From the Middle Stoop

There were three stoops. All the kids on the block would hang out on one of three stoops. There was the big kid stoop, and the middle kid stoop, and the little kid stoop. Everyone got along, everyone had a brother or sister or cousin on another stoop. We were all neighbors, and friends. But there were three stoops.

One cop lived on the block. And one fireman. And in the summer one of them would open up the fire hydrant for us.

Every year there’d be a block party. There’d be a few portable rides, and cotton candy, and everyone would barbecue on old fashioned charcoal, and the little kids would giggle like crazy being able to ride their big wheels into the street.

There would be black outs. Everyone would lose power. And all the mom’s would cook all the food that defrosted and would go bad if left. We used to count the hours. If the power failed by noon, then by twilight you could start making the walk, up one side of the street and down the other. The mom’s would be sitting out with their card tables, playing canasta or gin rummy, with their food spreads presented free to all. Stuffed brisket, sausage, pork roast.

There was the summer of satin shorts and satin jackets. There was the BJ and the Bear craze. And Charlie’s Angels. And AM radio. And buying records. And banana seats.

Every household watched every Yankee game, on Channel 11. After the game, the screen doors would fly open. The dad’s that were home would gather near the corner to celebrate or complain. The kids would gravitate back to their respective stoops, with baseball cards, and trades in mind.

All summer we’d play Kings, and Skully, and Stickball. We’d walk to the candy store, or the pizzeria. We’d rush out to the curb in our bathing suits when we heard the ice cream truck. We played in the street on our skateboards. We road our bikes. We argued with our parents about what time we had to be inside, stating emphatically that it’s summer, and there’s no school, and just one more hour. Half hour. Fifteen minutes.

And some summer nights we’d all play manhunt. All three stoops. After dark, after dinner, after the street lights came on. The whole block would split up into two teams. The big kids would sometimes hide the littlest kids themselves, stuffing them under stoops and into garbage cans. Parents would come out to watch, sit on folding chairs or on their steps, with mugs of coffee. They’d laugh and they’d cheer us on. The entire block was within boundaries. Somebody’s panel sided station was base.

That's how I spent my summers, in Brooklyn, in the 70’s.

Six Sentences

Please, follow the link. See what I said in Six Sentences.


There's some fine writing on that site. I'm honored to be included.


My nod to Quin Browne for pointing the way.

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After

I love the sunrise. Not the one that comes before the day, the one that comes after the night.

The night it rained.
I am shadowed by inadequacies. Fragments.

Time is irrelevant when you're haunted.

God is basically not vindictive. And you can't sick him on people you think are off; he isn't your personal attack dog. But that's not to say he doesn't have a sense of humor. And a breaking point.

But in the end, this is the least of your worries.
In the end, it isn't God that's gonna get ya, babe.
It's the boogieman.
It's been the boogieman all along.

15 years ago.
15 minutes ago.
... doesn't matter.
The boogieman isn't wearing a watch.

Circles

"This is my mistake.
Let me make it good.
I raised the wall,
and I will be the one to knock it down."
-REM

The writer, technically, requires no audience. Like a painter or a photographer.
The art itself is solitary. The art itself is created alone. By definition, alone.
The actor requires an audience.

You choose to show it. It's not a prerequisite.

Musicians are their own animal. I can't go into that right now.

Everything is about to change.
Again.

Deep set, and stabbing. Awkward in the world, but so confidant when it came to me.

During one of the 3am implosions he told me my biggest problem is my intellect.

My biggest problem, is my intellect.

Give that one a pause.

Then, he went on to speculate: why would I be involved with him. And then those stabbing gold green chestnut eyes grabbed me, and he said, "Research! This is emotional research, isn't it. You're writing this down in your head right now, aren't you."

...

The fact that he was right doesn't negate the way I felt about him. But that was the first time I stood at that threshold.

It snowed the day we buried his father. The drive was long, and the feelings intense. He was surrounded with life long friends and presences. I wasn't one of them. I was an outsider. And they made sure that I knew it. All those long quiet nights that followed hospital visits and fights, all seemed to vanish when he drew his circle.

How clearly I saw on that day, for the first time, through a blizzard in Jersey City.

He was never my friend.

He was many things. But he was never my friend.

He was a musician.

