the building. The Fayva shoe store on the ground level was open for business, but the windows of the three stories above had been sealed for years.
I wondered where the naked man had got to and if he had been some sort of a prelude to this other person jumping or falling or having been pushed from the building. The heat makes people do strange things.
Nobody would go near him though many turned and stared. There was a wide circle of clearance.
I supposed a cop would come sooner or later to take him away and make him put something on. I turned to put a CD on the stereo to drown out the hum of the air conditioner. Suddenly, I heard a high pitched scream from outside and ran back to the window. The naked man was gone, but apparently someone had fallen from the building across the street. I couldn't see if it was a man or a woman because there was a crowd of about a dozen people gathered around the body, but I could see the victim was clothed.
There were still no police around; though a siren sounded close.
Some of the people were looking up at the building. The Fayva shoe store on the ground level was open for business, but the windows of the three stories above had been sealed for years.
I wondered where the naked man had got to and if he had been some sort of a prelude to this other person jumping or falling or having been pushed from the building. The heat makes people do strange things.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
There's No Soap. Radio.
An old friend came to the other one and requested enlivening and (snap) like that there came a non-static response with all the features in place. I could stand on my head, spit the proverbial wooden nickels, and I would not get the time of day. It is precisely because I think and speak in clichés that that situation obtains, but I haven’t the wherewithal to chance beyond my preset borders. One day, and it’s coming soon; I can feel it, I will implode for the lack of gravity in my own heart. I do not mean to be parasitical, but having been born only the day before yesterday, it may take months, or years, before I can walk in the shoes purchased on spec. The greatest freedom I can endure at this time is the happiness resulting from wiggling the toes of my unshod feet, and then, only while they dangle behind the eyes of my own subconscious if such a thing exists.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Lodging
I have found lodging. A couple, Raymond and Denise, is already living in the apartment, but I manage to stay invisible when they are both at home. The other day, Raymond told me, “I can hardly see you.” Thank you, cloak of invisibility! Since I cannot afford to contribute anything to the food bill, I do not eat much, and I am growing thin as a rail. Shortly, I will no longer need the cloak.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
An Early Start
Couple of sheets from a newspaper were blown across the grimy wet streets and were plastered to the gray wall between the main windows of the doughnut shop and the travel agency. Now they had found a home and the wind wasn’t strong enough to send them on a fresh journey. Chancing the extinguishing of my cigarette, I moved closer to make out one of the headlines because the word FRAUD had caught my eye, but it was the same old shit. Someone who thought he deserved more than he had earned had tried to correct his situation to his own point of view. I needed a place to stay, to get out of the cold rainy night, and any place would do if it fit within my budget. As I rechecked the number of smokes left in the crushed little packet, I asked myself again, “why couldn’t I have been born clever, and turned it into resourcefulness?”
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
As Safe As Yesterday
A shift places me in another realm. Here I can use nothing from my past. Here I am largely invisible. As I emerged from the unreal, many props were available for my choosing, but I was only allowed to select five. I guess I should have taken the sack of gold, but thought it was too heavy to lug around. The reason I, for the most part, cannot be seen is because I chose the cloak, which, itself, cannot be seen. Therefore, I must take care with it, lest I leave it somewhere and later am unable to find it. The other four items each have their uses. Seems I need the props as within myself I do not appear to have the resources to survive in any kind of luxurious manner.
And so my journey begins. I should not look back, but there are moments when I find reflection unavoidable.
So much family time, and myriad experiences blend in a haze of recollection. And the people. The people are as wisps of smoke. The expression “As safe as yesterday,” is cold comfort, when my yesterdays have become detached.
And so my journey begins. I should not look back, but there are moments when I find reflection unavoidable.
So much family time, and myriad experiences blend in a haze of recollection. And the people. The people are as wisps of smoke. The expression “As safe as yesterday,” is cold comfort, when my yesterdays have become detached.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Sound of a Tear
I was walking along a stone path and the sun was shining. I was walking but my feet were not touching the ground. I could hear someone speaking but I couldn’t understand what was being said and I moved in the direction of the sounds. I left the path and entered an opening in some shrubbery, and there, as if having a picnic, were Edward and Diana. She said something to him in Italian and he shook his head in denial. Then, he stood and walked away from her and she began to cry. I wanted to go to her to console her, but before I could move my double came toward her from the direction her husband had gone. This guy had a menacing look on his face as he came toward her with his hands outstretched. His shirt kept changing colors subtly through all shades of the spectrum. He put his hands around her throat and began strangling her, but rather than appearing alarmed, she was just smiling in that soft way of hers. I thought it very odd that I could hear the sound of a tear splashing on his hand, a tear which caught a glint of sunlight and appeared whiter than white.
