I sat on the floor of that apartment,
Because the floor was cold.
And the cold had me.
I sat on the cold floor of that apartment, because.
And I wrote there.
I wrote.
I had every crack in the ceramic tile memorized,
As I saw it,
Where I wrote.
I had every tile memorized
Because the floor was where
I wrote
Where it was cold.
I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.
And I'd drive into the city,
Where I'd perform spoken Word.
Words I wrote,
On that cold apartment floor.
There'd be candles
On the little tables,
And the sounds of spoons in coffee cups.
There'd be faces, some familiar.
Not like memorized tiles but familiar still.
And still,
They were.
Sometimes cold, sometimes not.
Some place else,
Eyes closed and sinking.
I'd close my eyes.
And sink.
And sit
In my mind on the memorized cracks of a cold tile floor
Of the apartment,
Of the writer.
It would be because.
And the Words would be spoken.
The cups and the faces,
The candles and the familiar.
And usually applause.
Usually ascension.
I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.
The driving home was always the longer.
The exposure and vulnerability never left behind enough.
Enough.
Where the light gets in.
Where they see.
Where they think they know.
But they couldn't know
The cracks in these tiles.
They didn't feel the cold.
I had spoken out of turn,
Each time, spoken Word.
Each time I had performed,
I cracked.
Each time.
And the return home was longer.
And the floor was colder.
And darker.
And the little candles forgot to come.
And the familiar faded
Like the memorized floor.
In the apartment.
Where I wrote.
I was a crack in the tile.
I was cold.
September 29, 2006
September 27, 2006
The Knowing
You know when you're in it.
You know, when its happening. When that connection is there. When it's undeniable. And mutual. And you look into his eyes and you can see all his dreams, his fears, his lies, his love. You know.
And he knows.
You finish his sentences. He finishes your dessert.
It's early winter, and you welcome the freezing. Because you can't wait to wear his flannel shirts.
He leaves for work, but sneaks back in so he can catch you
Singing in the shower.
He sits quietly and listens. He loves the sound of your voice.
But he won't talk to you about this one thing.
He knows that you know.
And you know you're helpless.
In the morning you make the coffee, he gets the paper.
You ignore the things you can.
You endure the things you need to.
You adore the rest.
You know, when its happening. When that connection is there. When it's undeniable. And mutual. And you look into his eyes and you can see all his dreams, his fears, his lies, his love. You know.
And he knows.
You finish his sentences. He finishes your dessert.
It's early winter, and you welcome the freezing. Because you can't wait to wear his flannel shirts.
He leaves for work, but sneaks back in so he can catch you
Singing in the shower.
He sits quietly and listens. He loves the sound of your voice.
But he won't talk to you about this one thing.
He knows that you know.
And you know you're helpless.
In the morning you make the coffee, he gets the paper.
You ignore the things you can.
You endure the things you need to.
You adore the rest.
September 26, 2006
Past Perfect
It makes perfect sense to me, why people go on eBay, to buy Flatsies, and matchbox cars, and old records. They're buying back their childhood, they are buying back their lives. Their reaching back to a time when things were less complicated. When the most important thing in the world was a game of manhunt, or seeing KISS in concert.
People want to remember when they were at their best. When they were young and strong, and anything was possible.
The songs you sing the best,
are the songs you know the best.
The songs you've been singing since high school.
The songs you still sing, at the top of your lungs when you're alone in your car,
as free as you can be now.
Those are the songs.
Those are the candles.
I was.
I remember.
I get it.
How much would you pay for 1976? 1984?
"And someday in the mist of time
When they ask me if I knew you
I'll smile and say you were a friend of mine
And the sadness will be lifted from my eyes
When I'm old and wise."
-Alan Parsons Project
People want to remember when they were at their best. When they were young and strong, and anything was possible.
The songs you sing the best,
are the songs you know the best.
The songs you've been singing since high school.
The songs you still sing, at the top of your lungs when you're alone in your car,
as free as you can be now.
Those are the songs.
Those are the candles.
I was.
I remember.
I get it.
How much would you pay for 1976? 1984?
"And someday in the mist of time
When they ask me if I knew you
I'll smile and say you were a friend of mine
And the sadness will be lifted from my eyes
When I'm old and wise."
-Alan Parsons Project
September 23, 2006
More Quotable LD
"First of all, Papa Smurf didn't create Smurfette. Gargamel did. She was sent in as Gargamel's evil spy with the intention of destroying the Smurf village. But the overwhelming goodness of the Smurf way of life transformed her. And as for the whole gang-bang scenario, it just couldn't happen. Smurfs are asexual. They don't even have... reproductive organs under those little, white pants. It's just so illogical, you know, about being a Smurf. You know, what's the point of living... if you don't have a dick?"
-Donnie Darko
*******
LD - So it was like 3 o'clock in the morning after karaoke, and I was drunk, and no body was there anymore. And I really really wanted to talk to somebody. So I went across the street to that church. And I was banging on the rectory door. I was ringing the bell, and knocking, and yelling for somebody to come out side and talk to me.
Me - Did they answer the door?
LD - NO! Thank GOD!!
*******
LD - Have you watched The Libertine yet?
Me - Not yet. I have it. I carry it around with me. Just haven't watched it yet.
LD - I'm not speaking to you until you watch The Libertine.
Me - Seriously?
LD - How many times have you watched Donnie Darko?
Me - 20? 25?
LD - It's time you watch the Libertine. I won't speak to you again until you watch The Libertine.
Me - Part of why I watch Donnie Darko over and over, is because Frank the Bunny turns me on.
LD - It is high time to let Johnny Depp turn you on.
Me - If only I had his cell phone number.
LD - What?
Me - I thought you weren't speaking to me for a while.
