Fuck you Vista and your requirements. 10 years of Windows bullshit is finally over. My Macs are up and running. And I am lost.
I feel like I did the first time I drove in Europe. I went into it thinking, I've been driving for years, this can't be that different.
But that thought was soon extinguished.
The driver's side of the car was reversed, I'm driving on the wrong side of the road, in Italy there are no lines on the road, in Germany there are no speed limits. The road signs are not in my language. I can't find the gas tank, gas is sold in liters and I keep buying the wrong amount, in a different dollar exchange. How many Kilometers can I get to the Litre, and how many Euro's is that? I can't find the rear defrost, if there even is a rear defrost in a 3 wheeled fast efficient foreign car. In Ireland there were 2 fm stations, both of which sucked. Parallel parking? Out of the question. Circles. Green lines. Everything is just different. Better, but way different.
Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths is not in reruns anymore. You're always welcomed and encouraged to hit the archive over there ---> and dig up your own. As I make my way through this grand Mac upgrade please be patient. I'm here, I'm just squinting and saying, "What? Huh?"
May 30, 2007
May 29, 2007
Adopted 1/9/07 - Last of the Reruns
He drinks Irish whiskey, and he drinks it well. 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 where he 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 where he 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.
May 27, 2007
Limon 4/6/06
I was about 22 or so, walking down a main road on the Yucatan peninsula. A kindly Mexican bus driver picked me up. I didn't have much money at the time. The bus was taking a group from a cruise ship to tour some ruins. I sat next to an older woman who was traveling alone. We walked the Mayan ruins together. We ate little burritos in the sun, and we split a coke.
We talked for hours. She was incredibly well spoken. She talked about her first husband who I think was from Spain, then her second husband who was from England. She talked about her businesses, now sold. All of them. Because it was time. Because she wanted to travel. Because, she said, "You can only amass so much."
I asked if she minded traveling alone. She answered, "I always meet more people when I travel unaccompanied."
You can only amass so much.
You meet more people when you travel alone.
This is what I learned in Cancun.
This, and that if you ask for a lemon in Mexico, you get a funny lime.
We talked for hours. She was incredibly well spoken. She talked about her first husband who I think was from Spain, then her second husband who was from England. She talked about her businesses, now sold. All of them. Because it was time. Because she wanted to travel. Because, she said, "You can only amass so much."
I asked if she minded traveling alone. She answered, "I always meet more people when I travel unaccompanied."
You can only amass so much.
You meet more people when you travel alone.
This is what I learned in Cancun.
This, and that if you ask for a lemon in Mexico, you get a funny lime.
May 26, 2007
A Double Header on Spoken Words
CRACK IN THE TILE 9/29/06
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 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. Each time I had performed spoken Word, 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.
************************************************
THE UNDERGROUND 11/3/06
He finishes his Spoken Word at a very typical open mike night. It's twilight, and the ride is over.
The short applause stops before he makes it off the stage. There is no silence louder than footsteps in the stares of strangers. It's a million miles to the back of the room.
Once upon a time I haunted this place. I bow my head as I sit at the bar. I bow my head in the twilight. It's twilight, and the ride is over.
He sits down just a stool away. I'm taking notes, I'm writing. He is quiet as he looks around, he is quiet as he looks at me.
"So how bad was that?" He's ordering a Guiness. Same as me. He's trying.
"It wasn't bad at all. You were very thought provoking," I offer. "You held my attention."
He looks directly into me. "Really?"
"Really." There are moments that own us.
I go back to my writing. He doesn't stop looking. "This is the first time I have ever done this."
I remember my first time. I remember my second. "Why did you pick this place to pop your cherry?" I wonder if he knows. The crowd here can be tough. Artists. Writers. Unforgiving. Silent. Hard to move. Like the twilight. When the ride is over.
He's sipping his beer, he's glancing around. "This was always going to be the place." He squints toward the stage, out into the room.
"Why?" Of all the places that host open mikes in this city. Of all the places I've memorized.
He wipes his face and smiles just a little. A private smirk of some kind. "I used to come here to be inspired."
I nod. I can understand that. The ride is over. The ride is twilight.
He stares at me. "I used to live near here, and I would come here, and listen to Spoken Word performances. And after, I just couldn't wait to get home to write."
There is a gyro place one block up. Good souvlaki, Dr Pepper on tap. And there is a small bodega on the corner that always has the most beautiful flowers, and fresh coffee, even at 4 am when you're not fresh or beautiful. This was my place. Even when it wasn't.
He's good looking in that Christian Slater kind of way. But he's still staring. "Veronica used to read here. Have you ever heard of her?"
It's twilight and the ride is over.
I look down into my beer. I shake my head no.
"Outside I stand sorta cold
I used to know how to get warm
Sometimes you still let me in
But I'm not so welcome anymore.
Why don't you recognize me?"
-Allister
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 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. Each time I had performed spoken Word, 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.