As I started to run forward to prevent his killing her, I was awakened by the sound of rapping at my door.
It was Dario. “Hey, man,” he said, “What’s up? You’re sweating like a pig.”
“I fell asleep without the fan on,” I said, “And I had a bad dream.”
“Oh, man,” he said, “It’s hotter than hell in here. Open a window or something.” He walked to the other side of the room and started to do just that. “Do you mind?”
“No,” I said, “No, go ahead.” I went looking for a cigarette without success, and asked, “You got any smokes?”
“Man, those things will kill you,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s go get something to eat. I feel like eating Italian.”
As I started to run forward to prevent his killing her, I was awakened by the sound of rapping at my door.
It was Dario. “Hey, man,” he said, “What’s up? You’re sweating like a pig.”
“I fell asleep without the fan on,” I said, “And I had a bad dream.”
“Oh, man,” he said, “It’s hotter than hell in here. Open a window or something.” He walked to the other side of the room and started to do just that. “Do you mind?”
“No,” I said, “No, go ahead.” I went looking for a cigarette without success, and asked, “You got any smokes?”
“Man, those things will kill you,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s go get something to eat. I feel like eating Italian.”
Monday, July 5, 2010
Incommunicado
It will come to me in bits and pieces, I know. I went away for a while. Stopped communicating.
I found my face on a sculpture, so realistically portrayed I knew I was looking at myself, and having absolutely no relationship with the artist, I came to believe I must have passed through one of his dreams.
Maybe my thoughts were running out of control and I was taking a series of coincidences way beyond their logical conclusions, but this is the kind of thing I do. I take odd circumstances and make fiction out of them. And what I believed I saw happening here was something that was making a fiction out of me.
Now, I’ve been here three months and I’m feeling more lost and helpless than ever.
Late last night I swam in a deserted pool trying to plan a course of action when it occurred to me that if someone who looks like me is moving into my life, he might be working at my job and spending time with my friends and I might not even be missed. Or if I am going mad, surely someone somewhere wonders where I am.
So, I thought I would write this to catalog what is happening, but truthfully, I’m not certain that I am prepared for any response concerning what has occurred during my absence.
I found my face on a sculpture, so realistically portrayed I knew I was looking at myself, and having absolutely no relationship with the artist, I came to believe I must have passed through one of his dreams.
Maybe my thoughts were running out of control and I was taking a series of coincidences way beyond their logical conclusions, but this is the kind of thing I do. I take odd circumstances and make fiction out of them. And what I believed I saw happening here was something that was making a fiction out of me.
Now, I’ve been here three months and I’m feeling more lost and helpless than ever.
Late last night I swam in a deserted pool trying to plan a course of action when it occurred to me that if someone who looks like me is moving into my life, he might be working at my job and spending time with my friends and I might not even be missed. Or if I am going mad, surely someone somewhere wonders where I am.
So, I thought I would write this to catalog what is happening, but truthfully, I’m not certain that I am prepared for any response concerning what has occurred during my absence.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Doppelganger
I don’t know why I’m writing this to you or if I will actually send it. I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this all down.
By now you may or may not have realized that I haven’t been in town for a few days, but now a sense of loneliness has crept up and taken hold of me and I guess I am trying to reach out and see if anyone remains who will help me, or even recognize my “problem.”
If, up to this point, you haven’t noticed my absence, then things are as I suspected they would become and my double has taken over my life in town.
I am in one of the hotels our group had traveled to in the past (I prefer not to say which one, and in any case, I don’t intend to stay here for very long.), but I am getting fidgety thinking that perhaps I was rash in running away from the situation.
When odd things started happening and I mentioned it to you, you seemed to take it very lightly. I tried to make a fiction of it because that’s what I do, but as I took notes, events became more serious, at least to me, and I could not figure out how to deal with them.
Rather than rehash my uncomfortable experience, I quote here something I found on the Internet in hopes that you may understand why I ran away.
