I just got home. It’s light outside. Sunday’s begun. I started my day at four yesterday and went to Itaewon. There, I went to What the book and looked around. I got a call from amanda and went out to find her. We met at the intersection where cold stone ice creamery is across the street from baskin robbins. I took Amanda and Anlee, the foreign girl she works with to what the book. We searched around, found whatever, this and that, I made a couple abooks and sat outside. Sthe duo came out ready to go to Hangdae. So they looked at a map, asked directions, so on, and we walked to the station, where we split ways. I roamed around until Naz calleed and when she did, we met outside the cold stone theI joined Naz and her friends fr dinner – gapi? And we ate, t was delishious, as usual. And ate and ate, then the lion ar went ino i
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Pandora's Box
I just got home. It’s light outside. Sunday’s begun. I started my day at four yesterday and went to Itaewon. There, I went to What the book and looked around. I got a call from amanda and went out to find her. We met at the intersection where cold stone ice creamery is across the street from baskin robbins. I took Amanda and Anlee, the foreign girl she works with to what the book. We searched around, found whatever, this and that, I made a couple abooks and sat outside. Sthe duo came out ready to go to Hangdae. So they looked at a map, asked directions, so on, and we walked to the station, where we split ways. I roamed around until Naz calleed and when she did, we met outside the cold stone theI joined Naz and her friends fr dinner – gapi? And we ate, t was delishious, as usual. And ate and ate, then the lion ar went ino i
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
New Mexico, 20/20
I miss the mist in the grapevines, the sunrise behind mountain skyline.
I miss the mess of crushed grapes and the sweet snacks I’d imbibe.
I miss the cool breeze through the house, the haunting nights, snakes and mice
the rattles in the backyard, wine washed evenings alone.
I miss the stars and Milky Way cloud across the sky, the fog where rabbits hide,
The nights when coyotes cried as dusk spread the blanket of night and all I could do was sigh
Cigarettes fogged the house and wine blurred nights spent alone with my guitar and NPR and records.
I miss the fresh air, the valley below, the hawks that would glide, the distant snow.
I miss the lazy days, the grasshoppers dancing on the blades of grass that grew from the orange coarse desert dirt.
I miss the silent nights when I couldn’t hear anything at all, but the sounds of the critters scurryin between my walls.
The deck door slammed with the wind, the porch light turned on for no reason, and I never knew just who could see me.
I miss Roger’s slow draw his long goodbyes his little white lies.
I miss the plant I tried to grow, the bug covered window and prospects of ghosts
I miss the spiders who would greet me when I was ready for bed
Thank you to them for not dropping onto my head.
There ain’t no place like Grandma’s house on the side of a mountain with nothing around. I hope it never falls. Grama I’m comin home just as soon as I’m done here.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Fourth of July
I saw you tonight, America. You, your citizens of color, or no color. I saw your celebration of explosions, your children frightened by the boom of small bombs shot into the air. I saw your traffic. You smell like sulfur and gasoline. I celebrated the music that happens beneath your underbelly, on the rooftop of a bar where I bought drinks with friends and nearly caved in the top balcony while listening to your heartbeat – songs about love, work, and getting away from it all in the transient fog of smoking myself high.
HOW’RE YOU GONNA CELEBRATE WAR TODAY? I PLAN ON EATING MEAT ALL DAY LONG. That’s what she said.
I met her at a bar to drink and eat a hamburger. We took photos. My friend played a chess game at the booth in the opposite corner. A group of regulars corralled around the bar, passed drinks and conversation. Baseball played on the Tvs. Music blared from the jukebox. My table leaned heavily one direction or another, dependant upon who leaned on it. My water gone, I went for Jack on the rocks. GRANPA WOULD DRINK THIS TODAY. I sat in wait for a cummulated 20 minutes at stoplights alone. I bypassed traffic on my bicycle. Your means of transport are foolish. They smell terrible and make things too loud. Engines and horns and screeching breaks, whining breaks, tires peeling pavement. And where, in all this, do we hide?
HOW’RE YOU GONNA CELEBRATE WAR TODAY? I PLAN ON EATING MEAT ALL DAY LONG. That’s what she said.