************************************************
THE UNDERGROUND 11/3/06
He finishes his Spoken Word at a very typical open mike night. It's twilight, and the ride is over.
The short applause stops before he makes it off the stage. There is no silence louder than footsteps in the stares of strangers. It's a million miles to the back of the room.
Once upon a time I haunted this place. I bow my head as I sit at the bar. I bow my head in the twilight. It's twilight, and the ride is over.
He sits down just a stool away. I'm taking notes, I'm writing. He is quiet as he looks around, he is quiet as he looks at me.
"So how bad was that?" He's ordering a Guiness. Same as me. He's trying.
"It wasn't bad at all. You were very thought provoking," I offer. "You held my attention."
He looks directly into me. "Really?"
"Really." There are moments that own us.
I go back to my writing. He doesn't stop looking. "This is the first time I have ever done this."
I remember my first time. I remember my second. "Why did you pick this place to pop your cherry?" I wonder if he knows. The crowd here can be tough. Artists. Writers. Unforgiving. Silent. Hard to move. Like the twilight. When the ride is over.
He's sipping his beer, he's glancing around. "This was always going to be the place." He squints toward the stage, out into the room.
"Why?" Of all the places that host open mikes in this city. Of all the places I've memorized.
He wipes his face and smiles just a little. A private smirk of some kind. "I used to come here to be inspired."
I nod. I can understand that. The ride is over. The ride is twilight.
He stares at me. "I used to live near here, and I would come here, and listen to Spoken Word performances. And after, I just couldn't wait to get home to write."
There is a gyro place one block up. Good souvlaki, Dr Pepper on tap. And there is a small bodega on the corner that always has the most beautiful flowers, and fresh coffee, even at 4 am when you're not fresh or beautiful. This was my place. Even when it wasn't.
He's good looking in that Christian Slater kind of way. But he's still staring. "Veronica used to read here. Have you ever heard of her?"
It's twilight and the ride is over.
I look down into my beer. I shake my head no.
"Outside I stand sorta cold
I used to know how to get warm
Sometimes you still let me in
But I'm not so welcome anymore.
Why don't you recognize me?"
-Allister
May 25, 2007
For 6 Perfect Minutes 4/28/06
I'm suspicious of people that won't let me email them the job. That insist on meeting, face to face. That insist. I'm suspicious of people that insist.
He took the folder from me and motioned for me to sit, which I did, which I welcomed, after that long walk up Columbus Avenue, after writing and driving and parking and walking instead of emailing.
He opened the folder and looked at the page, his hands showing he would flip through quickly, but hesitated. Hesitated. Waiting. Reading. He sat back. Then back a little farther. Then relaxing. I looked at my manicure, and my shoes, and my watch. I looked at his desk, and his tie, and his wedding ring. His eyes were locked. He was really reading. Not thumbing though it. Not checking it over. He was really reading it. Each Word.
I watched him turn to the second page.
"Are you going to read the whole thing now?"
He shrugged without looking up. I don't think he knew. I don't think he could break concentration enough to articulate an answer.
"I could come back in an a little while and..."
"Shh."
He shushed me. He cut me off with a "shhhh." I was so surprised I could do nothing but sit there. I thought about leaving. Slipping out quietly. I thought about going. I thought.
We were silent.
He ran his hand over the page and prepared to turn it, going on to page three. The left side of his mouth curled up in a partial grin. I knew right where he was on the page as I saw that. I knew what was coming on page three, and sat at the edge of my seat, as I realized I would see the reaction to it on his face.
And I did. And the next. A blink. A subtle wince. A squint. A smile. Page 4. Page 6. I was on the edge of my seat watching. Watching him read my Words.
His phone rang. It wasn't answered. I could see it on his face. He couldn't put it down.
He wet his lips. He raised his eyebrows. He dropped his shoulders. He tilted his head slightly. He was completely in it. Completely immersed. Not lifting his vision from the pages. Not looking at me. Not anything but reading.
I've watched people reading before. I've seen people react to my writing. But not like this. Never before like this. From beginning to end. Without any hesitation, or distraction. From the first Word, through the last. And I saw every nuance. Every little indication. The concentration. The focus.
He exhaled as he finished.
He closed the folder and looked up at me.
I could see it in his face.
The captivation.
And which was sweeter?
His unwavering attention to it, or his letting me watch.
"It's remarkable," he said. He wiped his face, and flared his eyes to regain reality and perspective. As if it had taken him some where. As if he was coming back now. "But I need you to make a few changes."
My mouth had dried. I swallowed. "Thank you."
"For what?"
He took the folder from me and motioned for me to sit, which I did, which I welcomed, after that long walk up Columbus Avenue, after writing and driving and parking and walking instead of emailing.