LD - I'm not! Shut up! But first, tell me what flea and tick medicine to get.
Me - Frontline. Fipronil is the active ingredient. It's safe and it works.
LD - There's something wrong with you.
Me - There is?
LD - Frank the Bunny turns you on?
Me - At least when I'm drunk and lonely at 3 o'clock in the morning, I'm not trying to talk to priests that won't answer the door.
...long pause...
LD - OK. You win. But you still have to watch The Libertine.
-Donnie Darko
*******
LD - So it was like 3 o'clock in the morning after karaoke, and I was drunk, and no body was there anymore. And I really really wanted to talk to somebody. So I went across the street to that church. And I was banging on the rectory door. I was ringing the bell, and knocking, and yelling for somebody to come out side and talk to me.
Me - Did they answer the door?
LD - NO! Thank GOD!!
*******
LD - Have you watched The Libertine yet?
Me - Not yet. I have it. I carry it around with me. Just haven't watched it yet.
LD - I'm not speaking to you until you watch The Libertine.
Me - Seriously?
LD - How many times have you watched Donnie Darko?
Me - 20? 25?
LD - It's time you watch the Libertine. I won't speak to you again until you watch The Libertine.
Me - Part of why I watch Donnie Darko over and over, is because Frank the Bunny turns me on.
LD - It is high time to let Johnny Depp turn you on.
Me - If only I had his cell phone number.
LD - What?
Me - I thought you weren't speaking to me for a while.
LD - I'm not! Shut up! But first, tell me what flea and tick medicine to get.
Me - Frontline. Fipronil is the active ingredient. It's safe and it works.
LD - There's something wrong with you.
Me - There is?
LD - Frank the Bunny turns you on?
Me - At least when I'm drunk and lonely at 3 o'clock in the morning, I'm not trying to talk to priests that won't answer the door.
...long pause...
LD - OK. You win. But you still have to watch The Libertine.
September 22, 2006
Regret
"I felt the coldness of my winter
I never thought it would ever go
I cursed the gloom that set upon us
But I know that I love you so"
-Led Zeppelin
The one that got away.
The thing you really regret
The thing you carry
The lingering,
The thing that doesn't go.
You come back to the same regrets. You keep coming back to the same choices.
I never thought it would ever go
I cursed the gloom that set upon us
But I know that I love you so"
-Led Zeppelin
The one that got away.
The thing you really regret
The thing you carry
The lingering,
The thing that doesn't go.
You come back to the same regrets. You keep coming back to the same choices.
September 17, 2006
Could Have
There was a moment. I know it, on a level not tangible, not explainable, where everything could have changed. Where I could have taken a different road. Where everything was different. And I could have.
I could have.
Danny invited me to a party. I hadn't seen him in a year or so, since his band broke up, and I stopped clubbing. But he had called, to let me know he had moved. New house, new job. And after a few good long phone calls, he invited me to a party to check out his new place.
I followed the directions he gave me, into a county I didn't know, into a town I had never even heard of before. It wasn't long before I was lost. The directions just didn't seem to work. The directions said left at the fork, but there was no fork. It was a dead end. But I made the left. It was a nice country road, on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I rolled to a stop at the first house. This must be it. An obvious party. Loud music, the smell of barbecue, many cars parked precariously along the driveway and across a large lawn. I joined them.
There were many people. None of which I recognized. But that didn't seem odd to me. It had been a year. And he had a new job. New neighbors. New coworkers. New life. And other then his band and roadies, I didn't really know many people from his old life anyway.
I walked through the people, alone. Across the long yard, through curious smiles and nods of salutation. I went up onto the front porch.
"Can I help you?" The guy looked nice enough. Curious.
"Yeah. I'm a friend of Danny's."
"Oh." He grinned knowingly. "Cool. Well, Danny is on the phone, drinks are in the kitchen." He went on his way down the steps of the porch. I let myself into the front door and made my way through the house.
All the furniture looked new. Tasteful. The couch was deep and plush. I was impressed at the choice. Many people, curious, still. They all seemed polite enough, smiling or saying hi, but all having that look that says, "Who are you? Why don't we know who you are?"
I poured myself a gin and tonic with lime. The center island of the kitchen was the bar. Ice buckets. Freshly sliced lemons and limes. A good assortment of name brand liquors. It was such a step up from the keggers Danny talked about having at his old place. I was impressed.
"Hi!" This time it was a girl. "Who ya hear with?" She was pouring herself an amaretto over ice.
"Hi. I am a friend of Danny's."
She looked happy to hear that. "Oh my god, that's so cool. Are you his date?"
I felt a little embarrassed. A little on the spot. The phone calls had been pretty good. "Yeah." What the hell. "Yes, I think I am Danny's date."
"Nice!" She sipped her drink. "He's such a great guy. But he never takes a chance. Never has a date. Well it's so nice meeting you! Good luck!"
Danny had done well. Nice house, nice taste, nice friends. I felt new, but comfortable. I felt like this was someplace good to be. I felt like this was going to be a significant day.
I stepped out of the back door with my drink on to the back porch. No one was there. I had it all to myself. I could hear Aerosmith and laughter. I looked out at the backyard, at the sun descending and the trees.
I thought about what she said. That sounded like Danny. Guarded, reserved. I felt like this could be a new beginning. I felt like, everything was new and possible.
The back door opened. I turned around and looked. Good looking man. Beautiful eyes. Gentle, curious smile. He stood there looking at me for a moment, then extended his hand. "Hi."
I shook his hand. It felt good in mine. I couldn't take my eyes from him. "Hi." I remember the pause. I remember the moment.
"I'm Danny. You're my... date?" He was smiling, innocently. Curiously.
"Oh!" I shook my head. "I'm so sorry, there must be some confusion." I revealed my Danny's last name. "This is his house, isn't it?"
