I’m sitting at a large conference table in a glass room, like a goldfish. I’m wearing my very best Armani suit, with Deigo di Lucca boots and my good gold omega and watch. I look like everyone else in the room; well dressed, well groomed, all tattoos hidden and all contraband out of view. I’m typing into my laptop as the executive goldfish around me are speaking.
It’s a good sized corporation, with light gray brand new cubicle walls, and an excellent espresso maker in the break room. By this point, I’ve had 6 of them, no lunch, and it’s already 3:00.
“I will email you the credit insurance package, so you can see what we’re referring to.” He taps his finger on his pen as he tells me this. I realize it is some kind of “getting attention” move he learned at an overpriced seminar.
I nod, and go right back to looking at my screen.
The job is to write department manuals for this company. Today I am working with the finance department. I’ve been sitting in on meetings, and reading through memos, and organizing procedures, penalties and pay schedules for 3 days. Writing is writing; no matter what it is. And it isn’t all big publishing houses and "A" List accredited writers. Sometimes it’s collection letters, or marketing packages. Sometimes its company manuals like this.
I type quickly taking more notes then necessary for this assignment: background that could be used another place, another time. Everything is research. My notes include details on things ranging from customer service script enhancements, to office fashion, to how the guys in IT know everything. EVERYTHING. I am not kidding.
“She doesn’t work here anymore. But you’ll see her name on many of these memos.” The woman that is passing said memos to me is exquisite. She looks like she fell off of the cover of Vogue, and landed on her MBA without so much as a wrinkle. When she speaks, everyone is captivated, and there is no pen trick involved.
“Thank you.” I slide the memos towards myself thinking about her most perfect shade of wet nude lip gloss.
Another woman at the end of the table says, “I don’t think I remember her.”
Nude Lip Gloss turns her head slowly to face the doubter. Everyone watches silently. She says, “Yes you do.”
The woman drops her eyes to her papers. “Ohhh yes. Her. You’re right, I remember her.”
I see her effect on people. I see her power.
I decide now is not a good time to tell Nude Lip Gloss that I have a jacuzzi and good bottle of 12 year old Red Breast Irish whiskey just waiting for her at my house. Instead, I take a more subtle approach. “Let me make sure I have your email address correct, in case I have any questions.”
Nude Lip Gloss says, “Any questions, anything you need, just ask my assistant, Robert.”
I think Robert smiles, but I can’t take my eyes off of Nude Lip Gloss. Again, in front of everyone, I say, “With all due respect to Robert, I would really rather speak directly with you.”
In the parking lot, I am carefully putting my laptop and purse into the back seat, stalling for time, hoping she is on her way out. I’m a contractor. I’m hired for an assignment. I will be here from one to four months, depending. I do not have to follow any rules of behavior or etiquette. Not that I would ever be rude or unprofessional. It’s just that I can walk a tighter rope of what’s inappropriate then the career people here. I won’t have to deal with consequences until my retirement. It’s easier to take chances when you are temporary.
I watch as two of the guys from IT come out. They are both wearing jeans, and have long hair. They are laughing, and talking, as if they didn’t have an awful day. I notice that one gets into a Jetta.
A few girls come out together, from the customer service entrance. Yes, they have their own entrance on the side of the building. They look miserable. They all get into the same Hyundai. One was wearing colored stockings. One was carrying a lunchbox (She’s the one that flipped me off my first day on the assignment.) The other is still wearing her telephone headset, as if she does her hair around it in the mornings like a veil, and can’t take it off until she gets home.
I watch a very overweight woman get into a car that pulls up to meet her. The guy driving gets out and holds the door for her while she gets in. He kissed her hello as if he couldn’t wait to see her. Not a bad way to end the day. I smile for her, and I admit to myself I am a little jealous.
I watch the vice president of sales leave. I had lunch with him yesterday. He’s slick. He uses his charm and his looks to his advantage. He has a nice smile, and he looks damn good in that Hugo Boss charcoal gray suit. He made good conversation, but brought up wanting to have kids at least twice. I wouldn’t let him pick up the check.
The guy with the bleached blonde spiky hair leaves. He works in receiving, or the mail room, or something like that. I noticed he has many little flecks of different paint colors on his right hand. I decide he must be an artist. He is one of those guys that looks like he could be anywhere from 24 to 44 years old. Kind of an enigma.
I don’t see Nude Lip Gloss leave. Maybe she has already left. Maybe she is working late. There is a full sized yellow Hummer parked in the executive row. I decide in my head that it must be hers. Who knows. But I can’t stall unnoticed any longer.
I get into my Tahoe, and I make my way.
January 31, 2006
January 29, 2006
A Frog Named John
"I've looked at clouds from both sides now,
from up and down, and still somehow
it's cloud illusions I recall.
I really don't know clouds at all."
-Joni Mitchell
A first date, an airport,
Drinks and phone numbers in the rain.
The conversations were fantastic.
His sweetness was available, his intelligence was compelling.
A Chinese restaurant, he was made partner.
I didn't really like his beard.
He tried so hard to hold my hand.
The Grateful Dead, Ding Dongs, and some pretty good wine.
I took for granted the Saturday nights.
He let me take him to museums, and never complained.
Van Gogh, and many heart felt cards.
Mystic Connecticut, Memorial Day Weekend.
Counting the exits on the highway.
Used book stores, motels with no vacancies.
Pineapple pizza, and a bright red bra.
I never let him know how special he made me feel.
A Christmas party, a grand piano.
A little nut cracker that I still have.
A story of love, caught and kept.
A house full of people that I respected.
Truly good people.
These were his friends. This was his life.
And I could have been someone that fit.
He taught me, from Antioch to Zeppelin.
I wasn't ready. I was emotional, and immature.
I don't think I ever told him how handsome he was.
He stammered because I made him feel lost.
How I managed that spin is still beyond me. I was the one that was lost.
I was the one that was out of my league.
A barbecue, a long summer drive.
Timing was bad, and I was impatient.
He didn't want to wind up in the box. He meant that in present participle. I took it as an insult.
It wasn't an insult.
He was only trying to stay.
It seemed like insignificant things that mattered.
But all that mattered in the end was my fault.
This one was all my fault.
"I've looked at love from both sides now,
from give and take, and still somehow
it's love's illusions I recall.
I really don't know love at all."
-Joni Mitchell
from up and down, and still somehow
it's cloud illusions I recall.
I really don't know clouds at all."
-Joni Mitchell
A first date, an airport,
Drinks and phone numbers in the rain.
The conversations were fantastic.
His sweetness was available, his intelligence was compelling.
A Chinese restaurant, he was made partner.
I didn't really like his beard.
He tried so hard to hold my hand.
The Grateful Dead, Ding Dongs, and some pretty good wine.
I took for granted the Saturday nights.
He let me take him to museums, and never complained.
Van Gogh, and many heart felt cards.
Mystic Connecticut, Memorial Day Weekend.
Counting the exits on the highway.
Used book stores, motels with no vacancies.
Pineapple pizza, and a bright red bra.
I never let him know how special he made me feel.
A Christmas party, a grand piano.
A little nut cracker that I still have.
A story of love, caught and kept.
A house full of people that I respected.
Truly good people.
These were his friends. This was his life.
And I could have been someone that fit.
He taught me, from Antioch to Zeppelin.
I wasn't ready. I was emotional, and immature.
I don't think I ever told him how handsome he was.
He stammered because I made him feel lost.