He opened the folder and looked at the page, his hands showing he would flip through quickly, but hesitated. Hesitated. Waiting. Reading. He sat back. Then back a little farther. Then relaxing. I looked at my manicure, and my shoes, and my watch. I looked at his desk, and his tie, and his wedding ring. His eyes were locked. He was really reading. Not thumbing though it. Not checking it over. He was really reading it. Each Word.
I watched him turn to the second page.
"Are you going to read the whole thing now?"
He shrugged without looking up. I don't think he knew. I don't think he could break concentration enough to articulate an answer.
"I could come back in an a little while and..."
"Shh."
He shushed me. He cut me off with a "shhhh." I was so surprised I could do nothing but sit there. I thought about leaving. Slipping out quietly. I thought about going. I thought.
We were silent.
He ran his hand over the page and prepared to turn it, going on to page three. The left side of his mouth curled up in a partial grin. I knew right where he was on the page as I saw that. I knew what was coming on page three, and sat at the edge of my seat, as I realized I would see the reaction to it on his face.
And I did. And the next. A blink. A subtle wince. A squint. A smile. Page 4. Page 6. I was on the edge of my seat watching. Watching him read my Words.
His phone rang. It wasn't answered. I could see it on his face. He couldn't put it down.
He wet his lips. He raised his eyebrows. He dropped his shoulders. He tilted his head slightly. He was completely in it. Completely immersed. Not lifting his vision from the pages. Not looking at me. Not anything but reading.
I've watched people reading before. I've seen people react to my writing. But not like this. Never before like this. From beginning to end. Without any hesitation, or distraction. From the first Word, through the last. And I saw every nuance. Every little indication. The concentration. The focus.
He exhaled as he finished.
He closed the folder and looked up at me.
I could see it in his face.
The captivation.
And which was sweeter?
His unwavering attention to it, or his letting me watch.
"It's remarkable," he said. He wiped his face, and flared his eyes to regain reality and perspective. As if it had taken him some where. As if he was coming back now. "But I need you to make a few changes."
My mouth had dried. I swallowed. "Thank you."
"For what?"
May 24, 2007
I Won't 2/23/06
Stop trying to fix me. It's my damage. I earned all these scars, and all these wells. Life balances itself.
And some of these wells produce the purest water.
He could never handle that.
And that's OK. It's not for everybody to handle.
He liked the idea of me. But He couldn't handle the reality of me.
He would always tell me, he would not play second chair. Well, honey, first chair was decided long before you were born.
I would remind him you don't go see a band to hear the new album. You want to hear the stuff you know: the stuff that attracted you in the first place. So don't pretend that if I changed you'd be happy. This is what attracted you. I can accept that you can't handle it. Why can't you.
He still takes my calls at 3 am, even though I won't take his.
And he always says, "I wish you weren't writing."
A Veronica not writing is never going to happen. That's why you're there, and I'm here.
He always ends the call saying, "Do you want me to come over?"
No. And I haven't for years. And I know this baffles him.
I don't remember the first thing he said to me. I don't remember the first smile or laugh. I don't remember what song was playing the first time we danced.
But god damn, do I remember the day he left.
And some of these wells produce the purest water.
He could never handle that.
And that's OK. It's not for everybody to handle.
He liked the idea of me. But He couldn't handle the reality of me.
He would always tell me, he would not play second chair. Well, honey, first chair was decided long before you were born.
I would remind him you don't go see a band to hear the new album. You want to hear the stuff you know: the stuff that attracted you in the first place. So don't pretend that if I changed you'd be happy. This is what attracted you. I can accept that you can't handle it. Why can't you.
He still takes my calls at 3 am, even though I won't take his.
And he always says, "I wish you weren't writing."
A Veronica not writing is never going to happen. That's why you're there, and I'm here.
He always ends the call saying, "Do you want me to come over?"
No. And I haven't for years. And I know this baffles him.
I don't remember the first thing he said to me. I don't remember the first smile or laugh. I don't remember what song was playing the first time we danced.
But god damn, do I remember the day he left.
May 23, 2007
Gone 2/21/06
"Well, why hasn't it come out? What happened?" After 2 years, I finally called and asked.
He sounds like he's eating. This adds to the way I always see him in my mind: Full. He's full. "Oh yeah, that. Yeah, we never published that book."
Writers should be hungry. Once we lose our hunger, we're little more than editors. "I know. That's why I'm asking you this. What happened?" There is nothing worse than a full writer.
"It had nothing to do with your contribution." He's chewing. I'm imagining a chicken leg. "Your stuff was fine."
Being that he paid me without issue, that had been my assumption. "But why wasn't it ever released?" I'm feeling something unfamiliar.
Now he's slurping. I'm imagining a YooHoo. "It had to do with him, and his contract. We aren't going to work with him. It's over. Don't worry about it."
I take the hint that he's not going to tell me the details. I let it go, because the details aren't going to change anything for me now. "So what happens to my work on that?"
"What do you mean? Nothing. What difference does it make?" His voice has a hint of annoyance. "I paid you. That's that. It's a done deal. It makes no difference what happens to it. Nothing happens to it. Forget about it."