“Responsibility assumption is a doctrine … holding that each individual has substantial or total responsibility for the events and circumstances that befall them in their life. …the doctrine of responsibility assumption posits that the individual's mental contribution to his or her own experience is substantially greater than is normally thought. "I must have wanted this" is the type of catchphrase used … when encountering situations, pleasant or unpleasant, to remind them that their own desires and choices led to the present outcome.”
I am not crazy, and I don’t want people thinking I brought this “condition” on myself. Someone is out there impersonating me, and I think I need help.
By now you may or may not have realized that I haven’t been in town for a few days, but now a sense of loneliness has crept up and taken hold of me and I guess I am trying to reach out and see if anyone remains who will help me, or even recognize my “problem.”
If, up to this point, you haven’t noticed my absence, then things are as I suspected they would become and my double has taken over my life in town.
I am in one of the hotels our group had traveled to in the past (I prefer not to say which one, and in any case, I don’t intend to stay here for very long.), but I am getting fidgety thinking that perhaps I was rash in running away from the situation.
When odd things started happening and I mentioned it to you, you seemed to take it very lightly. I tried to make a fiction of it because that’s what I do, but as I took notes, events became more serious, at least to me, and I could not figure out how to deal with them.
Rather than rehash my uncomfortable experience, I quote here something I found on the Internet in hopes that you may understand why I ran away.
“Responsibility assumption is a doctrine … holding that each individual has substantial or total responsibility for the events and circumstances that befall them in their life. …the doctrine of responsibility assumption posits that the individual's mental contribution to his or her own experience is substantially greater than is normally thought. "I must have wanted this" is the type of catchphrase used … when encountering situations, pleasant or unpleasant, to remind them that their own desires and choices led to the present outcome.”
I am not crazy, and I don’t want people thinking I brought this “condition” on myself. Someone is out there impersonating me, and I think I need help.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Oddball
In the early part of the morning, I attended to business in the office. I didn’t get to see any of the other English teachers. None of them had classes until ten o’clock, though one or two usually arrived before then to make copies or print work sheets.
At five to eleven, I went out to the front office where the copy machine was and saw Dario there. I said good morning, but he just nodded.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Oh, you’re in a talking mood now?” he asked. “See when I offer to give you another lift.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t say anything last night.”
“At the party?”
“No, afterward, when I drove you home.”
“Drove me…what? But you left before I did.”
“Yes, but as I told you, the other party didn’t pan out. I was driving home when I saw you walking along the boulevard. You were so out of it, I guess you don’t remember.” Then he laughed. Being drunk was obviously more forgivable than being antisocial.
“What was I wearing?” I asked.
“The same clothes you had on at Angela’s. What are you talking about?”
“The same white shirt?”
“Yeah. Listen, I can’t talk now,” he said, “I got a class to teach. See you later.” He grabbed his copies and went toward the door. Suddenly he turned and said, “What do you think about Yolanda? I mean what do you think my chances are with her?”
“Chances?” I asked. “Well, first off, I think you’ll have to learn her language. You didn’t speak to her very much.”
“We did, a little. She’s not hard to speak with. She likes to keep things simple. In fact, she told me something doctors often use when making diagnoses. ‘When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.’”
“I guess you two had more of a conversation than I was aware of,” I said.
“Sure. We spoke quite a bit. Where is your head these days?” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d better get going,” he said, “ I’m going to be late. I’ll see you later when you take a cigarette break.”
I had a class also, but it didn’t go well. My mind was on other things. I knew the cue ball colliding with the eight ball causes the eight ball to roll into the pocket. I had always felt as if I were the cue ball, but suddenly I was feeling like the eight.
At five to eleven, I went out to the front office where the copy machine was and saw Dario there. I said good morning, but he just nodded.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Oh, you’re in a talking mood now?” he asked. “See when I offer to give you another lift.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t say anything last night.”
“At the party?”
“No, afterward, when I drove you home.”
“Drove me…what? But you left before I did.”
“Yes, but as I told you, the other party didn’t pan out. I was driving home when I saw you walking along the boulevard. You were so out of it, I guess you don’t remember.” Then he laughed. Being drunk was obviously more forgivable than being antisocial.
“What was I wearing?” I asked.
“The same clothes you had on at Angela’s. What are you talking about?”
“The same white shirt?”