How I managed that spin is still beyond me. I was the one that was lost.
I was the one that was out of my league.
A barbecue, a long summer drive.
Timing was bad, and I was impatient.
He didn't want to wind up in the box. He meant that in present participle. I took it as an insult.
It wasn't an insult.
He was only trying to stay.
It seemed like insignificant things that mattered.
But all that mattered in the end was my fault.
This one was all my fault.
"I've looked at love from both sides now,
from give and take, and still somehow
it's love's illusions I recall.
I really don't know love at all."
-Joni Mitchell
January 27, 2006
The Freeing
I look around his apartment while he hesitates in the kitchen. His voice is nervous. "Can I get you anything? Water? Milk?"
Milk? "Umm, no thanks. I'm good." He wasn't what I was imagining. He's young. Can't be more then 25 years old. He looks like he hasn't bathed, or slept, or eaten. I know the look. I recognize it.
Cautiously I step into the living room. No furniture. On the floor underneath the window, he has a TV, and a black telephone, the kind that you would have seen in an office in the 1980's. There are cushions and a blanket and a couple of pillows strewn on the floor in various locations.
And there are papers. Stacks and stacks,... and stacks, of papers. Hand written. Long hand. Notebooks, and looseleaf. It's everywhere. I'm mesmerized.
He comes in from the kitchen and hands me a glass of water with a single lonely ice cube just floating in it. Even though I had said I don't want anything, I accept it and say thank you. He looks afraid.
He's wearing very worn old light tan dockers, or some thing close to them. He's got a white long sleeve long underwear shirt on, underneath a black tshirt that says "Chico and The Man" He's wearing thin wire frame glasses, and a black leather necklace, with a shark tooth hanging from it. He sits down on the floor in the middle of the piles, and says, "I guess you use a computer."
I sense defensiveness. "I do. But I like writing long hand too."
He sits still for a moment as if he is thinking. Then he says, "I'm supposed to show you samples of my writing, so you can get my style." He gestures around. "You can look at anything you want."
Trepidatiously, I walk through the piles, and I start to read, just what's on top. He speaks abruptly as if he's trying to interrupt me. "I can tell you what's going to happen."
I bend my knees, and lower myself to the very beige carpet. Very beige. I sit on the floor infront of him. "What's going to happen?"
He looks small, as if he's shrinking, or as if he feels like he is. "You're going to write like me, and that's going to make me worse. And I'm going to wash dishes for the rest of my life." He is barely whispering. He looks at me, with the face of a man going under. "And you know what, maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe that's better."
He picks up a pen from the floor, and writes something down on a pad next to him. A note, a line... a Word. Something, always. Ever writing.
He's so young. I can feel the newness in spite of the beige around him. I can see him wrestle cerebrally with everything in his world. He pulls his bended knees up and wraps his arms around them.
I try to be as quiet as he's being. "Can I ask, why aren't you honoring your contract?"
He runs his hands through his hair. I can see the ink stains on his fingers. I find this endearing. He looks like he's coming apart. "The better question is why did I sign the fucking contract in the first place." He rubs his eyes. "And now you're going to step in, and save it for me, and just copy me like I'm..." He shakes his head. He shakes it off.
I've met the people on the other side of the checks before. The editor. The accredited writer. The agent. They are always the other people. Always people I would never be, to whom I'd never relate.
I'd never before that moment looked at myself inside one of those writers.
And he's right; being mimicked is hard for an artist; you question your uniqueness, you doubt your connection to the universe. You feel replaceable. You feel... Worse.
And who am I to save his contract? Maybe I could help him save something else instead.
The thing is, I rarely ghost for a real writer.
He appears very small. He is not small, he just looks that way. I can't stop myself from looking around at the stacks, from where I am sitting. I pick up a handful of papers. And I read.
He stares, gauging my facial reactions, fighting the urge to read over my shoulder with me, or explain what it is he has written. He twitches, and clears his throat. He rocks back and forth... watching me invade him. Watching me read his work, Words written for himself, maybe not ever intended to be read. Not to be shared. He takes as much as he can. And then can't take any more.
"Please." His whisper is desperate. I look at him, my mouth filled with Words I'd love to say about his work. But he is too terrified. He is actually in tears. "Please stop." His hands are gripping his ankles. He's shaking.
6 days later I am in the Olympus diner with his editor. Because it is not my editor, he belongs to someone else. "I just wish I knew where the kid was. He just disappeared. I don't know what happened."
" Fugue " I whisper. I know exactly where he is. Not physically, on earth. Just in the sense of it. Just in context. I understand it completely.
His editor squints at me. "You know where he is?"
"No." It's not explainable to those that don't speak the language.
I think about the episode of the Little Rascals where they let all the dogs out of the back of the dog catcher's truck. And the dogs all ran away free. At least I think it was the Little Rascals. I think Petey was one of the dogs in the wagon. I remember the feeling more then the show. I remember the freeing.
He tosses a few bills down to cover the cost of the coffees. "He was weird from the beginning. He acted like he was supposed to be published, not like he wanted to be. I can't really be surprised. I was surprised at you, though. This is the first time you couldn't write a job I offered you."
I run my hand over my messenger style bag. Oh, I wrote it all right. I wrote the assignment. I can't resist that. I can't stop that. I wrote it, perfectly in his style; cracked, abandoned, doubtful, depressed. That is something I had to do for myself. But I never turned it in. That is something I had to do for him.
It's his Editor. His deal. His soul to sell or save. His Words, his choice to let them have what he wrote, or to run like hell. Just like no one could make that decision for me, I couldn't make it for him.
No one with a thousand stacks of papers like that needs me to ghost. He could have made that deadline. I gave him his choice back. And he chose.
God, it feels good to not be the only one. Even alone.
I head up the street into the winter, unsure of how it got so light outside so fast. I think to myself, in this moment I am pure and faithful. In this moment I am getting it.
I know the sound. I know the foot steps. And now, I also know the echo.
Milk? "Umm, no thanks. I'm good." He wasn't what I was imagining. He's young. Can't be more then 25 years old. He looks like he hasn't bathed, or slept, or eaten. I know the look. I recognize it.
Cautiously I step into the living room. No furniture. On the floor underneath the window, he has a TV, and a black telephone, the kind that you would have seen in an office in the 1980's. There are cushions and a blanket and a couple of pillows strewn on the floor in various locations.
And there are papers. Stacks and stacks,... and stacks, of papers. Hand written. Long hand. Notebooks, and looseleaf. It's everywhere. I'm mesmerized.
He comes in from the kitchen and hands me a glass of water with a single lonely ice cube just floating in it. Even though I had said I don't want anything, I accept it and say thank you. He looks afraid.
He's wearing very worn old light tan dockers, or some thing close to them. He's got a white long sleeve long underwear shirt on, underneath a black tshirt that says "Chico and The Man" He's wearing thin wire frame glasses, and a black leather necklace, with a shark tooth hanging from it. He sits down on the floor in the middle of the piles, and says, "I guess you use a computer."
I sense defensiveness. "I do. But I like writing long hand too."
He sits still for a moment as if he is thinking. Then he says, "I'm supposed to show you samples of my writing, so you can get my style." He gestures around. "You can look at anything you want."
Trepidatiously, I walk through the piles, and I start to read, just what's on top. He speaks abruptly as if he's trying to interrupt me. "I can tell you what's going to happen."