A picture comes together for me. I wrote it, I sold it, I don't own it or control it anymore. That's not new. But what is new, is knowing it is in an editor's file cabinet, condemned. It will never see the light of day. It will forever be forgotten.
There has been some kind of treaty. Some kind of way , that the war in my head stops, and this compromise is found.
I can't sign my name to It. I can't publish It myself. But when I sell It, somehow I'm shaking hands with It, and sending It off into the world with a pat on the back. I'm releasing It to someone else, who'll adopt It, who can do with It what I couldn't. It deserves that chance. It deserves not to be condemned for my inability to sign my name.
The treaty has been breached.
And I can feel The Words staring at me, betrayed, through the wood and the earth, and the lock.
I realize there are other layers. All owned, all mine. Fear and paychecks not withstanding. But there was this agreement. And maybe this isn't even the first time.
My stomach knots. Stomachs don't lie.
He says he has to go, and I'm alone on the line. I listen to the disconnect.
All treaties are temporary.
Sometimes the world is big.
And there are many places where we can not go.
Like, back.
Or into somebody else's failed negotiation.
Or inside of a locked drawer.
"You're only human.
What can you do?
It's only over."
-INXS
He sounds like he's eating. This adds to the way I always see him in my mind: Full. He's full. "Oh yeah, that. Yeah, we never published that book."
Writers should be hungry. Once we lose our hunger, we're little more than editors. "I know. That's why I'm asking you this. What happened?" There is nothing worse than a full writer.
"It had nothing to do with your contribution." He's chewing. I'm imagining a chicken leg. "Your stuff was fine."
Being that he paid me without issue, that had been my assumption. "But why wasn't it ever released?" I'm feeling something unfamiliar.
Now he's slurping. I'm imagining a YooHoo. "It had to do with him, and his contract. We aren't going to work with him. It's over. Don't worry about it."
I take the hint that he's not going to tell me the details. I let it go, because the details aren't going to change anything for me now. "So what happens to my work on that?"
"What do you mean? Nothing. What difference does it make?" His voice has a hint of annoyance. "I paid you. That's that. It's a done deal. It makes no difference what happens to it. Nothing happens to it. Forget about it."
A picture comes together for me. I wrote it, I sold it, I don't own it or control it anymore. That's not new. But what is new, is knowing it is in an editor's file cabinet, condemned. It will never see the light of day. It will forever be forgotten.
There has been some kind of treaty. Some kind of way , that the war in my head stops, and this compromise is found.
I can't sign my name to It. I can't publish It myself. But when I sell It, somehow I'm shaking hands with It, and sending It off into the world with a pat on the back. I'm releasing It to someone else, who'll adopt It, who can do with It what I couldn't. It deserves that chance. It deserves not to be condemned for my inability to sign my name.
The treaty has been breached.
And I can feel The Words staring at me, betrayed, through the wood and the earth, and the lock.
I realize there are other layers. All owned, all mine. Fear and paychecks not withstanding. But there was this agreement. And maybe this isn't even the first time.
My stomach knots. Stomachs don't lie.
He says he has to go, and I'm alone on the line. I listen to the disconnect.
All treaties are temporary.
Sometimes the world is big.
And there are many places where we can not go.
Like, back.
Or into somebody else's failed negotiation.
Or inside of a locked drawer.
"You're only human.
What can you do?
It's only over."
-INXS
May 22, 2007
The Heart of the Sin 1/27/06
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.
May 21, 2007
Armor and Editors 10/8/05
He comes out of his office and looks at the clock over the desk. He looks at the Dell flat screen monitor. He looks me up and down as if he's ordered me from 976-MEAT, and he grins. Then he looks at his admin's empty chair. Then up the hall. Then back at me. It is obvious that this is his office. It's also obvious he's completely lost.
He says, "Are you here about the tiger?"
I decide not to ask. "No, I'm the writer. I'm here to get paid."
"You?" He looks me over again. "You wrote that?" he gestures towards the computer, where I can only assume it is. "Jesus Christ. You're not what I was expecting at all. You… you don't even look like a writer. Let alone someone who could write that."
I start picturing writers. Charles Bukowski. William Burroughs. Hmmm. I guess I don't look like a writer.
He isn't subtle. But I guess you don't get to where he is with subtlety. He politically incorrectly calls his admin his secretary, and informs me that she handles this stuff for him. When she resurfaces she will have me sign a contract and a release, and she will pay me. I'm still not over his thinking I don't look like a writer, but rather, I look more like someone that would be there about a tiger.
I tell him bluntly, my arrangement was to be paid in cash. He can make a check out to cash, that’s acceptable. And I will sign whatever he wants. But it won't be my real name.
She'll be back any minute, he says. She will know what to do.
I can't wait. I need to go. Not that I have anywhere to be. I ask him to make an exception for me, and handle this himself, now. Please.