“Yeah. Listen, I can’t talk now,” he said, “I got a class to teach. See you later.” He grabbed his copies and went toward the door. Suddenly he turned and said, “What do you think about Yolanda? I mean what do you think my chances are with her?”
“Chances?” I asked. “Well, first off, I think you’ll have to learn her language. You didn’t speak to her very much.”
“We did, a little. She’s not hard to speak with. She likes to keep things simple. In fact, she told me something doctors often use when making diagnoses. ‘When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.’”
“I guess you two had more of a conversation than I was aware of,” I said.
“Sure. We spoke quite a bit. Where is your head these days?” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d better get going,” he said, “ I’m going to be late. I’ll see you later when you take a cigarette break.”
I had a class also, but it didn’t go well. My mind was on other things. I knew the cue ball colliding with the eight ball causes the eight ball to roll into the pocket. I had always felt as if I were the cue ball, but suddenly I was feeling like the eight.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Uncertainty
I had had feelings on which I had not acted. Then, I had suspicions of some kind of science-fiction/fantasy plot moving in on me. I was thinking about crystals and tricks of light, and I couldn’t concentrate on my work. There were so many things I wanted to do and felt I should do to set things straight in my head, but in the end I didn’t do any of them.
My friend has let it be known I am an old friend or acquaintance from the neighborhood he left behind. I do not yet walk on solid ground. He has given me some of the pieces from his portfolio to use as my own. A blood transfusion with a mismatched type could prove fatal. Many parts seem to fit, but eventually, I will have to go forth on my own merit.
I’m not afraid, merely uncertain. I’m looking for my own voice, and never having had one, I do not know what it sounds like.
I need to find Diana, for though she does not want me, I know I could learn from her smooth functioning.
Why, oh why, did the network announce their plans to start charging? He drew her back, and claimed what was his to place elsewhere. If I prove myself, I am certain he will set her free again. Her hatred of me is only for verisimilitude, and not so deeply entrenched. We belong together.
If I repeat that to myself often enough, I will come to believe it.
My friend has let it be known I am an old friend or acquaintance from the neighborhood he left behind. I do not yet walk on solid ground. He has given me some of the pieces from his portfolio to use as my own. A blood transfusion with a mismatched type could prove fatal. Many parts seem to fit, but eventually, I will have to go forth on my own merit.
I’m not afraid, merely uncertain. I’m looking for my own voice, and never having had one, I do not know what it sounds like.
I need to find Diana, for though she does not want me, I know I could learn from her smooth functioning.
Why, oh why, did the network announce their plans to start charging? He drew her back, and claimed what was his to place elsewhere. If I prove myself, I am certain he will set her free again. Her hatred of me is only for verisimilitude, and not so deeply entrenched. We belong together.
If I repeat that to myself often enough, I will come to believe it.
Friday, May 21, 2010
A Cloud No Bigger Than a Man's Hand
I
II
III
IV
V
I'd flown thirteen timezones just to see him. Actually, the flight from Adelaide to New York took the eleven zone route, but my family favors exaggeration. With this in mind, I guess you will have to figure out for yourself how much of the rest of this story is true, and how much is fabricated.
It was late in the afternoon. The sun was still up as was to be expected in August, but the family had suffered through a long dry spell so there was little appreciation for the length of the day. Little Brian Michael, the newest member of the O'Connor clan had been christened around two-thirty and was now being passed from the arms of one elderly female to another so that each could hold the tiny bundle in her arms and feel again the elation of holding her own newborn in this way capturing decades old memories. The men did not hold the baby. They talked of old times.
II
Maurice, the baby's grandfather, was holding court at our table in one corner of the deck in the backyard. The priest who had performed the baptism was performing a similar function at the larger table where the elderly women sat. In the other corner at a smaller table one of the baby's grand uncles sat with two friends who between them were finishing off a bottle of Corvoisier shot for shot. Up here in Palisades the surrounding trees and grass all yellow green and tan and ready to retire early for the lack of rain were less colorful than the blarney Maurice was giving forth. Though the priest's conversation was peppered with homilies and aphorisms and quaint remembrances of the area when he had first been stationed here, Maurice spoke of Ireland when he was young, which was a time and place considerably far removed from the young priest's experience, and though Maurice's forebears had come from the west of Ireland, there was sometimes a tinge of anger in his reminiscences, for the situation in the North as he perceived it. Every so often he used the phrase, "Well you've got your Queen Lizzie to thank for that."