I bend my knees, and lower myself to the very beige carpet. Very beige. I sit on the floor infront of him. "What's going to happen?"
He looks small, as if he's shrinking, or as if he feels like he is. "You're going to write like me, and that's going to make me worse. And I'm going to wash dishes for the rest of my life." He is barely whispering. He looks at me, with the face of a man going under. "And you know what, maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe that's better."
He picks up a pen from the floor, and writes something down on a pad next to him. A note, a line... a Word. Something, always. Ever writing.
He's so young. I can feel the newness in spite of the beige around him. I can see him wrestle cerebrally with everything in his world. He pulls his bended knees up and wraps his arms around them.
I try to be as quiet as he's being. "Can I ask, why aren't you honoring your contract?"
He runs his hands through his hair. I can see the ink stains on his fingers. I find this endearing. He looks like he's coming apart. "The better question is why did I sign the fucking contract in the first place." He rubs his eyes. "And now you're going to step in, and save it for me, and just copy me like I'm..." He shakes his head. He shakes it off.
I've met the people on the other side of the checks before. The editor. The accredited writer. The agent. They are always the other people. Always people I would never be, to whom I'd never relate.
I'd never before that moment looked at myself inside one of those writers.
And he's right; being mimicked is hard for an artist; you question your uniqueness, you doubt your connection to the universe. You feel replaceable. You feel... Worse.
And who am I to save his contract? Maybe I could help him save something else instead.
The thing is, I rarely ghost for a real writer.
He appears very small. He is not small, he just looks that way. I can't stop myself from looking around at the stacks, from where I am sitting. I pick up a handful of papers. And I read.
He stares, gauging my facial reactions, fighting the urge to read over my shoulder with me, or explain what it is he has written. He twitches, and clears his throat. He rocks back and forth... watching me invade him. Watching me read his work, Words written for himself, maybe not ever intended to be read. Not to be shared. He takes as much as he can. And then can't take any more.
"Please." His whisper is desperate. I look at him, my mouth filled with Words I'd love to say about his work. But he is too terrified. He is actually in tears. "Please stop." His hands are gripping his ankles. He's shaking.
6 days later I am in the Olympus diner with his editor. Because it is not my editor, he belongs to someone else. "I just wish I knew where the kid was. He just disappeared. I don't know what happened."
" Fugue " I whisper. I know exactly where he is. Not physically, on earth. Just in the sense of it. Just in context. I understand it completely.
His editor squints at me. "You know where he is?"
"No." It's not explainable to those that don't speak the language.
I think about the episode of the Little Rascals where they let all the dogs out of the back of the dog catcher's truck. And the dogs all ran away free. At least I think it was the Little Rascals. I think Petey was one of the dogs in the wagon. I remember the feeling more then the show. I remember the freeing.
He tosses a few bills down to cover the cost of the coffees. "He was weird from the beginning. He acted like he was supposed to be published, not like he wanted to be. I can't really be surprised. I was surprised at you, though. This is the first time you couldn't write a job I offered you."
I run my hand over my messenger style bag. Oh, I wrote it all right. I wrote the assignment. I can't resist that. I can't stop that. I wrote it, perfectly in his style; cracked, abandoned, doubtful, depressed. That is something I had to do for myself. But I never turned it in. That is something I had to do for him.
It's his Editor. His deal. His soul to sell or save. His Words, his choice to let them have what he wrote, or to run like hell. Just like no one could make that decision for me, I couldn't make it for him.
No one with a thousand stacks of papers like that needs me to ghost. He could have made that deadline. I gave him his choice back. And he chose.
God, it feels good to not be the only one. Even alone.
I head up the street into the winter, unsure of how it got so light outside so fast. I think to myself, in this moment I am pure and faithful. In this moment I am getting it.
I know the sound. I know the foot steps. And now, I also know the echo.
The Heart of the Sin
retribution
retaliation
regret
reverence
There are degrees to things. Like murder. And it involves your intention. Even the law can figure that out. It would seem that it would not be so hard for us to follow.
Stupidity is a problem, not a sin.
I'm not talking about accountability. Or cost. Or responsibility. Just sin. I'm just talking about sin.
You can only sin with your heart. Hands are fallible. We stumble, we make mistakes. We misunderstand. We miss fire. We let the moment get the better of us, we let our tempers go, we fuck up, and we fall.
I do not believe it is the human flaw that is the sin. I believe true sinning is done with intent and purpose. I believe you have to mean it. I believe to really sin, your heart has to be in it.
This wasn't my sin. This was my shame.
If I hurt you, I did so with my hands, or maybe even with my mind.
But the Words as my witness, I would never hurt you in my heart.
retaliation
regret
reverence
There are degrees to things. Like murder. And it involves your intention. Even the law can figure that out. It would seem that it would not be so hard for us to follow.
Stupidity is a problem, not a sin.
I'm not talking about accountability. Or cost. Or responsibility. Just sin. I'm just talking about sin.
You can only sin with your heart. Hands are fallible. We stumble, we make mistakes. We misunderstand. We miss fire. We let the moment get the better of us, we let our tempers go, we fuck up, and we fall.
I do not believe it is the human flaw that is the sin. I believe true sinning is done with intent and purpose. I believe you have to mean it. I believe to really sin, your heart has to be in it.
This wasn't my sin. This was my shame.
If I hurt you, I did so with my hands, or maybe even with my mind.
But the Words as my witness, I would never hurt you in my heart.
Fault
The punishment should fit the crime. I'm not looking for an easy way out. I'm not making excuses. I accept sentencing for the wrongs I've committed... Penance not withstanding. Every day is a trial. Every thing we do is scrutinized. I realize we live like this.
What I find hard is being convicted for crimes I didn't commit.
I carry around enough of my own faults and ills. I don't have the capacity or strength to pay the price for indiscretions not mine.
What I find hard is being convicted for crimes I didn't commit.
I carry around enough of my own faults and ills. I don't have the capacity or strength to pay the price for indiscretions not mine.
January 22, 2006
The Way Home
I finish the last installment somewhere around 3 am. I sit on the backporch alone, with a brandy, which I will add coffee to in about an hour. An easy mix and cross. Trade one substance for another. Find the ones with seamless transition.
I am still enthralled in this one, in the tale and the thoughts. In the characters. In their lives. I am still on my way back, and often that takes a while.
It's cold. I like the cold.
I know this work was good.
Surrogacy.
I remember driving to the Jersey shore with Bear, 18 years ago, in my '69 Volkswagen bug. Bear had the map. It was the middle of the night, in very early May. It was cold, and crisp, and we had the whole planet to ourselves. We had bagels and Genesee Cream Ale. It was probably about this same time... 3 am. It was so dark we couldn't see anything. Bear was reading the map, telling me - make a left, make a right. He would say, according to the map we are almost there. The more lost we got, the harder we laughed. Boston was playing on the radio. Don't Look Back. He told me to make a fast left and park.
He exclaimed, "OK! This is it! We should be there!"
But we were still not at the ocean. I said, "Bear! Where the fuck are we?"
"According to the map, we're there!" Bear was smiling.
"Where?" It was so dark all I could tell was that we were in a parking lot.
"Frontierland." He grins. He gestures grandly with spread arms at the open empty parking lot.
What? What part of fucking Sandy Hook is Frontier Land?? "Gimme that map." I snatch it away from him.
It was a map of Disney World.
He had been guiding us on our journey to the Jersey shore, with an old map of Disney World. And the funny thing was, it almost worked. We were only a few blocks off.