He opens the top desk drawer and opens a ledger. He begins to make out a check. To "Cash."
As he bends over the desk, he looks at me. His eyes start at my hips, and move up slowly. He looks over my body at another angle. He looks at my eyes, to see if I'm watching.
I wonder if I can love again. I wonder sometimes if I can open myself up like I once did, or if anyone will ever see me in truth. Ever again. It may be too late, I may be too tired. I don’t really know.
I have little crushes. Slava Brodinsky, who paints Tuscan landscapes and signs his name on everything he sees. A violinist I've seen a few times; she backs up a famous singer, and she holds her violin up to hide her face when she's not playing...
And that's what it is. Faceless artists, who expose a glimpse of their souls. And sometimes that makes me think …maybe… just maybe, I could do it again. If I can crush, maybe I can love, like I once did. Like I once could.
Or maybe not. Maybe it's just safer from here. In that pure paradise of anonymity. With someone faceless, that doesn't know my name.
The only real distance between any of us is the length of my arm.
I take power in my sexuality. Its awesome armor that hides a plethora of weaknesses. It is strength, like metal or ego, that protects my tenderness from sight.
He was looking at my hair. At my tits, and my "fuck me if you can" grin. At my hard flat abs, and the way I stare. Pretty? I don’t know. Pretty is subjective. Attractive, yes. Sexual and empowered, yes. Yessss.
I told ya, its damn effective armor.
He was not looking at my war wounds. He was not able to see my fears, or my swellings. My lies or my sins. He didn't look at my loneliness, or my trembling. Or the fire inside. Or the place where it all fell apart. He wasn't seeing me cry, or scream, or beg. Or crush. He wasn't seeing me ache. He couldn't see any of that. And he won't ever know my name.
When we ache, we ache alone.
He hands me the check, his finger lingering, so it can brush mine. He smiles, quite sure of himself. "I want to fuck you."
He says it, directly. It's what he's thinking. It's how he's assessed my armor. And there is something deep within his animal honesty, that shows he believes he's dealing with a like minded wolf. He believes I will find the compliment in this, and bat one back of my own.
I take the check.
I did it again. I sold Words, again.
And now I can't look at him. I drop my eyes to my hands; suddenly the armor feels cracked and broken. I am reduced and diminished. I am the whore that can't figure out how to sign my own god damned name to anything I write. I look at the money, and slip it into my front pocket.
He repeats himself, as if it will matter. "Come on. I really want to fuck you."
With all due respect, Sir,
you already have.
He says, "Are you here about the tiger?"
I decide not to ask. "No, I'm the writer. I'm here to get paid."
"You?" He looks me over again. "You wrote that?" he gestures towards the computer, where I can only assume it is. "Jesus Christ. You're not what I was expecting at all. You… you don't even look like a writer. Let alone someone who could write that."
I start picturing writers. Charles Bukowski. William Burroughs. Hmmm. I guess I don't look like a writer.
He isn't subtle. But I guess you don't get to where he is with subtlety. He politically incorrectly calls his admin his secretary, and informs me that she handles this stuff for him. When she resurfaces she will have me sign a contract and a release, and she will pay me. I'm still not over his thinking I don't look like a writer, but rather, I look more like someone that would be there about a tiger.
I tell him bluntly, my arrangement was to be paid in cash. He can make a check out to cash, that’s acceptable. And I will sign whatever he wants. But it won't be my real name.
She'll be back any minute, he says. She will know what to do.
I can't wait. I need to go. Not that I have anywhere to be. I ask him to make an exception for me, and handle this himself, now. Please.
He opens the top desk drawer and opens a ledger. He begins to make out a check. To "Cash."
As he bends over the desk, he looks at me. His eyes start at my hips, and move up slowly. He looks over my body at another angle. He looks at my eyes, to see if I'm watching.
I wonder if I can love again. I wonder sometimes if I can open myself up like I once did, or if anyone will ever see me in truth. Ever again. It may be too late, I may be too tired. I don’t really know.
I have little crushes. Slava Brodinsky, who paints Tuscan landscapes and signs his name on everything he sees. A violinist I've seen a few times; she backs up a famous singer, and she holds her violin up to hide her face when she's not playing...
And that's what it is. Faceless artists, who expose a glimpse of their souls. And sometimes that makes me think …maybe… just maybe, I could do it again. If I can crush, maybe I can love, like I once did. Like I once could.
Or maybe not. Maybe it's just safer from here. In that pure paradise of anonymity. With someone faceless, that doesn't know my name.
The only real distance between any of us is the length of my arm.
I take power in my sexuality. Its awesome armor that hides a plethora of weaknesses. It is strength, like metal or ego, that protects my tenderness from sight.
He was looking at my hair. At my tits, and my "fuck me if you can" grin. At my hard flat abs, and the way I stare. Pretty? I don’t know. Pretty is subjective. Attractive, yes. Sexual and empowered, yes. Yessss.