"Ummm, no. This is my house." Still, the smile. The invitation in the smile. The moment.
"Oh my god. I'm at the wrong house. I'm at the wrong party!" I quickly explain the directions, the fork that wasn't there.
He nodded, "OK, you weren't supposed to make a left off the exit ramp. You were supposed to make a right. Go out that way, and that road forks. You're about a mile off."
I put my drink down. I feel like a trespasser. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to crash your party and just let myself into your house, and help myself to your bar." I felt like I was in trouble.
"Don't be sorry. Finish your drink." The moment. The locked stare. He was so ... possible.
I was already going down the steps to the backyard, to leave. "I couldn't. No. I'm so sorry." I was embarrassed, and trying to leave as quickly as I could. "I mean, what are the odds? Arriving at the wrong house, which is also having a party, thrown by a guy named Danny?"
He stepped after me and took my hand. "Don't go."
I can't explain how I know this. But I know this. Had I stayed, had I accepted, everything would have changed. It was a moment in my life where I could have taken a different path. Where everything could have. Where I could have.
When I told my Danny what had happened, he was very interested. "Seriously? So his name was Danny, too?"
"Yes. Isn't that wild?"
It was like a parallel universe. An opportunity. A possibility. Another place, another time.
I looked around this kegger. Where I didn't belong. The place I had intended. I was more of a stranger there.
I never saw Danny again after that night.
17 years ago. And I still think about that road. And a possibility. And I could have.
"Fireflies dance in the heat of,
Hound dogs that bay at the moon.
My ship leaves in the midnight,
Can't say I'll be back too soon.
They awaken far far away,
Heat of my candle show me the way.
Tears of a thousand drawn to her sin,
Seasons of wither holdin' me in."
-Aerosmith
I could have.
Danny invited me to a party. I hadn't seen him in a year or so, since his band broke up, and I stopped clubbing. But he had called, to let me know he had moved. New house, new job. And after a few good long phone calls, he invited me to a party to check out his new place.
I followed the directions he gave me, into a county I didn't know, into a town I had never even heard of before. It wasn't long before I was lost. The directions just didn't seem to work. The directions said left at the fork, but there was no fork. It was a dead end. But I made the left. It was a nice country road, on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I rolled to a stop at the first house. This must be it. An obvious party. Loud music, the smell of barbecue, many cars parked precariously along the driveway and across a large lawn. I joined them.
There were many people. None of which I recognized. But that didn't seem odd to me. It had been a year. And he had a new job. New neighbors. New coworkers. New life. And other then his band and roadies, I didn't really know many people from his old life anyway.
I walked through the people, alone. Across the long yard, through curious smiles and nods of salutation. I went up onto the front porch.
"Can I help you?" The guy looked nice enough. Curious.
"Yeah. I'm a friend of Danny's."
"Oh." He grinned knowingly. "Cool. Well, Danny is on the phone, drinks are in the kitchen." He went on his way down the steps of the porch. I let myself into the front door and made my way through the house.
All the furniture looked new. Tasteful. The couch was deep and plush. I was impressed at the choice. Many people, curious, still. They all seemed polite enough, smiling or saying hi, but all having that look that says, "Who are you? Why don't we know who you are?"
I poured myself a gin and tonic with lime. The center island of the kitchen was the bar. Ice buckets. Freshly sliced lemons and limes. A good assortment of name brand liquors. It was such a step up from the keggers Danny talked about having at his old place. I was impressed.
"Hi!" This time it was a girl. "Who ya hear with?" She was pouring herself an amaretto over ice.
"Hi. I am a friend of Danny's."
She looked happy to hear that. "Oh my god, that's so cool. Are you his date?"
I felt a little embarrassed. A little on the spot. The phone calls had been pretty good. "Yeah." What the hell. "Yes, I think I am Danny's date."
"Nice!" She sipped her drink. "He's such a great guy. But he never takes a chance. Never has a date. Well it's so nice meeting you! Good luck!"
Danny had done well. Nice house, nice taste, nice friends. I felt new, but comfortable. I felt like this was someplace good to be. I felt like this was going to be a significant day.
I stepped out of the back door with my drink on to the back porch. No one was there. I had it all to myself. I could hear Aerosmith and laughter. I looked out at the backyard, at the sun descending and the trees.
I thought about what she said. That sounded like Danny. Guarded, reserved. I felt like this could be a new beginning. I felt like, everything was new and possible.
The back door opened. I turned around and looked. Good looking man. Beautiful eyes. Gentle, curious smile. He stood there looking at me for a moment, then extended his hand. "Hi."
I shook his hand. It felt good in mine. I couldn't take my eyes from him. "Hi." I remember the pause. I remember the moment.
"I'm Danny. You're my... date?" He was smiling, innocently. Curiously.
"Oh!" I shook my head. "I'm so sorry, there must be some confusion." I revealed my Danny's last name. "This is his house, isn't it?"
"Ummm, no. This is my house." Still, the smile. The invitation in the smile. The moment.
"Oh my god. I'm at the wrong house. I'm at the wrong party!" I quickly explain the directions, the fork that wasn't there.
He nodded, "OK, you weren't supposed to make a left off the exit ramp. You were supposed to make a right. Go out that way, and that road forks. You're about a mile off."
I put my drink down. I feel like a trespasser. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to crash your party and just let myself into your house, and help myself to your bar." I felt like I was in trouble.
"Don't be sorry. Finish your drink." The moment. The locked stare. He was so ... possible.
I was already going down the steps to the backyard, to leave. "I couldn't. No. I'm so sorry." I was embarrassed, and trying to leave as quickly as I could. "I mean, what are the odds? Arriving at the wrong house, which is also having a party, thrown by a guy named Danny?"
He stepped after me and took my hand. "Don't go."