That was one of the best sunrises of my life. One you wait for. Not one you wake for.
And now I'm here.
It will take a best friend and another old map of the Magic Kingdom for me to find my way back again.
I am still enthralled in this one, in the tale and the thoughts. In the characters. In their lives. I am still on my way back, and often that takes a while.
It's cold. I like the cold.
I know this work was good.
Surrogacy.
I remember driving to the Jersey shore with Bear, 18 years ago, in my '69 Volkswagen bug. Bear had the map. It was the middle of the night, in very early May. It was cold, and crisp, and we had the whole planet to ourselves. We had bagels and Genesee Cream Ale. It was probably about this same time... 3 am. It was so dark we couldn't see anything. Bear was reading the map, telling me - make a left, make a right. He would say, according to the map we are almost there. The more lost we got, the harder we laughed. Boston was playing on the radio. Don't Look Back. He told me to make a fast left and park.
He exclaimed, "OK! This is it! We should be there!"
But we were still not at the ocean. I said, "Bear! Where the fuck are we?"
"According to the map, we're there!" Bear was smiling.
"Where?" It was so dark all I could tell was that we were in a parking lot.
"Frontierland." He grins. He gestures grandly with spread arms at the open empty parking lot.
What? What part of fucking Sandy Hook is Frontier Land?? "Gimme that map." I snatch it away from him.
It was a map of Disney World.
He had been guiding us on our journey to the Jersey shore, with an old map of Disney World. And the funny thing was, it almost worked. We were only a few blocks off.
That was one of the best sunrises of my life. One you wait for. Not one you wake for.
And now I'm here.
It will take a best friend and another old map of the Magic Kingdom for me to find my way back again.
January 20, 2006
8
We're exposed. We're naked out here. Bare. All of us.
And the naked human being can be vile, and hard to embrace.
We have a natural instinct to look away.
"Promises mean everything when you're little
And the world's so big."
-Everlast
I remember believing. In angels. And fathers. And Magic Tinkle Bunnies.
Some things were really special. And will stay forever.
I really need to work harder at remembering that.
I wasn't always so filled with fear. That was taught. That wasn't innate.
Secrets, promises, betrayals and abandonments.
I used to try to read what I wrote to people all the time when I was little. I could never get anyone to listen. And now everyone wants to know why I won't show them my work. So fucking weird.
Everyone has a story. Everyone has their shit. I don't expect that mine is all that unique.
I'm healing and breaking in all the same places.
I can get in there... deeper.
When I read something I've written, I imagine I'm drowning. I picture myself going under. No pain or physical sensations. Just The Sinking.
Tomorrow will either be an accident or a mistake. Either way, it will have to be dealt with. Either way, I am accountable.
And the naked human being can be vile, and hard to embrace.
We have a natural instinct to look away.
"Promises mean everything when you're little
And the world's so big."
-Everlast
I remember believing. In angels. And fathers. And Magic Tinkle Bunnies.
Some things were really special. And will stay forever.
I really need to work harder at remembering that.
I wasn't always so filled with fear. That was taught. That wasn't innate.
Secrets, promises, betrayals and abandonments.
I used to try to read what I wrote to people all the time when I was little. I could never get anyone to listen. And now everyone wants to know why I won't show them my work. So fucking weird.
Everyone has a story. Everyone has their shit. I don't expect that mine is all that unique.
I'm healing and breaking in all the same places.
I can get in there... deeper.
When I read something I've written, I imagine I'm drowning. I picture myself going under. No pain or physical sensations. Just The Sinking.
Tomorrow will either be an accident or a mistake. Either way, it will have to be dealt with. Either way, I am accountable.
January 19, 2006
Ad Answered
It surprises me, still
sometimes
what I am capable of.
My ability to sever and disappear is unparalleled.
I can take it and take it and deal with so much. Then, something happens. A line is crossed. A final straw. It may be magnificent. It may be nominal. But once it happens, I'm gone.
The only thing that bothers me about the severing, is the perception. It bothers me forever that I could be remembered as angry, or uncaring. I'm gone because it hurt. I left sad.
And when I think about you I remember good things, and I'm even sadder.
Regrets and apologies I was never afforded.
And I still don't even know what happened. Other than the conclusions of surroundings, that one is mean and one is crazy. Take your pick. I didn't.
The things I smiled for, soured. So I will not reminisce.
I know I wasn't my best. And for that I am really sorry. Really.
Ripped out, like a cat, all four claws out, and grabbing... scratching and..…
when you remove the cat, the cat will take everything it can with it.
Brutal.
No easy way to do it.
Circles cross and get bigger. People marry, and work, and die. Connections change and shift. I was trying; maybe I wasn't as good at it as you were, but I was trying. It kills me that you couldn't see that.
Elimination.
Don't get a flat on this road, no one will stop to help you.
And I made my way.
.
sometimes
what I am capable of.
My ability to sever and disappear is unparalleled.
I can take it and take it and deal with so much. Then, something happens. A line is crossed. A final straw. It may be magnificent. It may be nominal. But once it happens, I'm gone.
The only thing that bothers me about the severing, is the perception. It bothers me forever that I could be remembered as angry, or uncaring. I'm gone because it hurt. I left sad.
And when I think about you I remember good things, and I'm even sadder.
Regrets and apologies I was never afforded.
And I still don't even know what happened. Other than the conclusions of surroundings, that one is mean and one is crazy. Take your pick. I didn't.
The things I smiled for, soured. So I will not reminisce.
I know I wasn't my best. And for that I am really sorry. Really.
Ripped out, like a cat, all four claws out, and grabbing... scratching and..…
when you remove the cat, the cat will take everything it can with it.
Brutal.
No easy way to do it.
Circles cross and get bigger. People marry, and work, and die. Connections change and shift. I was trying; maybe I wasn't as good at it as you were, but I was trying. It kills me that you couldn't see that.
Elimination.
Don't get a flat on this road, no one will stop to help you.
And I made my way.
.
January 18, 2006
The View
When I read the work of another writer, I form a vivid image in my head of how this person is speaking to me.
One writer I've been reading lately, I picture sitting at a table, in a familia restaurant. The kind of place where you feel welcome right away. He invites me to sit at his table, his arms spread wide, as he speaks his piece. Anyone is welcome to listen in, and break bread. Everyone knows him, and likes him. I picture his gestures as old world, and grand. I always picturing him smiling.
There's another writer who makes me feel as if we are completely alone. She writes personal, difficult things that make me want to flinch. Yet, as I read and imagine her speaking these Words, it's as if we're lifelong friends. So intimate in fact, that the scene I always imagine is the two of us sitting on the floor of her bedroom. I picture her passing a bottle of wine to me, inviting me to drink with her. Drink the Words, drink the intoxication. Somehow even the most uncomfortable of subject matter becomes owned, and alright, between friends.
A writer I've been reading for quite a while now gives me an image of authority. I usually imagine his standing at a pulpit or lectern. I imagine myself one in a sea of many, listening intently. The room is so quiet when he takes a pause, that you can hear a pin drop.
One of my favorite writers, I always picture speaking to me in the confessional. I see a large Catholic church. I can sense parishioners and priests outside of the booth, waiting. I'm so close to him, really only inches away, but we are separated by the screen. I imagine a sense of pressure, and immediacy as he confesses, on his knees. I know he can't hear me, or anyone else. His Words bare him.