I told ya, its damn effective armor.
He was not looking at my war wounds. He was not able to see my fears, or my swellings. My lies or my sins. He didn't look at my loneliness, or my trembling. Or the fire inside. Or the place where it all fell apart. He wasn't seeing me cry, or scream, or beg. Or crush. He wasn't seeing me ache. He couldn't see any of that. And he won't ever know my name.
When we ache, we ache alone.
He hands me the check, his finger lingering, so it can brush mine. He smiles, quite sure of himself. "I want to fuck you."
He says it, directly. It's what he's thinking. It's how he's assessed my armor. And there is something deep within his animal honesty, that shows he believes he's dealing with a like minded wolf. He believes I will find the compliment in this, and bat one back of my own.
I take the check.
I did it again. I sold Words, again.
And now I can't look at him. I drop my eyes to my hands; suddenly the armor feels cracked and broken. I am reduced and diminished. I am the whore that can't figure out how to sign my own god damned name to anything I write. I look at the money, and slip it into my front pocket.
He repeats himself, as if it will matter. "Come on. I really want to fuck you."
With all due respect, Sir,
you already have.
New Computers Week - NEXT 7 POSTS
Today through Memorial Day I am making the huge switch, in both houses, from PC's to MACs.
Many reasons were involved, from my hating Norton, to my despising Windows, to my frustration with Dell, to my loathing of Microsoft, finally ending with my GOD DAMN REFUSAL to deal with FUCKING VISTA.
So for the next seven days I will be dismantling both networks and, ... well, ... "mantling" totally new ones.
My online time will be limited at best. I apologize for any emails or comments I don't pounce on as I normally do. I will get to any and all of them in time, I promise.
Meanwhile, Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths will be posting a once a day blast from the past. I hope they are enjoyed.
Many reasons were involved, from my hating Norton, to my despising Windows, to my frustration with Dell, to my loathing of Microsoft, finally ending with my GOD DAMN REFUSAL to deal with FUCKING VISTA.
So for the next seven days I will be dismantling both networks and, ... well, ... "mantling" totally new ones.
My online time will be limited at best. I apologize for any emails or comments I don't pounce on as I normally do. I will get to any and all of them in time, I promise.
Meanwhile, Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths will be posting a once a day blast from the past. I hope they are enjoyed.
May 16, 2007
A Ghost
I'm sitting on the floor in the DJ booth, where I can't be seen. I'm hiding in the boomboomboom. I'm ducking behind the Junkie XL.
"Why are you in here? Every body's out there." DJ is nodding in the boomboom and sliding and winding the next and the next. I've known him for years. I knew him when he had a Mohawk and liked Fear. I knew him when he had Bon Jovi hair and shredded jeans. I know him now as he's bald and muscled and Armani'ed.
"You're in here." I'm hiding under the waves.
DJ grins. He knows me too. He knew me when I liked KISS, and wore Rush concert jerseys. He knew me when I joined the Adam Ant Insect Nation. He knows me now, as I'm invisible. "Who are you hiding from, Veronica."
Everyone. No one. I shake my head. I don't want to talk. I just want to hide. I want to be here, I want to be out and in the boomboom, but I don't want anyone to know. I don't want to be seen. I'm a ghost. I want to be a ghost.
A tunnel blond trips up to the window and leans in screaming, "HEY! Didn't this used to be Crobar?!"
DJ rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like weeks ago."
She shrugs and dances away.
"Why are you such an ass?"
He's still grinning. "Why are you hiding?"
"Shut up. Why are there no drinks up here?" I'm sitting on the floor in the corner of the booth in the boomboomboom and the Second Sun and the Filo and the Peri. I'm hiding Un-Tempered and I need it to be this way.
DJ reaches into his breast pocket, and passes me the bottle. Celtic Heartlands Scotch.
"Holy shit. Where did you get this?" It's almost as old as we are.
He grins again. DJ grins often. And well. "Gift from a fan." He watches me drink some. He watches. "Veronica. Why are you hiding?"
In the boomboomboom and the dark and the DJ booth.
In the sanctity of an old friend.
The kind of friend that keeps your secrets, and knows when you're hiding, and shares his 35 year old scotch.
"I just want to be here. OK?"
He nods and slides and spins, and lifts the headset.
And I am safe for a night.
"Why are you in here? Every body's out there." DJ is nodding in the boomboom and sliding and winding the next and the next. I've known him for years. I knew him when he had a Mohawk and liked Fear. I knew him when he had Bon Jovi hair and shredded jeans. I know him now as he's bald and muscled and Armani'ed.
"You're in here." I'm hiding under the waves.
DJ grins. He knows me too. He knew me when I liked KISS, and wore Rush concert jerseys. He knew me when I joined the Adam Ant Insect Nation. He knows me now, as I'm invisible. "Who are you hiding from, Veronica."