I can't explain how I know this. But I know this. Had I stayed, had I accepted, everything would have changed. It was a moment in my life where I could have taken a different path. Where everything could have. Where I could have.
When I told my Danny what had happened, he was very interested. "Seriously? So his name was Danny, too?"
"Yes. Isn't that wild?"
It was like a parallel universe. An opportunity. A possibility. Another place, another time.
I looked around this kegger. Where I didn't belong. The place I had intended. I was more of a stranger there.
I never saw Danny again after that night.
17 years ago. And I still think about that road. And a possibility. And I could have.
"Fireflies dance in the heat of,
Hound dogs that bay at the moon.
My ship leaves in the midnight,
Can't say I'll be back too soon.
They awaken far far away,
Heat of my candle show me the way.
Tears of a thousand drawn to her sin,
Seasons of wither holdin' me in."
-Aerosmith
September 15, 2006
Swallowed
He sipped water from a small Aquafina bottle, his throat moving, his lips wet. He didn’t wipe the excess. He realized I was staring.
My favorite part of the male anatomy is the mouth and neck. I find that area intoxicating. The nape, the curve of his jaw line, the shape of his lips. The way his Adam’s apple moves and glides as he swallows or kisses. That place in the curve at the bottom near his shoulder where you can cuddle in, to nuzzle up under his chin. Where you can get his scent and feel him breath. And lick. There’s nothing as sexual or as revealing, as this.
Caught. Caught staring at him, at his Adam’s apple and the sweet nape of his neck.
He grinned. His jawline pulling back, his mouth hypnotizing me. His wet lips and his throat pulling me in. It was unintentional on his part. But as soon as he realized, he took ownership. He leveled a stare at me, and it worked. Unspoken attraction between like wolves.
I returned his grin with one of my own, and a nod of acknowledgement, completely seduced.
All men should carry around water bottles.
My favorite part of the male anatomy is the mouth and neck. I find that area intoxicating. The nape, the curve of his jaw line, the shape of his lips. The way his Adam’s apple moves and glides as he swallows or kisses. That place in the curve at the bottom near his shoulder where you can cuddle in, to nuzzle up under his chin. Where you can get his scent and feel him breath. And lick. There’s nothing as sexual or as revealing, as this.
Caught. Caught staring at him, at his Adam’s apple and the sweet nape of his neck.
He grinned. His jawline pulling back, his mouth hypnotizing me. His wet lips and his throat pulling me in. It was unintentional on his part. But as soon as he realized, he took ownership. He leveled a stare at me, and it worked. Unspoken attraction between like wolves.
I returned his grin with one of my own, and a nod of acknowledgement, completely seduced.
All men should carry around water bottles.
September 13, 2006
September 12, 2006
Did I Mention His Name is Dick?
"Can you give me an estimated time of death?" I am staring at his office. At the closed door. I am just staring.
"I'd say it was sometime last Thursday. He was very clear. He said your novel isn't marketable." She is just doing her job. She's supposed to get rid of me.
I don't really want the details.
But I gotta get the details.
"He said that? He used the Words 'not marketable?'"
She looks like she wants to give me the details about as much as I want to get them. "Yeah, but don't believe him."
We're both resisting this like polar opposite scotty dog magnets. But we're heading into this part of the brush off just the same. "Why shouldn't I believe it?"
She looks at me with pity. "Because he didn't even read it." She squints for me. Kind of like a sympathy wince.
I'd like it if Shannon Doherty would play me in the movie of my life. Because in the replay of this scene, she would kick this fucker's door in and beat his ass.
"If he knew he was going to kill this last week, then why didn't he tell me?" I realize that what I've just said translates in the world of agents as: "Would you please twist the knife in my chest and push it in deeper?"
"He didn't want to tell you himself, and I wasn't able to take your call."
So I was left hanging all weekend because his assistant wasn't available to tell me the manuscript he did not read is not marketable.
"Cause I'm hung up on dreams I'm never gonna see.
Lord help me baby, dreams get the best of me."
- Molly Hatchet
I stand on the corner alone. I don't know where to go.
"I'd say it was sometime last Thursday. He was very clear. He said your novel isn't marketable." She is just doing her job. She's supposed to get rid of me.
I don't really want the details.
But I gotta get the details.
"He said that? He used the Words 'not marketable?'"
She looks like she wants to give me the details about as much as I want to get them. "Yeah, but don't believe him."
We're both resisting this like polar opposite scotty dog magnets. But we're heading into this part of the brush off just the same. "Why shouldn't I believe it?"
She looks at me with pity. "Because he didn't even read it." She squints for me. Kind of like a sympathy wince.
I'd like it if Shannon Doherty would play me in the movie of my life. Because in the replay of this scene, she would kick this fucker's door in and beat his ass.
"If he knew he was going to kill this last week, then why didn't he tell me?" I realize that what I've just said translates in the world of agents as: "Would you please twist the knife in my chest and push it in deeper?"
"He didn't want to tell you himself, and I wasn't able to take your call."
So I was left hanging all weekend because his assistant wasn't available to tell me the manuscript he did not read is not marketable.
"Cause I'm hung up on dreams I'm never gonna see.
Lord help me baby, dreams get the best of me."
- Molly Hatchet
I stand on the corner alone. I don't know where to go.
September 07, 2006
Blogged with His Permission
"I can probably make enough from this book, to throw a big bash, ya know? I want Sum41 or Linkin Park to play it, and I want to put a bunch of sexy girls on the guest list. How much do think Sum41 charges to play a party?"
I turn away from him. I glare at Anthony. "You hired me to ghost write for Spicolli?"
"Actually, no. 'Spicolli' hired you himself." Anthony glares right back at me. "Personally, I don't think he needs you."