I have recently found a writer who has burned an image in my brain reminiscent of Agnes of God. I imagine myself on a ladder, on the top wrung, stretching to see into the loft, to see something higher. She is in the loft, walking softly around, looking up at something even higher; something I am no where near close to seeing. She is completely unaware that I am there. She is singing; a melody so far above me it makes me cry to listen. She sings for herself. I strain everything I have to see her, to see what she sees. I can only barely look, the light is so bright, the sound ... so ...
I feel like I stole the glimpse, I feel like I should turn away, but I can't.
No writer has ever made me feel so reverent.
One writer I've been reading lately, I picture sitting at a table, in a familia restaurant. The kind of place where you feel welcome right away. He invites me to sit at his table, his arms spread wide, as he speaks his piece. Anyone is welcome to listen in, and break bread. Everyone knows him, and likes him. I picture his gestures as old world, and grand. I always picturing him smiling.
There's another writer who makes me feel as if we are completely alone. She writes personal, difficult things that make me want to flinch. Yet, as I read and imagine her speaking these Words, it's as if we're lifelong friends. So intimate in fact, that the scene I always imagine is the two of us sitting on the floor of her bedroom. I picture her passing a bottle of wine to me, inviting me to drink with her. Drink the Words, drink the intoxication. Somehow even the most uncomfortable of subject matter becomes owned, and alright, between friends.
A writer I've been reading for quite a while now gives me an image of authority. I usually imagine his standing at a pulpit or lectern. I imagine myself one in a sea of many, listening intently. The room is so quiet when he takes a pause, that you can hear a pin drop.
One of my favorite writers, I always picture speaking to me in the confessional. I see a large Catholic church. I can sense parishioners and priests outside of the booth, waiting. I'm so close to him, really only inches away, but we are separated by the screen. I imagine a sense of pressure, and immediacy as he confesses, on his knees. I know he can't hear me, or anyone else. His Words bare him.
I have recently found a writer who has burned an image in my brain reminiscent of Agnes of God. I imagine myself on a ladder, on the top wrung, stretching to see into the loft, to see something higher. She is in the loft, walking softly around, looking up at something even higher; something I am no where near close to seeing. She is completely unaware that I am there. She is singing; a melody so far above me it makes me cry to listen. She sings for herself. I strain everything I have to see her, to see what she sees. I can only barely look, the light is so bright, the sound ... so ...
I feel like I stole the glimpse, I feel like I should turn away, but I can't.
No writer has ever made me feel so reverent.
January 16, 2006
BH
She used to kiss my windshield, and leave a rose colored impression of her lips for me, that would not come off in the rain or with the windshield wipers.
She washed my hair for me when I hurt my shoulder. We were at work, in the ladies room. We were quiet, so no one would hear us. Silent, except for the running water, and the sound of our breathing.
I was her first kiss with a woman, I was her first. She was a very good kisser.
Everyone was in love with her: her friend with cancer, her ex boyfriend, her boss, and the troubled wife of my Friend, now gone.
She had the cutest little apartment in Paterson, with black and white diamond laid tiles. She was 5 years younger then I, and it showed.
She had Pearl Paint friends, and went to really cool clubs, where everyone danced as one. She drove a shit box car, that made me feel alive when I saw it coming. Her tongue was pierced. She was very pretty, and perhaps a little too empowered by that. But she wore it oh so well. She was so young, in so many ways.
For my 27th birthday she brought me chocolate and a bottle of vodka.
Now, that's a good friend.
Some days, I really loved her. Others, I didn't. She abandoned me when it was her time to go, but not before she had made several pretty bad mistakes. I had made similar ones years earlier, when it was my time. No regrets on this one. No harsh feelings. I remember her fondly. Curiously. I wish all good things for her, wherever she may be.
She washed my hair for me when I hurt my shoulder. We were at work, in the ladies room. We were quiet, so no one would hear us. Silent, except for the running water, and the sound of our breathing.
I was her first kiss with a woman, I was her first. She was a very good kisser.
Everyone was in love with her: her friend with cancer, her ex boyfriend, her boss, and the troubled wife of my Friend, now gone.
She had the cutest little apartment in Paterson, with black and white diamond laid tiles. She was 5 years younger then I, and it showed.
She had Pearl Paint friends, and went to really cool clubs, where everyone danced as one. She drove a shit box car, that made me feel alive when I saw it coming. Her tongue was pierced. She was very pretty, and perhaps a little too empowered by that. But she wore it oh so well. She was so young, in so many ways.
For my 27th birthday she brought me chocolate and a bottle of vodka.
Now, that's a good friend.
Some days, I really loved her. Others, I didn't. She abandoned me when it was her time to go, but not before she had made several pretty bad mistakes. I had made similar ones years earlier, when it was my time. No regrets on this one. No harsh feelings. I remember her fondly. Curiously. I wish all good things for her, wherever she may be.
January 15, 2006
Brain Storm
summon your demons was it a little too much was it a little too raw I did a little painting maybe too much it makes me weird I ordered a new clothes iron and ironing board because I spend too much on dry cleaning is there irony in that my pussy concrete angels in the living room on a cracking plaster and lath wall that I hired 2 lesbians from newburgh to paint in a faux concrete finish now that really is irony ditallini soup I used to make when I was 21 and broke out of ketchup packets I needed to taste that again what's that taste sugar and poverty or the taste of hunger and it was good the good ones like john and michael the bad ones like peter and paul more wine bang there is a difference between regretting and recognizing that something was really wasted time ta bouche and paperwork all my recipes are in a binder so neatly organized that cunt of a roommate and that fucking bitch of another and big head and roses I wanted to order these little white rose lights from a catalogue but they were all sold out collection of glass fish paperweights on my desk I have seen the end of this movie 3 times but never the beginning stink big bucket of dog toys don't want to think about the pompous asses why do I have so many fucking pillows everywhere remind me to tell you about the clocks pier 1 candles are the best coming laundry built that all the faces and all the names that I am but I'm not and tonight it's melting down which is a lot different then exploding would you like to swing on a star deny I had a black princess phone and a red '75 charger when I was 16 and cool before insurance and taxes and adulthood he should have given me that door for free she is always cold off tomorrow my house is not designed for children water the plants what are your plans I can not believe I left that vibrator out there has got to be anonymity Christmas card from my ex-girlfriend and her wife with the annual letter and the photo carolers from the church here kid take this fiver but do not lick it how fucking funny was that the I's the T's speakers finally we're wired we are employee discounts and happy rainbows I'm thinking Thai
January 12, 2006
New
I can't keep running away from myself.
There's no place left to go.
And I don't know why I do this.
I have something to say.
There's a point.
I am completely lost in a story I know by heart.
I am completely new again, in a place I have built a thousand times.
There's no place left to go.
And I don't know why I do this.
I have something to say.
There's a point.
I am completely lost in a story I know by heart.
I am completely new again, in a place I have built a thousand times.
January 10, 2006
The Big Move
"Are you sure you're OK?" He asks. He's been through these before with me, from a distance, but nevertheless, he's seen what these things do to me.
"I will be." I'm sitting on the kitchen counter. The newspaper is still open across the table.
"It was a good review," he says, "Does that make it any easier?" He honestly doesn't know. He asks innocently. Hopefully.
"The good ones are harder then the bad ones." I'm finishing my green tea. I'm kicking off my boots. I'm pushing off my socks. I'm noticing that my jeans have a little wear at the hem where they scrape the ground.