Everyone. No one. I shake my head. I don't want to talk. I just want to hide. I want to be here, I want to be out and in the boomboom, but I don't want anyone to know. I don't want to be seen. I'm a ghost. I want to be a ghost.
A tunnel blond trips up to the window and leans in screaming, "HEY! Didn't this used to be Crobar?!"
DJ rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like weeks ago."
She shrugs and dances away.
"Why are you such an ass?"
He's still grinning. "Why are you hiding?"
"Shut up. Why are there no drinks up here?" I'm sitting on the floor in the corner of the booth in the boomboomboom and the Second Sun and the Filo and the Peri. I'm hiding Un-Tempered and I need it to be this way.
DJ reaches into his breast pocket, and passes me the bottle. Celtic Heartlands Scotch.
"Holy shit. Where did you get this?" It's almost as old as we are.
He grins again. DJ grins often. And well. "Gift from a fan." He watches me drink some. He watches. "Veronica. Why are you hiding?"
In the boomboomboom and the dark and the DJ booth.
In the sanctity of an old friend.
The kind of friend that keeps your secrets, and knows when you're hiding, and shares his 35 year old scotch.
"I just want to be here. OK?"
He nods and slides and spins, and lifts the headset.
And I am safe for a night.
May 08, 2007
I am Jack's Spotlight Interview
You have a following at Rutgers.
Thank you. Go Knights.
Baseball fan?
Hockey.
We've voted on the ten questions we'd ask you if you granted this interview.
Shoot.
OK, number one. Do you publish all the comments you get on your blog?
I have deleted only spam. I've let everything else stand. Although recently I got a comment on a HUB about porn that I deleted. I just have no tolerance for that Holier-Than-Thou Christian fucking asshole-bullshit. My blog is not going to provide the venue for haters to spread their stupidity.
Great. OK, number two. Who did you vote for in the last presidential election?
I'm posting this interview Word for Word on my blog, and I have been very mindful to keep politics off of my blog. I don't write about politics. So I am not going to answer that.
Why?
There are plenty of blogs about politics. Mine isn't one of them. I just don't choose to go there. There are other topics I avoid too.
OK. Number three. Have you ever or would you ever have an abortion?
Yes. This is some list of questions. Are any of them going to be about writing?
(Laughs) Yes.
Next question.
OK. OK. Number four. You have many dogs, all of which were rescues.
This is another topic I avoid on my blog.
Did they all come from No Kill shelters?
No. None of them did. They all came from shelters that better serve the animals and the community. No-Kill, and the No-Kill Charter, are two entirely different things. No-Kill is a term that makes people feel good, but it doesn't address the bigger problems, and it often takes donations and focus away from the shelters that are forced to do the dirty work. People want to think about cute kittens and puppies all getting adopted. The reality of the shelter is often anything but. It's about old abandoned dogs that have been abused and neglected. They aren't cute. They are often sick, untrained, contagious, hurt, aggressive, scared... I support shelters with an open door policy, who refuse no dog, and who make the hard decisions especially when no one else will. Those are the real heroes.
Why do you avoid this topic on your blog?
Again, there are plenty of blogs and sites out there for that particular issue. I choose not to be one of them. I do not write about animals. My blog is about writing. Words. I really prefer to keep it somewhat focused.
OK. Question number five. Favorite sexual position.
My absolute favorite is being bent over the back of the couch. Kind of like doggie style but on top of the line of the couch so that my husband is standing and my legs are up in the air.
(Laughs)You won't talk about President Bush, or dogs, but you will talk about sex?
It's on topic. I write a great deal about sex. If I wrote about politics, then I would be avoided sex talk, and telling you my reactionary theory. Look, all things eventually relate, and all kinds of peripheral topics come up. I choose to try to stay focused on the topics I write about. Since I am bisexual , and a good deal of my writing is about my experiences and my friends, my blog contains a good deal of gay friendly, sexually charged, porn friendly, no judgment entries.
(laughs) Are there a lot of sexually charged posts? I hadn't noticed.
I'm going to link the shit out of this part of the interview when I post it. (laughs)
OK, you actually just answered questions 6 and 7, so I will go on to question 8. Do you do drugs?
Every day.
What kinds?
That was a quote from Caddyshack .
What? From where?
It's before you're time, kiddo. Next question.
Nine. Rap or Jazz?
Paul Oakenfold. Next.
Last question. What is your favorite Word?
(pause)
Excellent question. I have many. Comperlative. Brevity. I think my favorite Word is "moment".
Thank you. Go Knights.
Baseball fan?
Hockey.
We've voted on the ten questions we'd ask you if you granted this interview.
Shoot.
OK, number one. Do you publish all the comments you get on your blog?
I have deleted only spam. I've let everything else stand. Although recently I got a comment on a HUB about porn that I deleted. I just have no tolerance for that Holier-Than-Thou Christian fucking asshole-bullshit. My blog is not going to provide the venue for haters to spread their stupidity.