I'm terrifically insulted by that thought at that moment. That's fucking beautiful. That's just perfect. I like him, almost instantly. He has a sweetness. But I can't imagine this job is going to be worth while.
Anthony answers his cell phone and doesn't even bid us farewell as Spicolloi and I get in the cab together. He talks for the full ride. I mean, the full ride. Not one beat is lost. "See that deli? Best pastrami on the planet. But don't go there on Thursdays. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, take a left here. Did you see that movie with the guys with the snow plow and the little girl next door? That one guy that plays the piano in that movie, you know he has the girlfriend from Mystic Pizza, well he lives over here. That's some rack, Veronica. Are they real? What size are they? Hey do you like Thai food? There's a place that just opened where this old place just closed that we could try if you're hungry. I look pretty shitty in purple, don't I. What do you think of Jim Morrison? Do you think he's dead? My sister knew a guy that used to live a few blocks away from John Densmore in 1985. I haven't been inside a church in over 5 years. I'm really good at math. I lost a fifty dollar bill once on this block, but I don't know exactly where, or else, hahahaha, it would not be lost. So, do you dance? I hate lite beer. I mean, why fucking bother? Clams make pearls. I'd love to see that action some day. Oh I love this billboard, check this out. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, this is it right here where that lady with the green purse is walking that little tiny dog. I took her out once, I forget her name. I think she teaches karate or she works at Bloomies, I forget which. Dude, how long have you been driving a cab? Can you break a hundred?"
Inside of his apartment, he hands me a Hershey's kiss. "Do you want to watch a movie?"
I squint. I put down my laptop bag, "No, thank you. Let's just get to work."
He hands me another Hershey's kiss. I sit down at the table and start to set up. "Give me what you have, and tell me what you want."
He puts a handful of Hershey's kisses down on the table. He disappears for a moment, returning with a red folder.
"I want this to be less personal." He sits down across from me. As I open it, he shuts up. And he remains quiet.
That's all he gave me. Less Personal. That was all the direction I got. And this man that could not shut up for even 10 seconds in the cab, is now completely and utterly silent.
I begin to read it. I take it in. One moment at a time.
I run my fingers over the pages. This is his story. It belongs only to him. He didn't cure cancer. He didn't win a war. This is his life. This is him. He was raised by an alcoholic father who used him as a punching bag. His mother left when he was 3. He dropped out of school at 15 to work the docks. He's raw and he's honest. Open. Real.
He tells his story a step at a time. In simple sentences, he recalls moments. Just one moment after the other. Moments of significance in his life. A teacher accusing him of being on drugs. His decision not to correct her, for having to admit what his life was actually like was too scary at that time. A girl he asked out, who laughed at him. His father hitting him with a thick black belt until he was unconscious. A landlord agreeing not to evict him and his drunk father, if he would drop his pants. Hiding from his raging father in a church, until a priest forced him out without even a Word. The night his father died. The first time someone told him they loved him. The day he realized he wanted to write.
He's not the first child raised by an alcoholic or abandoned by his mother. He's not the first New Yorker that's exchanged sex for rent. He's not the first that has been hit, or sad, or endured these things.
And he mentions this himself. He presents these facts in a very grounded simple way. It is what it is. It was what it was. He's not looking for pity, or glory. He's not looking for help.
All he's looking for, is to make this less personal.
Everything I know can be taught. Learned. I'm not referring to the talent, or the gift. I'm referring to knowledge. A man can be educated. He can be given grammar, instruction, couth, direction. He can grow, and become.
What this man has, can not be taught. Can not be learned. Can not be taken or given.
You can not teach a man how to have a good heart. Virtue isn't something you pick up in grad school. It isn't something you gain with tenure. It isn't something you're awarded after your fifth year with a Fortune 100. You either have a good heart, or you don't.
I looked directly into his heart. He carved the path, slowly and meticulously with caring giving hands and simple honest Words. Percival. Horatio. Diomedes. Not the strongest, not the most powerful. Not the smartest. Not the hero. But perhaps something greater.
The ones with honor.
The Good Heart.
My voice is a whisper. "I can't make this less personal. This is... personal. This is deadly personal." I shake my head. I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and I'm only about an hour into the manuscript. "Why would you want it to be less personal?"
He bites his thumb. He's nervous. He's thinking. "I want as many people as possible to relate. I want them to see themselves, and their stories."
"It's accessible. Believe me, people will find common chords. But this is your story. Don't turn this over to them. Let them turn themselves over to you."
He is apprehensive. Still biting the side of his thumb he says, "Well, that's easy for you to say. You're a writer."
"So are you."
He looks embarrassed. He thinks about that. He smiles, and he looks at me.
"You couldn't pay me to change a Word of this. It's as it should be." I smile back. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I met him, and I'm glad I got to read as much as I did. I'm glad I won't ghost anything for him. I'm glad he gave me Hershey's kisses and inspiration.
I leave knowing he is not convinced.
I leave knowing,
that I am.
I turn away from him. I glare at Anthony. "You hired me to ghost write for Spicolli?"
"Actually, no. 'Spicolli' hired you himself." Anthony glares right back at me. "Personally, I don't think he needs you."
I'm terrifically insulted by that thought at that moment. That's fucking beautiful. That's just perfect. I like him, almost instantly. He has a sweetness. But I can't imagine this job is going to be worth while.