He's looking at my red toe nail polish, as if he wasn't expecting it. "Would it help if I said that I thought it sucked?" He grins a little, hoping I will do the same.
I give him a smile.
The instant he leaves I'm going to get in the bathtub with a bottle of scotch. And he knows it.
"I can stay the night if you want, I can leave tomorrow. It doesn't matter really." And he really is leaving. Everything he owns is in my driveway, packed into his pick up truck. He's moving to Boston. He rented an apartment, within walking distance of a certain diner, where he plans to eat three meals a day.
I guess when no one is expecting you, it doesn't really matter when you arrive.
In a very kind gesture, he moves closer, standing in front of me. He takes my bare feet in his hands and rubs them, resting the soles against his thighs. This makes me want to cry. But I refrain. I can hold it in a little longer. I don't want him to stay, and he will if he sees me cry.
"No, it's fine. Thanks. You go." I do this to myself. It's my shit. It's me. I really don't want anyone else dragged down by it. And I can't explain it any better than I already have. I'm pretty sure there's olives in the fridge. And breadsticks in the pantry. I'm thinking that will be dinner. I'm thinking his hands feel good on my feet. I'm thinking my father has been dead for a year. I'm thinking I may have left my gloves in the Virgin Megastore. I'm thinking I look good in these jeans. I'm thinking I have always found him attractive. I'm trying to remember the last time I was kissed. I don't mean fucked, or hugged. I mean kissed. Really kissed. I'm thinking, I'm probably only an inch away from hallucinating right now.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
I squint as I look at him. "Why? Do you think I'm crazy?"
He shakes his head and shrugs. His normally broad shoulders are sunken. He looks worn. The last few months have kicked the shit out of him.
"No." I say with surety. "You're not crazy. You're compelled. Believe me, I understand the difference."
I realize his offer to stay the night is as much for himself as for me.
His voice is tired. "I can't help it."
I glance at the god damned newspaper, at the book review. "I understand."
We are both completely alone.
"I was caught in between
All I wish for and all I dream.
I picture you fast asleep,
A night that comes you can't keep awake.
May God's love be with you, always
May God's love be with you
Cause if I find, if I find my way,
How much will I find?
I find you."
-Howie Day (As recorded with permission by Howie Day, Original Writing Credit to JOSEPH ARTHUR. Thank you Fallenangel)
"I will be." I'm sitting on the kitchen counter. The newspaper is still open across the table.
"It was a good review," he says, "Does that make it any easier?" He honestly doesn't know. He asks innocently. Hopefully.
"The good ones are harder then the bad ones." I'm finishing my green tea. I'm kicking off my boots. I'm pushing off my socks. I'm noticing that my jeans have a little wear at the hem where they scrape the ground.
He's looking at my red toe nail polish, as if he wasn't expecting it. "Would it help if I said that I thought it sucked?" He grins a little, hoping I will do the same.
I give him a smile.
The instant he leaves I'm going to get in the bathtub with a bottle of scotch. And he knows it.
"I can stay the night if you want, I can leave tomorrow. It doesn't matter really." And he really is leaving. Everything he owns is in my driveway, packed into his pick up truck. He's moving to Boston. He rented an apartment, within walking distance of a certain diner, where he plans to eat three meals a day.
I guess when no one is expecting you, it doesn't really matter when you arrive.
In a very kind gesture, he moves closer, standing in front of me. He takes my bare feet in his hands and rubs them, resting the soles against his thighs. This makes me want to cry. But I refrain. I can hold it in a little longer. I don't want him to stay, and he will if he sees me cry.
"No, it's fine. Thanks. You go." I do this to myself. It's my shit. It's me. I really don't want anyone else dragged down by it. And I can't explain it any better than I already have. I'm pretty sure there's olives in the fridge. And breadsticks in the pantry. I'm thinking that will be dinner. I'm thinking his hands feel good on my feet. I'm thinking my father has been dead for a year. I'm thinking I may have left my gloves in the Virgin Megastore. I'm thinking I look good in these jeans. I'm thinking I have always found him attractive. I'm trying to remember the last time I was kissed. I don't mean fucked, or hugged. I mean kissed. Really kissed. I'm thinking, I'm probably only an inch away from hallucinating right now.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
I squint as I look at him. "Why? Do you think I'm crazy?"
He shakes his head and shrugs. His normally broad shoulders are sunken. He looks worn. The last few months have kicked the shit out of him.
"No." I say with surety. "You're not crazy. You're compelled. Believe me, I understand the difference."
I realize his offer to stay the night is as much for himself as for me.
His voice is tired. "I can't help it."
I glance at the god damned newspaper, at the book review. "I understand."
We are both completely alone.
"I was caught in between
All I wish for and all I dream.
I picture you fast asleep,
A night that comes you can't keep awake.
May God's love be with you, always
May God's love be with you
Cause if I find, if I find my way,
How much will I find?
I find you."
-Howie Day (As recorded with permission by Howie Day, Original Writing Credit to JOSEPH ARTHUR. Thank you Fallenangel)
The Rain
Storms are alive and electric.
It’s not all about disaster.
Sometimes the downpour is cleansing. Rebirth. Rejuvenation.
Sometimes a puddle can be a playground; innocent and still.
All things balance. I can promise you that.
I feel things deeply.
That complicates the way people see me.
Some days the Words flow and my place in this world is defined and clear. Enchanted. Strong. Destined. Beautiful.
Some days, when I'm doing what I was designed to do. I know the Earth is pleased. And I take that to bed.
Not every Word represents pain.
Not every moment exists in sadness.
Not all days are hard,
But most days are deep.
Even the puddles.
And that doesn’t change the rain.
“Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy,
Are drifting through my open mind
Possessing and caressing me.”
-The Beatles
I didn’t invent the rainy day, man.
I just have the best umbrella.
- Almost Famous
It’s not all about disaster.
Sometimes the downpour is cleansing. Rebirth. Rejuvenation.
Sometimes a puddle can be a playground; innocent and still.
All things balance. I can promise you that.
I feel things deeply.
That complicates the way people see me.
Some days the Words flow and my place in this world is defined and clear. Enchanted. Strong. Destined. Beautiful.
Some days, when I'm doing what I was designed to do. I know the Earth is pleased. And I take that to bed.
Not every Word represents pain.
Not every moment exists in sadness.
Not all days are hard,
But most days are deep.
Even the puddles.
And that doesn’t change the rain.
“Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy,
Are drifting through my open mind
Possessing and caressing me.”
-The Beatles
I didn’t invent the rainy day, man.
I just have the best umbrella.
- Almost Famous
January 09, 2006
Adopted
He drinks Irish whiskey, and well I might add. He looks into the rocks glass before taking a long hard swig. He is swallowing a lot more then whiskey.
"19 years, waiting for that moment. I never in my worst nightmare imagined it would go like it did." He wipes his hair off of his face. I can see the bags under his eyes. I doubt he's slept since it happened. "It's the strangest sensation, you couldn't possibly understand. I've never even met him before last week. He spent less then an hour with me. And I've never loved anyone so much in my life."
He's right. I haven't had children, so I really can't understand. But I sympathize. In an effort to convey that I let my hand rest on his thigh while he struggles to talk to me, to find the Words in his knotted chest.
I had been aware that This had occurred. He's 38 and I've known him for more then a decade. He's talked about This since I met him. I had the outline, and I understood that This was something that haunted him, everyday. Every night. I believe he was 18 when This happened. His high school girlfriend had decided adoption was her answer. He found out after This had happened.