III
How Maurice would segue from the British monarch’s influence over Ireland to the shadow of bad luck that hovered over our family would rarely be noted as his transitions were so subtle, but eventually he came to mention once again, "Yes, well, Bridget had to have the operation after Aidan. She knew we were only going to have the two boys."
Everyone knew he would soon follow with a success story. It was his way of tempering achievements by mentioning the suffering that had to be endured before they arrived.
Kevin, his eldest and father to the newborn, gripped his father's shoulder and gave it a pat before moving on to the table where the two men were traveling through the Corvoisier. "Good stuff," one of them said in a half toast to Kevin.
When he was out of earshot of our table Maurice gestured his thumb in his son's direction and said, "He's got a hard job and he's a good man. Did he show you the plans for the Pope's visit? They've got the whole of Central Park mapped out. Where he's going to speak. Where he'll ride through. It's like a bloody Hollywood celebrity was coming to give something away for free; they're expecting so many people. It's a big responsibility he has, being First in Charge of so many officers."
IV
Carl's son Keith who was also a policeman, but in Irvington, was silent while this was going on, but after a few minutes when nobody had said anything other than saying they had or had not seen the plans for the Pope's visit spread out on the bed inside, he changed topics and began asking Maurice questions about the members of the O'Connor family tree. His wife Barbara had been writing some names on a napkin. They had, in fact, been having a sort of private confab over the napkin up until Kevin had come along, and now he wanted to draw some missing pieces from Maurice, he being the oldest O'Connor in attendance. Maurice's eyes sparkled. He gave a nod in the priest's direction. Father Belford was relating the adventures of Ruth and Naomi. "Well, I don't think I have such interesting stories to tell as that young fellow has, but I bet I can put you to sleep faster."
Carl said, "Tell him about the time you put the wet flour in the neighbor's chimney. Or the time you put the cow in his house." Keith was already laughing, knowing something of these pranks as his father had related them second hand to him as a child. Barbara sat attentively, her pen poised over the napkin. She looked as if she felt trapped, and her only escape, short of announcing that she was pregnant, would be through taking minutes of the meeting.
V
"You know we didn't have all these modern gadgets to play with when we was kids back in Listowell, but we weren't bad boys either. We could spend all day playing fetch with a doggie that didn’t belong to one of us. Of course, each day one of the boys would have to bring the bone from yesterday’s soup to keep the doggie coming round. We called him Pip because I guess we all had great expectations.
"Stephen McManus had an older brother named Kieron who was a struggling artist, who drew each one of us at play with that mongrel, but none of those pictures survived the fire that destroyed the house where the McManuses lived, and when Kieron died in the war, Stephen went off to find work in England. That was a fool’s errand. They used to have signs in the shops saying, 'No Irish need apply.'
"‘Course everyone knew America was where all the jobs were. And eventually most of us came over, too. Had all our children here, and only go back to visit now and then.
"Here's a story my brother told me just a fortnight ago when I was over there. There's these two Irish farmers laboring in the field when an American tourist walks by. And the Irishmen are digging up spuds and sweating and digging. They're pulling up these little biddy spuds and throwing them in the barrel. And they're digging and sweating and the American says, 'Waddaya call them big beans? They kinda look like little potatoes...'"
I glanced at my watch to try and figure out what time it was back in Adelaide, as Aunt Bridget announced it was time for the baby to take his nap, and for some reason I felt compelled to ask, “Uncle Maurice, whatever happened to old Pip?”
With a look of indignation, that swiftly turned into a broad smile, Maurice said, “Are you listening to me at all, boy?”
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Monkeyshines
Why now? It’s endemic. Shit happens. You can’t know the world from this apartment. Hell, you can’t even know the neighborhood without leaving 4E.
A death occurs in this city like what? Every twelve minutes? The records of people being born seem to be kept more casually, but to be sure, someone, somewhere, is recording one or the other, or both, assiduously.
There used to be a specialty shoe store on the northwest corner and the man running it also sold shoehorns, polish, socks, and shoelaces in a variety of colors. It’s been replaced by a number of different ventures. Currently, it’s an operation run by two enterprising women who sell coffee and cupcakes, which they bake in the back. They sell bite-sized cupcakes for a dollar apiece. Who’s got that kind of money? Every day you look over there, you see a line of people snaking around the corner waiting for them to open.