Anthony answers his cell phone and doesn't even bid us farewell as Spicolloi and I get in the cab together. He talks for the full ride. I mean, the full ride. Not one beat is lost. "See that deli? Best pastrami on the planet. But don't go there on Thursdays. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, take a left here. Did you see that movie with the guys with the snow plow and the little girl next door? That one guy that plays the piano in that movie, you know he has the girlfriend from Mystic Pizza, well he lives over here. That's some rack, Veronica. Are they real? What size are they? Hey do you like Thai food? There's a place that just opened where this old place just closed that we could try if you're hungry. I look pretty shitty in purple, don't I. What do you think of Jim Morrison? Do you think he's dead? My sister knew a guy that used to live a few blocks away from John Densmore in 1985. I haven't been inside a church in over 5 years. I'm really good at math. I lost a fifty dollar bill once on this block, but I don't know exactly where, or else, hahahaha, it would not be lost. So, do you dance? I hate lite beer. I mean, why fucking bother? Clams make pearls. I'd love to see that action some day. Oh I love this billboard, check this out. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, this is it right here where that lady with the green purse is walking that little tiny dog. I took her out once, I forget her name. I think she teaches karate or she works at Bloomies, I forget which. Dude, how long have you been driving a cab? Can you break a hundred?"
Inside of his apartment, he hands me a Hershey's kiss. "Do you want to watch a movie?"
I squint. I put down my laptop bag, "No, thank you. Let's just get to work."
He hands me another Hershey's kiss. I sit down at the table and start to set up. "Give me what you have, and tell me what you want."
He puts a handful of Hershey's kisses down on the table. He disappears for a moment, returning with a red folder.
"I want this to be less personal." He sits down across from me. As I open it, he shuts up. And he remains quiet.
That's all he gave me. Less Personal. That was all the direction I got. And this man that could not shut up for even 10 seconds in the cab, is now completely and utterly silent.
I begin to read it. I take it in. One moment at a time.
I run my fingers over the pages. This is his story. It belongs only to him. He didn't cure cancer. He didn't win a war. This is his life. This is him. He was raised by an alcoholic father who used him as a punching bag. His mother left when he was 3. He dropped out of school at 15 to work the docks. He's raw and he's honest. Open. Real.
He tells his story a step at a time. In simple sentences, he recalls moments. Just one moment after the other. Moments of significance in his life. A teacher accusing him of being on drugs. His decision not to correct her, for having to admit what his life was actually like was too scary at that time. A girl he asked out, who laughed at him. His father hitting him with a thick black belt until he was unconscious. A landlord agreeing not to evict him and his drunk father, if he would drop his pants. Hiding from his raging father in a church, until a priest forced him out without even a Word. The night his father died. The first time someone told him they loved him. The day he realized he wanted to write.
He's not the first child raised by an alcoholic or abandoned by his mother. He's not the first New Yorker that's exchanged sex for rent. He's not the first that has been hit, or sad, or endured these things.
And he mentions this himself. He presents these facts in a very grounded simple way. It is what it is. It was what it was. He's not looking for pity, or glory. He's not looking for help.
All he's looking for, is to make this less personal.
Everything I know can be taught. Learned. I'm not referring to the talent, or the gift. I'm referring to knowledge. A man can be educated. He can be given grammar, instruction, couth, direction. He can grow, and become.
What this man has, can not be taught. Can not be learned. Can not be taken or given.
You can not teach a man how to have a good heart. Virtue isn't something you pick up in grad school. It isn't something you gain with tenure. It isn't something you're awarded after your fifth year with a Fortune 100. You either have a good heart, or you don't.
I looked directly into his heart. He carved the path, slowly and meticulously with caring giving hands and simple honest Words. Percival. Horatio. Diomedes. Not the strongest, not the most powerful. Not the smartest. Not the hero. But perhaps something greater.
The ones with honor.
The Good Heart.
My voice is a whisper. "I can't make this less personal. This is... personal. This is deadly personal." I shake my head. I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and I'm only about an hour into the manuscript. "Why would you want it to be less personal?"
He bites his thumb. He's nervous. He's thinking. "I want as many people as possible to relate. I want them to see themselves, and their stories."
"It's accessible. Believe me, people will find common chords. But this is your story. Don't turn this over to them. Let them turn themselves over to you."
He is apprehensive. Still biting the side of his thumb he says, "Well, that's easy for you to say. You're a writer."
"So are you."
He looks embarrassed. He thinks about that. He smiles, and he looks at me.
"You couldn't pay me to change a Word of this. It's as it should be." I smile back. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I met him, and I'm glad I got to read as much as I did. I'm glad I won't ghost anything for him. I'm glad he gave me Hershey's kisses and inspiration.
I leave knowing he is not convinced.
I leave knowing,
that I am.
September 05, 2006
Runaway
It isn’t the amount of glass in the crystal that makes it sing. It’s the amount of lead. There’s a great difference between being grounded, and being anchored.
Your grave is unmarked. No headstone, to mark the ground where I left you.
I swear to God, I swear to all things holy, and all things Not, that I could feel your heart beat against my back as I lay there. As I died there. As I was. As part of me diminished forever. I remember holding on to the ground, shaken so deeply that I was sure I’d fall off the Earth if I let go.
I hallucinate you in thunderstorms. Walking through the traffic. While no one else can move. And then you disappear into a shadow or a doorway, and it rains harder. Because even the wind can not understand.
At night I whisper your name into the nothing. And I listen for the ghosts. I could only rest when you were sleeping.
The road split. And the life I did not choose keeps going.
And going.
Your grave is unmarked. No headstone, to mark the ground where I left you.
I swear to God, I swear to all things holy, and all things Not, that I could feel your heart beat against my back as I lay there. As I died there. As I was. As part of me diminished forever. I remember holding on to the ground, shaken so deeply that I was sure I’d fall off the Earth if I let go.
I hallucinate you in thunderstorms. Walking through the traffic. While no one else can move. And then you disappear into a shadow or a doorway, and it rains harder. Because even the wind can not understand.
At night I whisper your name into the nothing. And I listen for the ghosts. I could only rest when you were sleeping.
The road split. And the life I did not choose keeps going.
And going.