He is not alright. I can see it in his hands and his face. I can feel it in his breath and in the way his thigh is trembling underneath my hand.
Nineteen long years worth of private investigators, and lawyers, and thousands upon thousands of dollars, and desperate pleading on his part to find his way through an illegal adoption, had finally come to a conclusion.
"He has my cheekbones. And my coloring. You know, the dark brown hair and eyes. His hair is long. Like mine used to be." His eyes fade back, his lips part, his whisper cracks. "It took everything I had in me to not grab him and hold him in my arms."
He reveals slowly what the meeting was like. His son agreed to meet him, after 10 phone calls in 3 days, at a diner in Boston. His son said this was the only place he was willing to meet because it was within walking distance for him and he didn't have a car.
"I drove straight through. I left New York about 15 minutes after I hung up the phone. I couldn't wait. 'Got there 2 hours before he said he'd meet me." He describes how his heart was racing, and how he was scared and excited. He says his son walked into the diner on time. He knew it was him right away.
Wiping his eyes he looks at the vivid image he has burned into his brain, and describes the 19 year old. "Skinny. Holes in his jeans. Stained t-shirt and work boots and a Carhart coat. Gloves without fingers, you know the kind. I could smell gasoline, I think he must work at a gas station. He may have been on his dinner break. He wouldn't say. He wouldn't say wherehe worked or what he did. He wouldn't tell me anything at all about himself... He was hungry... He looked cold."
His son's first words to him were something like - "I'm only meeting you so you will stop, and leave me alone."
The 50 minute meeting consisted of his pleading with his son to listen, and his son refusing to hear him, refusing to answer any questions, and refusing to talk except to say, "You abandoned me. You didn't want me, and now you feel guilty. Well I'm not going to relieve your guilt for you."
He finishes the whiskey. He shakes his head. "I didn't abandon him, Veronica."
"I know." I couldn't confirm that fast enough.
"He wouldn't listen to me. I tried to tell him I didn't know what his mother was doing. I didn't even know she was pregnant. I never would have done This. And I have spent every day since I found out, thinking about him and looking for him." He holds his head in his hands. He looks broken, in a way that most of us will never break. "It never even crossed my fucking mind that he wouldn't believe me."
He looks at the ceiling, and I can see his eyes. Large, bloodshot, watery. "It was a feat to get him to let me pay the check. He said he wanted nothing to do with me, and to leave him alone. Finally I asked him if he would at least let me help him financially, no strings. He told me to go fuck myself."
I put my arms around him and I pull him closer.
He's exhausted. And aching.
I can feel his body going through this with his heart.
"19 years, waiting for that moment. I never in my worst nightmare imagined it would go like it did." He wipes his hair off of his face. I can see the bags under his eyes. I doubt he's slept since it happened. "It's the strangest sensation, you couldn't possibly understand. I've never even met him before last week. He spent less then an hour with me. And I've never loved anyone so much in my life."
He's right. I haven't had children, so I really can't understand. But I sympathize. In an effort to convey that I let my hand rest on his thigh while he struggles to talk to me, to find the Words in his knotted chest.
I had been aware that This had occurred. He's 38 and I've known him for more then a decade. He's talked about This since I met him. I had the outline, and I understood that This was something that haunted him, everyday. Every night. I believe he was 18 when This happened. His high school girlfriend had decided adoption was her answer. He found out after This had happened.
He is not alright. I can see it in his hands and his face. I can feel it in his breath and in the way his thigh is trembling underneath my hand.
Nineteen long years worth of private investigators, and lawyers, and thousands upon thousands of dollars, and desperate pleading on his part to find his way through an illegal adoption, had finally come to a conclusion.
"He has my cheekbones. And my coloring. You know, the dark brown hair and eyes. His hair is long. Like mine used to be." His eyes fade back, his lips part, his whisper cracks. "It took everything I had in me to not grab him and hold him in my arms."
He reveals slowly what the meeting was like. His son agreed to meet him, after 10 phone calls in 3 days, at a diner in Boston. His son said this was the only place he was willing to meet because it was within walking distance for him and he didn't have a car.
"I drove straight through. I left New York about 15 minutes after I hung up the phone. I couldn't wait. 'Got there 2 hours before he said he'd meet me." He describes how his heart was racing, and how he was scared and excited. He says his son walked into the diner on time. He knew it was him right away.
Wiping his eyes he looks at the vivid image he has burned into his brain, and describes the 19 year old. "Skinny. Holes in his jeans. Stained t-shirt and work boots and a Carhart coat. Gloves without fingers, you know the kind. I could smell gasoline, I think he must work at a gas station. He may have been on his dinner break. He wouldn't say. He wouldn't say wherehe worked or what he did. He wouldn't tell me anything at all about himself... He was hungry... He looked cold."
His son's first words to him were something like - "I'm only meeting you so you will stop, and leave me alone."
The 50 minute meeting consisted of his pleading with his son to listen, and his son refusing to hear him, refusing to answer any questions, and refusing to talk except to say, "You abandoned me. You didn't want me, and now you feel guilty. Well I'm not going to relieve your guilt for you."
He finishes the whiskey. He shakes his head. "I didn't abandon him, Veronica."
"I know." I couldn't confirm that fast enough.
"He wouldn't listen to me. I tried to tell him I didn't know what his mother was doing. I didn't even know she was pregnant. I never would have done This. And I have spent every day since I found out, thinking about him and looking for him." He holds his head in his hands. He looks broken, in a way that most of us will never break. "It never even crossed my fucking mind that he wouldn't believe me."
He looks at the ceiling, and I can see his eyes. Large, bloodshot, watery. "It was a feat to get him to let me pay the check. He said he wanted nothing to do with me, and to leave him alone. Finally I asked him if he would at least let me help him financially, no strings. He told me to go fuck myself."
I put my arms around him and I pull him closer.
He's exhausted. And aching.
I can feel his body going through this with his heart.
Threefold
It all catches up to you. That's why you have to be careful about what exactly there is floating around in the cosmos with your name on it. It will eventually come back to you. Next time you purposefully hurt somebody, say to yourself, "How is God going to throw this back to me." It could be a snowflake, or a meteor. Think about that next time you sign your name to road rage, or theft, or a mean Word, even if provoked.
If you can't be good for good's sake, then do it out of fear.
If you can't be good for good's sake, then do it out of fear.
January 04, 2006
Reject
"You start out with big plans... You end up with little bugs."
-Felix Unger, The Odd Couple
He's wearing this Hawaiian shirt, which takes on a whole new level of absurdity in winter. I'm sure he likes to say, he's the creative type. He's got his own style. And maybe that's true, who knows. Certainly not I.
"I just didn't think this worked. Not that it's bad, just that it isn't working." He shrugs as if he's searching for the Words.
"I understand." I put the disk in my pocket. Maybe I do, in a way.
He squints and says, "I'm just not looking for something this deep."
Deep. He thinks this was deep. "Not a problem. I can try to write you something lighter." If it were any lighter, it would be transparent. I sneeze deeper then this.
"Yeah, OK. That would be good. " He leans in to me, "You're sure you're OK with this?"
Am I OK with this.
Am I OK.
Now that is a loaded question.
Am I OK with this. With being told by an entertainment editor that I am too deep. With being unable to actually get anything published of my own. With writing this shit like a whore. With his Hawaiian fucking shirt and his too kind smile. It's like a whole new level of rejection.