It saddens me still, that he never saw the heart of me. He never knew me, not at all.

By stark contrast, it was a bright sunny day when my father died. Life long friends were not present. No one there loved me the way I was there for him. Just a few people, who've long since vanished. Coworkers. Neighbors. Some Italian guy I was fucking,... I can't recall his name. A couple of people I thought were friends that weren't in the end. I didn't get to draw my circle. Again, I was the outsider. It was my life, and I was the outsider.

So I left. I sold that house, dumped dad's ashes, and got the fuck out of Dodge.

I've only talked to him a few times since. Bumped into him at a hockey game some time in '95. His arm around the new girl. She was wearing his jacket. Years later I would discover she was the one. The one he married and bred with. The one that penetrated the circle.

And that was hard.

And, that should be hard.

This is the Earth.
This is the Earth breathing. This is the Earth the way it was intended.
This is an Earth I can use.

In the Quiet Not Moving

And it was in the stillness, in the quiet not moving,
In the everyday commons of space and time,
That the Earth pointed the way
With astounding clarity.

All excommunication is self imposed. Because really, the cosmos can’t leave you out. It doesn’t know how. It only exists with all it’s parts.
We are all a part,
Even apart.
Even when we’re odd.

And it was in the stillness, in the quiet not moving,
Where it all worked. Where it all made mention
And sense
And definition.

Being lost isn’t an option. It’s not possible,
When we are all here.
And it was in the stillness, in the quiet not moving,
Where I finally found my way.

In loneliness we waiver
From glamour to oblivion and back.
In the brevity,
In the separation,
In the wind where we walk slower,
In the stillness quiet not moving everyday common alone in the dark in the dark.

And it is in the dark,
Where we will best see light.

Stop speaking. Stop being lost.
Listen.
The Earth will point the way.





Photo:
This Way Alice, by Joseph Sylthe
www.iquitart.com
Used with gracious permission.

The Tinker

"Stop fixing this." I'm getting annoyed. "When you add so much you take away too much from the reader. Leave it alone."

He is smiling a little, playing with his mouse.

I find it a little odd when people have their computers in their kitchens. I realize some people just don't have enough room in their homes for an operational office. But still. The kitchen? Why not keep it comfortable like in the living room, or privately tucked in the bedroom.

"But this part of the story is too vague. You don't know if she left, or if she stayed, or what."

"I know. That's how I intended it. The main character doesn't know, so neither should the reader. The reader is in the head of the main character." I'm looking at an old bean crock filled with wooden spoons and spatulas.

He's not satisfied. He adds a line referring to the airport. I open his refrigerator. I look inside.

"And this part here. You don't describe what this guy looks like." He's typing. He's writing.

What in the world does this guy need with 8 different kinds of mustard? "You don't need to describe the guy. Let the reader imagine him anyway they want to. Most people have an image in their heads of a boss. Someone they worked for, or knew. They will tap into that."

He shakes his head, and types. Tinkering with my story. Tinkering with the formula.

Sweet onion, spicy brown, classic yellow, honey mustard, Dijon, mustard with horse radish, mustard with relish... "If you let the reader make their own image of him, it will be a stronger image. The reader is pulled in. It's a more effective story."

"What if we move this part to the beginning?" He's already onto something else. He's cutting/pasting entire paragraphs. "The part about what the church looks like."

There's not even a hot dog in this fridge. What does he do with all this mustard? "Are you asking me what the reason is that I didn't want to describe the church until after the funeral, or is it a rhetorical question to let me know you're moving another paragraph?"

I stand in front of the kitchen island, in front of the little pink flamingo salt and pepper shakers with the matching napkin holder. He's still kind of smiling, he thinks this is fun. And it is. In a way. "Look. We can do this one of two ways. You can buy the story as is and do what you want with it, or you can pay me to tutor you in creative writing."

He looks at me a little confused. "Huh?"

I smile. "Pay me for the story. I really don't want to watch you tinker at my work until it's unrecognizable. OK?"

He's conflicted as he reaches for his wallet. What I said was strong, the way I smile is soft.

I put the money in my pocket. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." He looks like he's fighting the urge to type.

No, I do not ask about the mustard. "Why do you hire me to write these stories when it's clear you want to write them yourself?"