September 03, 2006
Literally Speaking...
The free-lance writer is a man who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.
~ Robert Benchley
The pen is the tongue of the mind.
~ Miguel de Cervantes
Critics are by no means the end of the law. Do not think all is over with you because your articles are rejected. It may be that the editor has his drawer full, or that he does not know enough to appreciate you, or you have not gained a reputation, or he is not in a mood to be pleased. A critic's judgment is like that of any intelligent person. If he has experience, he is capable of judging whether a book will sell. That is all.
~Lavina Goodell (Junior Editor, Harper's Bazaar, 1866)
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.
~ Truman Capote
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
~ Lord Byron
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster.
~ Isaac Asmimov
~ Robert Benchley
The pen is the tongue of the mind.
~ Miguel de Cervantes
Critics are by no means the end of the law. Do not think all is over with you because your articles are rejected. It may be that the editor has his drawer full, or that he does not know enough to appreciate you, or you have not gained a reputation, or he is not in a mood to be pleased. A critic's judgment is like that of any intelligent person. If he has experience, he is capable of judging whether a book will sell. That is all.
~Lavina Goodell (Junior Editor, Harper's Bazaar, 1866)
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.
~ Truman Capote
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
~ Lord Byron
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster.
~ Isaac Asmimov
Quotes of the Day
Common sense is the collection of prejudices acquired by age 18.
~ Albert Einstein
I skate where the puck is going to be, not where it has been.
~ Wayne Gretzky
~ Albert Einstein
I skate where the puck is going to be, not where it has been.
~ Wayne Gretzky
Blogged With Permission
"I can probably make enough from this book, to throw a big bash, ya know? I want Sum41 or Linkin Park to play it, and I want to put a bunch of sexy girls on the guest list. How much do you think Sum41 charges to play a party?"
I turn away from him. I glare at Anthony. "You hired me to ghost write for Spicolli?"
"Actually, no. 'Spicolli' hired you himself." Anthony glares right back at me. "Personally, I don't think he needs you."
I'm terrifically insulted by that thought. That's fucking beautiful. That's just perfect. I like him, almost instantly. He has a sweetness. But I can't imagine this job is going to be worth while.
Anthony answers his cell phone and doesn't even bid us farewell as Spicolloi and I get in the cab together. I am already thinking about a thousand things I would rather be writing. He talks for the full ride. I mean, the full ride. Not one beat is lost. "See that deli? Best pastrami on the planet. But don't go there on Thursdays. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, take a left here. Did you see that movie with the guys with the snow plow and the little girl next door? That one guy that plays the piano in that movie, you know he has the girlfriend from Mystic Pizza, well he lives over here. That's some rack, Veronica. Are they real? What size are they? Hey do you like Thai food? There's a place that just opened where this old place just closed that we could try if you're hungry. I look pretty shitty in purple, don't I. What do you think of Jim Morrison? Do you think he's dead? My sister knew a guy that used to live a few blocks away from John Densmore in 1985. I haven't been inside a church in over 5 years. I'm really good at math. I lost a fifty dollar bill once on this block, but I don't know exactly where, or else, hahahaha, it would not be lost. So, do you dance? I hate lite beer. I mean, why fucking bother? Clams make pearls. I'd love to see that action some day. Oh I love this billboard, check this out. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, this is it right here where that lady with the green purse is walking that little tiny dog. I took her out once, I forget her name. I think she teaches karate or she works at Bloomies, I forget which. Dude, how long have you been driving a cab? Can you break a hundred?"
Inside of his apartment I am admiring all his plants.
He hands me a Hershey's kiss. "Do you want to watch a movie?"
I squint. I put down my laptop bag, and look around. He's got some interesting pieces, it's very Bombay and Pier 1. "No, thank you. Let's just get to work."
He hands me another Hershey's kiss. I sit down at the table and start to set up. "Give me what you have and tell me what you want."
He puts a handful of Hershey's kisses down on the table. He disappears for a moment, returning with a red folder.
"I want this to be less personal." He sits down across from me. As I open it, he shuts up. And he remains quiet.
That's all he gave me. Less Personal. That was all the direction I got. And this man that could not shut up for 10 consecutive seconds in the cab, is now completely and utterly silent.
I begin to read it. I take it in. One Word at a time.
I run my fingers down the pages. This is his story. It belongs only to him. He didn't cure cancer. He didn't win a war. This is his life. This is him. He was raised by an alcoholic father who used him as a punching bag. His mother left when he was 3. He dropped out of school at 15 to work the docks. He's raw and he's honest. Open. Real.
He tells his story a step at a time. In simple sentences, he recalls moments. Just one moment after the other. Moments of significance in his life. A teacher accusing him of being on drugs. His decision not to correct her, for having to admit what his life was actually like was too scary at that time. A girl he asked out, who laughed at him. His father hitting him with a thick black belt until he was unconscious. A landlord agreeing not to evict him and his drunk father, if he would drop his pants. Hiding from his raging father in a church, until a priest forced him out without even a Word. The night his father died. The first time someone told him they loved him. The day he realized he wanted to write.
Everything I know can be taught. Learned. I'm not referring to the talent, or the gift. I'm referring to knowledge. A man can be educated. He can be given grammar, instruction, couthe, direction. He can grow, and become.
What this man has, can not be taught. Can not be learned. Can not be taken or given.
You can not teach a man how to have a good heart. Virtue isn't something you pick up in grad school. It isn't something you gain with tenure. It isn't something you're awarded after your fifth year with a Fortune 100. You either have a good heart, or you don't.
I look directly into his heart. He carved the path, slowly and meticulously with caring giving hands. He writes with simple honesty. Percival. Horatio. Diomedes. Not the strongest, not the most powerful. Not the smartest. Not the hero. But perhaps something greater. The one with honor.