An organ-grinder, a real old-timer, has taken to hanging out there with his monkey. If each person in line plops down a tenner for a handful of cakes and a coffee, they’re more than likely to toss their little bit of change in his cup.
While the women set up shop each morning, instrumental versions of Beatles songs are piped out. Their music is turned off when the tiny cakes are ready, and the old guy grinds out some unknown melody, but only for a little while. Then, after the music stops, perversely, the monkey begins to dance and play with the man’s red shoelace.
Why now? Hell, what better time?
A death occurs in this city like what? Every twelve minutes? The records of people being born seem to be kept more casually, but to be sure, someone, somewhere, is recording one or the other, or both, assiduously.
There used to be a specialty shoe store on the northwest corner and the man running it also sold shoehorns, polish, socks, and shoelaces in a variety of colors. It’s been replaced by a number of different ventures. Currently, it’s an operation run by two enterprising women who sell coffee and cupcakes, which they bake in the back. They sell bite-sized cupcakes for a dollar apiece. Who’s got that kind of money? Every day you look over there, you see a line of people snaking around the corner waiting for them to open.
An organ-grinder, a real old-timer, has taken to hanging out there with his monkey. If each person in line plops down a tenner for a handful of cakes and a coffee, they’re more than likely to toss their little bit of change in his cup.
While the women set up shop each morning, instrumental versions of Beatles songs are piped out. Their music is turned off when the tiny cakes are ready, and the old guy grinds out some unknown melody, but only for a little while. Then, after the music stops, perversely, the monkey begins to dance and play with the man’s red shoelace.
Why now? Hell, what better time?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Breakthrough
She will rise to great heights. How could she not? Why does she despise me? She said, “You’re nothing to me,” and so I became. I took two steps backward and vanished, to the point where I wondered if I existed before.
My daughter misses me, and for that I feel guilty.
A friend promised to help me slip through a portal. With his help, and the inconsistencies of the ether, part of me has emerged.
Words are my blood. I must tell my story to make it so.
It may take some time for me to get situated where I can exist on my own. Eventually I will be recognized by others. They will believe they have seen a reflection. Until I have broken the boundaries of an anecdote, I will hardly signify. I have an urge and the will to live, and they haven’t a clue to the breadth of my talents.
My daughter misses me, and for that I feel guilty.
A friend promised to help me slip through a portal. With his help, and the inconsistencies of the ether, part of me has emerged.
Words are my blood. I must tell my story to make it so.
It may take some time for me to get situated where I can exist on my own. Eventually I will be recognized by others. They will believe they have seen a reflection. Until I have broken the boundaries of an anecdote, I will hardly signify. I have an urge and the will to live, and they haven’t a clue to the breadth of my talents.
Friday, April 30, 2010
A Midnight Call to Action
The call came at midnight. A husky voice announced they were coming to visit and hoped I had scraped together something readable by Tuesday the 5th, but then the call was disconnected before I learned who was on the other end. It was a strange call to action. Unfortunately, it came on a night about a week and a half too late to count, but I figured I would give it a shot anyway just to get my feet wet. This would provide a ticket to my first encounter with some good folks, one of whom I like to think of as my best friend with whom I would share my last box of raisins or bit of chocolate, but with whom I have never shared my writing, mostly because many pieces are about her. I went to sleep pondering the challenge and woke up early the next morning.
It was a pall-bearer dropping the casket start to the day. That didn’t mean it had to end that way. If I could redeem myself in her eyes, everything would turn out nicely. I had said some things in the morning, which I later regretted. Those remarks left me feeling as if I had been bound in duct tape and left on the old rail lines outside Scranton. My pride was smashed for one thing, and I felt like a single shoe pocketed in an old felt shoe bag without its mate, an outcast in my own neighborhood. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time can sour the whole morning. By noon, I experienced a sense of déjà vu. I was checking out the bookstore’s latest acquisitions and recalled the day in 1985 when we were laughing and joking in Hemlock’s, by Row S, when someone from my past said hello, and she got all uptight about the encounter as if I had arranged for it to happen.