"Yes. Yes, I am OK with this." I nod. I close my Old Navy pea coat and I slip my hands in my pockets.
I am amazed at how much harder it is to leave one of these little meetings with my story instead of a check. Deep breath.
As I step into the street I feel misting in the air. It's not rain. It isn't enough to be rain. It's just mist. Just enough not to be weatherless.
And I realize, it's in my pocket. This story is in my pocket. Safely tucked away on a diskette. It's mine again. It has escaped my attempt to prostitute it, and now it is alive in my pocket, and belongs to no one but me.
The worse rejection would have been had he taken it. But the mist argues that point.
I take the disk out of my pocket. I wing it at a bus. I watch the shell break in the wet street underneath tires. Now it is free. Or dead. I forget which is which
I cross the avenue, and experience the misting. I'm one of those north-easterners that thinks it's warm out, when it's 40 degrees in January. I'm one of those women that doesn't wear underwear. I'm one of those Catholics that doesn't go to mass.
I'm one of those writers.
-Felix Unger, The Odd Couple
He's wearing this Hawaiian shirt, which takes on a whole new level of absurdity in winter. I'm sure he likes to say, he's the creative type. He's got his own style. And maybe that's true, who knows. Certainly not I.
"I just didn't think this worked. Not that it's bad, just that it isn't working." He shrugs as if he's searching for the Words.
"I understand." I put the disk in my pocket. Maybe I do, in a way.
He squints and says, "I'm just not looking for something this deep."
Deep. He thinks this was deep. "Not a problem. I can try to write you something lighter." If it were any lighter, it would be transparent. I sneeze deeper then this.
"Yeah, OK. That would be good. " He leans in to me, "You're sure you're OK with this?"
Am I OK with this.
Am I OK.
Now that is a loaded question.
Am I OK with this. With being told by an entertainment editor that I am too deep. With being unable to actually get anything published of my own. With writing this shit like a whore. With his Hawaiian fucking shirt and his too kind smile. It's like a whole new level of rejection.
"Yes. Yes, I am OK with this." I nod. I close my Old Navy pea coat and I slip my hands in my pockets.
I am amazed at how much harder it is to leave one of these little meetings with my story instead of a check. Deep breath.
As I step into the street I feel misting in the air. It's not rain. It isn't enough to be rain. It's just mist. Just enough not to be weatherless.
And I realize, it's in my pocket. This story is in my pocket. Safely tucked away on a diskette. It's mine again. It has escaped my attempt to prostitute it, and now it is alive in my pocket, and belongs to no one but me.
The worse rejection would have been had he taken it. But the mist argues that point.
I take the disk out of my pocket. I wing it at a bus. I watch the shell break in the wet street underneath tires. Now it is free. Or dead. I forget which is which
I cross the avenue, and experience the misting. I'm one of those north-easterners that thinks it's warm out, when it's 40 degrees in January. I'm one of those women that doesn't wear underwear. I'm one of those Catholics that doesn't go to mass.
I'm one of those writers.
Neighborhood
77th Street, between 11th and 12th Avenues.
They probably all still live around there. They probably all married, and bred, and bought homes within walking distance of their parents homes. They are probably still all friends, which is something I will never have. They probably all feel like they belong there, another thing I will never know.
They most likely married boys from the Parrish. They probably send their children to the same schools they went to. They probably attend the same church. They probably still get pizza at Lenny's, and shop on 86th and 5th. They probably don't wander. They are probably full.
Life longs and neighborhood. We. Us. No intention to ever leave.
I touched that as a child, and I remember. I can go a step farther and admit that I understand. I'm not saying I could go back, or that I regret being ripped out of it when I was 12. I'm just saying that I get it. Just, that it's not so bad.
Backyard fairies and raspberry sherbet. Fire hydrants. Skully and pink softies. Wrap around sweaters, a green Huffy, the middle stoop. The big alley, the walk to school. Manhunt, block parties, the iced tea Andrew poured on my head.
It wasn't so bad at all.
What the hell was I fighting for?
They probably all still live around there. They probably all married, and bred, and bought homes within walking distance of their parents homes. They are probably still all friends, which is something I will never have. They probably all feel like they belong there, another thing I will never know.
They most likely married boys from the Parrish. They probably send their children to the same schools they went to. They probably attend the same church. They probably still get pizza at Lenny's, and shop on 86th and 5th. They probably don't wander. They are probably full.
Life longs and neighborhood. We. Us. No intention to ever leave.
I touched that as a child, and I remember. I can go a step farther and admit that I understand. I'm not saying I could go back, or that I regret being ripped out of it when I was 12. I'm just saying that I get it. Just, that it's not so bad.
Backyard fairies and raspberry sherbet. Fire hydrants. Skully and pink softies. Wrap around sweaters, a green Huffy, the middle stoop. The big alley, the walk to school. Manhunt, block parties, the iced tea Andrew poured on my head.
It wasn't so bad at all.
What the hell was I fighting for?
January 03, 2006
Absorb
Everything is beautiful,
A Picture Perfect.
Somehow, she finds the insult in everything. The world is insulting her. It's all a comment on her.
People speaking. People making their peace. People having something to say.
Before. When you are young. When you are changing. And growing.
Before.
Then you're you.
Then you're here.
And it's now.
You know when you're better then they are.
You know when you're above it.
Better.
Above.
You have a past, and sometimes it's intense.
And that can be attractive. And that can be repulsive.
It’s a fine line.
It’s a chance you take.
And sometimes, you take a chance.
Vulnerabilities.
They find your weaknesses. They show you the wreckage. They make it unavoidable. How do you deal with that. How do you put those pieces together.
Some people will give their all, some people will only give a little, the least they can. Some . Some people mean it. Some people have no idea what they stand for. Some people fear a new start. Some people can't go back.
And sometimes you're standing in an airport in Dallas, with no idea what will happen.
It's this moment. Not the other. It's this thing, not that.
You never know what will affect someone.
Affect.
This is where it hurts. this is where I can show you, it hurts.
"I wanted to be a poet, I wanted to be a novelist. I'm over it."
- from the Film: I'm Losing You
Your body absorbs these things:
Wine.
Sugar.
Moments.
Blows.
.
A Picture Perfect.
Somehow, she finds the insult in everything. The world is insulting her. It's all a comment on her.
People speaking. People making their peace. People having something to say.
Before. When you are young. When you are changing. And growing.
Before.
Then you're you.
Then you're here.
And it's now.
You know when you're better then they are.
You know when you're above it.
Better.
Above.
You have a past, and sometimes it's intense.
And that can be attractive. And that can be repulsive.
It’s a fine line.
It’s a chance you take.
And sometimes, you take a chance.
Vulnerabilities.
They find your weaknesses. They show you the wreckage. They make it unavoidable. How do you deal with that. How do you put those pieces together.
Some people will give their all, some people will only give a little, the least they can. Some . Some people mean it. Some people have no idea what they stand for. Some people fear a new start. Some people can't go back.
And sometimes you're standing in an airport in Dallas, with no idea what will happen.
It's this moment. Not the other. It's this thing, not that.
You never know what will affect someone.
Affect.
This is where it hurts. this is where I can show you, it hurts.
"I wanted to be a poet, I wanted to be a novelist. I'm over it."
- from the Film: I'm Losing You
Your body absorbs these things:
Wine.
Sugar.
Moments.
Blows.
.
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