Great. OK, number two. Who did you vote for in the last presidential election?
I'm posting this interview Word for Word on my blog, and I have been very mindful to keep politics off of my blog. I don't write about politics. So I am not going to answer that.
Why?
There are plenty of blogs about politics. Mine isn't one of them. I just don't choose to go there. There are other topics I avoid too.
OK. Number three. Have you ever or would you ever have an abortion?
Yes. This is some list of questions. Are any of them going to be about writing?
(Laughs) Yes.
Next question.
OK. OK. Number four. You have many dogs, all of which were rescues.
This is another topic I avoid on my blog.
Did they all come from No Kill shelters?
No. None of them did. They all came from shelters that better serve the animals and the community. No-Kill, and the No-Kill Charter, are two entirely different things. No-Kill is a term that makes people feel good, but it doesn't address the bigger problems, and it often takes donations and focus away from the shelters that are forced to do the dirty work. People want to think about cute kittens and puppies all getting adopted. The reality of the shelter is often anything but. It's about old abandoned dogs that have been abused and neglected. They aren't cute. They are often sick, untrained, contagious, hurt, aggressive, scared... I support shelters with an open door policy, who refuse no dog, and who make the hard decisions especially when no one else will. Those are the real heroes.
Why do you avoid this topic on your blog?
Again, there are plenty of blogs and sites out there for that particular issue. I choose not to be one of them. I do not write about animals. My blog is about writing. Words. I really prefer to keep it somewhat focused.
OK. Question number five. Favorite sexual position.
My absolute favorite is being bent over the back of the couch. Kind of like doggie style but on top of the line of the couch so that my husband is standing and my legs are up in the air.
(Laughs)You won't talk about President Bush, or dogs, but you will talk about sex?
It's on topic. I write a great deal about sex. If I wrote about politics, then I would be avoided sex talk, and telling you my reactionary theory. Look, all things eventually relate, and all kinds of peripheral topics come up. I choose to try to stay focused on the topics I write about. Since I am bisexual , and a good deal of my writing is about my experiences and my friends, my blog contains a good deal of gay friendly, sexually charged, porn friendly, no judgment entries.
(laughs) Are there a lot of sexually charged posts? I hadn't noticed.
I'm going to link the shit out of this part of the interview when I post it. (laughs)
OK, you actually just answered questions 6 and 7, so I will go on to question 8. Do you do drugs?
Every day.
What kinds?
That was a quote from Caddyshack .
What? From where?
It's before you're time, kiddo. Next question.
Nine. Rap or Jazz?
Paul Oakenfold. Next.
Last question. What is your favorite Word?
(pause)
Excellent question. I have many. Comperlative. Brevity. I think my favorite Word is "moment".
Born to Sini
These Words were born to a writer.
Born to Dogs
If it means anything to anyone,
I was very impressed with this post.
Born to Dogs
If it means anything to anyone,
I was very impressed with this post.
May 05, 2007
More From LD
LD - I've come to the conclusion that every body is at least a little bit gay.
Me - I'll notify Alfred Kinsey, and Johnson & Johnson immediately.
LD - Are you kidding me? I wasn't the first person to figure this out??
Me - Umm, no dear, you're not. But its still an important revelation.
LD - Does this mean every body's also a little bit straight?
Me, waiving down the waiter - Ask Jay.
Jay, looking at our empty glasses - Another round?
LD - First, tell me if you're just a little bit straight.
Jay laughing out loud - No way! What are you on, girl? Not a chance, not on your fucking life!
Me - Halle Berry in the catwoman costume, with a whip, and a strap-on, and you get to keep the gear.
Jay as he storms away - Grrrr, alright, alright! Bitches. Next round's on me.
Me - I'll notify Alfred Kinsey, and Johnson & Johnson immediately.
LD - Are you kidding me? I wasn't the first person to figure this out??
Me - Umm, no dear, you're not. But its still an important revelation.
LD - Does this mean every body's also a little bit straight?
Me, waiving down the waiter - Ask Jay.
Jay, looking at our empty glasses - Another round?
LD - First, tell me if you're just a little bit straight.
Jay laughing out loud - No way! What are you on, girl? Not a chance, not on your fucking life!
Me - Halle Berry in the catwoman costume, with a whip, and a strap-on, and you get to keep the gear.
Jay as he storms away - Grrrr, alright, alright! Bitches. Next round's on me.
She was so mesmerizing, because
Because dieing forces living out of the remainders.
Because there is something infectiously beautiful about someone who has let go
of all constraints and earth bound heresay
to see the infinite at every opportunity
to embrace fully the next step,
the final wisdom,
the mysteries in every whisper.
Because there is peace in the knowing.
Because there is something infectiously beautiful about someone who has let go
of all constraints and earth bound heresay
to see the infinite at every opportunity
to embrace fully the next step,
the final wisdom,
the mysteries in every whisper.
Because there is peace in the knowing.
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