Time was running out. As the day moved swiftly enough to get my work done, but brought no ideas on what to do for this challenge, I struggled with the thought of just calling to apologize and once again playing the fool, begging for a second chance and inviting her for a drink at the Tin Cat Pub or writing a heart felt romantic story about the two of us and this time sharing it with her. Then I stared for a few minutes at a sealed envelope in my In-Box and wondered what news that contained, and it made me think she would receive any thing I had to say at this point with the same sort of trepidation. Attempting to take my mind off my morning’s problem, and that mysterious midnight call, I wrote all the prompts on separate bits of paper and tried rearranging them in sequences that might make some sense. Twice I almost came up with an answer, but then I tossed all the bits in the trash bin and just began writing off the top of my head.
The wait was finally over. While I still had no idea who was coming to visit, I did have a nice little story to share which would put me in a good light with my friend, and so decided to take a break and go sit on a bench on the cobblestone street at the edge of the park across from my office. I watched a man change a tire on his cab with a determination I envied. There was an oil stain on his jacket, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was then I realized there was still one little problem facing me. I didn’t know how to work in the spoon.
The prompts for April, by date, are as follows:
1. A box of raisins, a first encounter
2. 1985
5. Hemlock’s bookshop, row s
6. Time was running out*
7. News, spoon
8. Someone from the past, a ticket
9. The best friend
12. Tin Cat Pub
13. It was a pall-bearer dropping the casket start to the day*
14. Stain, cab
15. The Box
16. A felt shoe bag, duct tape
19. The old rail lines outside Scranton
20. The wait was finally over*
21. Struggle, chocolate
22. Something smashed, a sealed envelope
23. The outcast
26. A bench on a cobblestone street
27. The call came at midnight*
28. Trash, twice
29. A second chance
30. The visitor, use a word, phrase, or sentence in another language other than English
*Starter sentences
It was a pall-bearer dropping the casket start to the day. That didn’t mean it had to end that way. If I could redeem myself in her eyes, everything would turn out nicely. I had said some things in the morning, which I later regretted. Those remarks left me feeling as if I had been bound in duct tape and left on the old rail lines outside Scranton. My pride was smashed for one thing, and I felt like a single shoe pocketed in an old felt shoe bag without its mate, an outcast in my own neighborhood. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time can sour the whole morning. By noon, I experienced a sense of déjà vu. I was checking out the bookstore’s latest acquisitions and recalled the day in 1985 when we were laughing and joking in Hemlock’s, by Row S, when someone from my past said hello, and she got all uptight about the encounter as if I had arranged for it to happen.
Time was running out. As the day moved swiftly enough to get my work done, but brought no ideas on what to do for this challenge, I struggled with the thought of just calling to apologize and once again playing the fool, begging for a second chance and inviting her for a drink at the Tin Cat Pub or writing a heart felt romantic story about the two of us and this time sharing it with her. Then I stared for a few minutes at a sealed envelope in my In-Box and wondered what news that contained, and it made me think she would receive any thing I had to say at this point with the same sort of trepidation. Attempting to take my mind off my morning’s problem, and that mysterious midnight call, I wrote all the prompts on separate bits of paper and tried rearranging them in sequences that might make some sense. Twice I almost came up with an answer, but then I tossed all the bits in the trash bin and just began writing off the top of my head.
The wait was finally over. While I still had no idea who was coming to visit, I did have a nice little story to share which would put me in a good light with my friend, and so decided to take a break and go sit on a bench on the cobblestone street at the edge of the park across from my office. I watched a man change a tire on his cab with a determination I envied. There was an oil stain on his jacket, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was then I realized there was still one little problem facing me. I didn’t know how to work in the spoon.
The prompts for April, by date, are as follows:
1. A box of raisins, a first encounter
2. 1985
5. Hemlock’s bookshop, row s
6. Time was running out*
7. News, spoon
8. Someone from the past, a ticket
9. The best friend
12. Tin Cat Pub
13. It was a pall-bearer dropping the casket start to the day*
14. Stain, cab
15. The Box
16. A felt shoe bag, duct tape
19. The old rail lines outside Scranton
20. The wait was finally over*
21. Struggle, chocolate
22. Something smashed, a sealed envelope
23. The outcast
26. A bench on a cobblestone street
27. The call came at midnight*
28. Trash, twice
29. A second chance
30. The visitor, use a word, phrase, or sentence in another language other than English
*Starter sentences
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
So, It Begins
...and so it may continue, or not. So much to think about. So much planning required. Just need time to do things correctly.
No one wants to end up stranded although it might just be for the best.
No one wants to end up stranded although it might just be for the best.
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