The Good Heart.
"I can't make this less personal. This is... personal. This is deadly personal." I shake my head. I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and I'm only about an hour into the book. "Why would you want it to be less personal?"
He bites his thumb. He's nervous. He's thinking. "I want as many people as possible to relate. I want them to see themselves, and their stories."
"It's accessible. Believe me, people will find common chords. But this is your story. Don't turn this over to them. Let them turn themselves over to you."
He is apprehensive. Still biting on the side of his thumb he says, "Well, that's easy for you to say. You're a writer."
"So are you."
He looks embarrassed.
"You couldn't pay me to change a Word of this. It's as it should be." I smile to him. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I met him, and read as much as I did. I'm glad I won't ghost anything for him. I'm glad he gave me Hershey's kisses and inspiration.
I leave knowing he is not convinced.
I leave knowing,
that I am.
I turn away from him. I glare at Anthony. "You hired me to ghost write for Spicolli?"
"Actually, no. 'Spicolli' hired you himself." Anthony glares right back at me. "Personally, I don't think he needs you."
I'm terrifically insulted by that thought. That's fucking beautiful. That's just perfect. I like him, almost instantly. He has a sweetness. But I can't imagine this job is going to be worth while.
Anthony answers his cell phone and doesn't even bid us farewell as Spicolloi and I get in the cab together. I am already thinking about a thousand things I would rather be writing. He talks for the full ride. I mean, the full ride. Not one beat is lost. "See that deli? Best pastrami on the planet. But don't go there on Thursdays. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, take a left here. Did you see that movie with the guys with the snow plow and the little girl next door? That one guy that plays the piano in that movie, you know he has the girlfriend from Mystic Pizza, well he lives over here. That's some rack, Veronica. Are they real? What size are they? Hey do you like Thai food? There's a place that just opened where this old place just closed that we could try if you're hungry. I look pretty shitty in purple, don't I. What do you think of Jim Morrison? Do you think he's dead? My sister knew a guy that used to live a few blocks away from John Densmore in 1985. I haven't been inside a church in over 5 years. I'm really good at math. I lost a fifty dollar bill once on this block, but I don't know exactly where, or else, hahahaha, it would not be lost. So, do you dance? I hate lite beer. I mean, why fucking bother? Clams make pearls. I'd love to see that action some day. Oh I love this billboard, check this out. Hey excuse me Mr. Cab Driver, this is it right here where that lady with the green purse is walking that little tiny dog. I took her out once, I forget her name. I think she teaches karate or she works at Bloomies, I forget which. Dude, how long have you been driving a cab? Can you break a hundred?"
Inside of his apartment I am admiring all his plants.
He hands me a Hershey's kiss. "Do you want to watch a movie?"
I squint. I put down my laptop bag, and look around. He's got some interesting pieces, it's very Bombay and Pier 1. "No, thank you. Let's just get to work."
He hands me another Hershey's kiss. I sit down at the table and start to set up. "Give me what you have and tell me what you want."
He puts a handful of Hershey's kisses down on the table. He disappears for a moment, returning with a red folder.
"I want this to be less personal." He sits down across from me. As I open it, he shuts up. And he remains quiet.
That's all he gave me. Less Personal. That was all the direction I got. And this man that could not shut up for 10 consecutive seconds in the cab, is now completely and utterly silent.
I begin to read it. I take it in. One Word at a time.
I run my fingers down the pages. This is his story. It belongs only to him. He didn't cure cancer. He didn't win a war. This is his life. This is him. He was raised by an alcoholic father who used him as a punching bag. His mother left when he was 3. He dropped out of school at 15 to work the docks. He's raw and he's honest. Open. Real.
He tells his story a step at a time. In simple sentences, he recalls moments. Just one moment after the other. Moments of significance in his life. A teacher accusing him of being on drugs. His decision not to correct her, for having to admit what his life was actually like was too scary at that time. A girl he asked out, who laughed at him. His father hitting him with a thick black belt until he was unconscious. A landlord agreeing not to evict him and his drunk father, if he would drop his pants. Hiding from his raging father in a church, until a priest forced him out without even a Word. The night his father died. The first time someone told him they loved him. The day he realized he wanted to write.
Everything I know can be taught. Learned. I'm not referring to the talent, or the gift. I'm referring to knowledge. A man can be educated. He can be given grammar, instruction, couthe, direction. He can grow, and become.
What this man has, can not be taught. Can not be learned. Can not be taken or given.
You can not teach a man how to have a good heart. Virtue isn't something you pick up in grad school. It isn't something you gain with tenure. It isn't something you're awarded after your fifth year with a Fortune 100. You either have a good heart, or you don't.
I look directly into his heart. He carved the path, slowly and meticulously with caring giving hands. He writes with simple honesty. Percival. Horatio. Diomedes. Not the strongest, not the most powerful. Not the smartest. Not the hero. But perhaps something greater. The one with honor.
The Good Heart.
"I can't make this less personal. This is... personal. This is deadly personal." I shake my head. I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and I'm only about an hour into the book. "Why would you want it to be less personal?"
He bites his thumb. He's nervous. He's thinking. "I want as many people as possible to relate. I want them to see themselves, and their stories."
"It's accessible. Believe me, people will find common chords. But this is your story. Don't turn this over to them. Let them turn themselves over to you."
He is apprehensive. Still biting on the side of his thumb he says, "Well, that's easy for you to say. You're a writer."
"So are you."
He looks embarrassed.
"You couldn't pay me to change a Word of this. It's as it should be." I smile to him. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I met him, and read as much as I did. I'm glad I won't ghost anything for him. I'm glad he gave me Hershey's kisses and inspiration.
I leave knowing he is not convinced.
I leave knowing,
that I am.
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