"Re-write them. Not write them." He isn't smiling anymore. "I can't start anything. I can't get anything going."

I look sometimes. It kills me, but I look sometimes. I look in Barnes and Noble, which is my own personal purgatory. I look through magazines, literary periodicals, and books. I look for things I've written and sold. I look to see what becomes of them.
I look sometimes.

I've never seen what I've sold him. I have no idea if he publishes them at all, or what. It's part of the arrangement. I don't need to know. Once sold, they are not mine any longer. It's pretty much none of my business what he does with them.

"I can't write. But I love writing. I'm more like..."

"An editor." I nod. I get it. I wonder if he buys these things just to rewrite them, never to be published. This story belongs to him now. It's all his, to tinker with forever.

He smiles again. He shrugs. "This is win win for me, though. First there's discovery." He looks almost excited. "You know when you read a book before every body else has? You know, how you feel like you're ahead? You got it first. You know?"

I do, actually. I do know that feeling.

"This is that feeling. Forever. I will always be the first one that read this. The only one, really."

I'm kind of flattered.

"And then, when I rewrite it, no body will ever know if it used to be better. My version is all they know." He smiles.

"So, you do publish them or something. But by then, they really do belong to you. I've been all but erased."

"Like you said." He looks back at the screen, "Unrecognizable."


Traffic on the Thruway isn't bad. I'm cruising quickly, listening to Muse. Drinking a cold Dunkin Donuts coffee. Thinking about immortality, and mustard. Thinking about that scene in Fight Club when the narrator's apartment is all over the street. Thinking about being so close to the art form, but unable to commence. Thinking about being erased, slowly. Thinking about how he erases me, so that he isn't.
Thinking about how that honors me.



"Take off your disguise.
I know that underneath,
It's me"
-Muse
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The Page of Cups

He was going through that phase where you want it to be pure, shaking the appearance and anything misconstrued as distracting.

It's one of the more annoying phases, in between immature and idyllic, that he would look back on later with embarrassment. But even during the shedding, he was beautiful. He would always be beautiful. His broken heart and wild success refocused him. He was never lost.

His hair was shorter, his responsibilities were bigger. He was a good friend even when he wasn't. He kept his promises. He pulled away.

He had an admirable sense of loyalty, but a fucked up view of chance.
He had no idea who was listening.
He had a few inner demons. He had even more outer ones.
He loved hard, and hurt harder.
He wasn't ready to be a father. Or a star. But he'd never be less than either, again.

He didn't remember. He liked the convenience and safety of familiarity. But he and I, like it or not, fought and loved and died together. And some things will forever be beside you.
Some things stay.

He had something. That certain something. He warned them all, how big the dream was.
It's hard not to believe in yourself. But maybe it's harder when you know, when you've always known.
We've always known.
And in this, it was not he that had forgotten.


"The gods are cruel. To some they give grace, to others, oblivion."
- My Name Is Might Have Been
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Shoulders

There are moments when you don't ask. You just take. You make your move. You grab for base.

Just like the way you latch on to someone at a big party, or a funeral.
Someone safe. Someone with shoulders.

It's not always what you give that matters. Sometimes it's what's left that really counts.

You tell yourself you're a good man. You tell yourself you're good.
But you look and see what it is that you grab for in others.

Something is happening.
And it's not happening with you.


"I built a bed in this hole I’ve made
I recognize that I am damaged
I sympathize that you are too
I wanna breathe without feeling so self-conscious
But it’s hard when the world is staring at you.
Another piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit
You throw you arms up you’re so damn sick of it.
What are you working for?"
- Sick Puppies

.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

I didn't envy my father his scowl. I never envied my mother her misery. The damage still surfaces. Depressions and sanctions just feel like excuses now. But the Earth was mine once, and the bite was a sweet explosion.
The things we made religious, just so we could denounce them later.
The things we thought were impassioned.
The things we destroyed.

And in the end I think it was me. I think it was my doing. Or undoing. It was my fault. I was the one that changed them. I was the one that poisoned them all.

Sometimes I hate Columbus Avenue. And this 30 block walk. And I can't figure out why I missed it so much when I was in Paris.

Copy Write. Copy Right. Or Wrong.

Once an onion bagel touches the other bagels, they all become onion bagels.
Somehow, I'm the onion bagel.