I met her at a bar to drink and eat a hamburger. We took photos. My friend played a chess game at the booth in the opposite corner. A group of regulars corralled around the bar, passed drinks and conversation. Baseball played on the Tvs. Music blared from the jukebox. My table leaned heavily one direction or another, dependant upon who leaned on it. My water gone, I went for Jack on the rocks. GRANPA WOULD DRINK THIS TODAY. I sat in wait for a cummulated 20 minutes at stoplights alone. I bypassed traffic on my bicycle. Your means of transport are foolish. They smell terrible and make things too loud. Engines and horns and screeching breaks, whining breaks, tires peeling pavement. And where, in all this, do we hide?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Life Ain't Perfect, but It's Beautiful
I went out on my own – just followed the open road that led me into the unknown.
Sometimes, when life gets numb, you gotta take heed to the feelings that come and follow em.
Come across slick streets and beggars at truck stops, all-night girls and lovers at bus stops, comedians in bars drinking their jokes down.
Find the grey skies or where trains sigh by, where you’re lost but lovin’ it, sad but can’t cry, away from what’s known, friends and loved ones, all on your own and fallin’ snow’s your lullaby.
Cause I’ve seen a tennis match and I shouldn’t live like that. I oughta wander like a stoic cat and watch the rain pitter-pat.
When you fall asleep on a pitch dark road and you wake up in your car to mountains that glow under the risin sun reflectin off the ice and snow;
where it rains so much steps are covered in moss, where the fog’s so dense you’re lost in your own backyard;
when you coast down a mountain into plains that roll across an arid desert that formed long ago, and everything you see is sun-burnt red or gold;
where wind cyclones down through pines or you pick grapes through a New Mexican sunrise,
do you see God?
Somewhere out there beyond routine; somewhere paddlin through the jet-stream; somewhere growin in a forest of pine trees, somewhere farther than any hawk could see, somewhere closer than you are to me and everywhere in between, do you see God?
When you’re tryin to get to shelter and it’s seven degrees, and that don’t even matter cause she’s just so sweet, and her smile peaks through her chattering teeth;
where expression’s just a cloud or a child that points and says, “Daddy, don’t that look just like a unicorn?” and Daddy see’s it too, cause Daddy never gave up.
He pays the bills after playin with his child; his marriage ain’t perfect but disagreements are mild; and at least once a week the whole family does something wild.
Where church is a treehouse, God is a chapel mouse, to pray we roughhouse and love is worship.
When we realize the sun shines even behind cloudy skies and with each rain we’re baptized, we’ll all be saved.
Sometimes, when life gets numb, you gotta take heed to the feelings that come and follow em.
Come across slick streets and beggars at truck stops, all-night girls and lovers at bus stops, comedians in bars drinking their jokes down.
Find the grey skies or where trains sigh by, where you’re lost but lovin’ it, sad but can’t cry, away from what’s known, friends and loved ones, all on your own and fallin’ snow’s your lullaby.
Cause I’ve seen a tennis match and I shouldn’t live like that. I oughta wander like a stoic cat and watch the rain pitter-pat.
When you fall asleep on a pitch dark road and you wake up in your car to mountains that glow under the risin sun reflectin off the ice and snow;
where it rains so much steps are covered in moss, where the fog’s so dense you’re lost in your own backyard;
when you coast down a mountain into plains that roll across an arid desert that formed long ago, and everything you see is sun-burnt red or gold;
where wind cyclones down through pines or you pick grapes through a New Mexican sunrise,
do you see God?
Somewhere out there beyond routine; somewhere paddlin through the jet-stream; somewhere growin in a forest of pine trees, somewhere farther than any hawk could see, somewhere closer than you are to me and everywhere in between, do you see God?
When you’re tryin to get to shelter and it’s seven degrees, and that don’t even matter cause she’s just so sweet, and her smile peaks through her chattering teeth;
where expression’s just a cloud or a child that points and says, “Daddy, don’t that look just like a unicorn?” and Daddy see’s it too, cause Daddy never gave up.
He pays the bills after playin with his child; his marriage ain’t perfect but disagreements are mild; and at least once a week the whole family does something wild.
Where church is a treehouse, God is a chapel mouse, to pray we roughhouse and love is worship.
When we realize the sun shines even behind cloudy skies and with each rain we’re baptized, we’ll all be saved.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Disjointed Memorized Words from a Cell
My reflection drips from the steel bunk above me.
White brick reflects flourescent light that glows from the corner.
My bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and study are all within reach
Inside this joint on E. Hickory. Once green prairie,
They try to replace Dionysis with roads –
Oak, Sycamore, Pecan – named such to tell us what they took away
In the name of Justice, Law, and Order.
But Apollo cannot survive on her own. Cells must be filled
With those who live organic; those who say,
“this is where I find myself on account of my vice.”
Some lose their liver, some lose metabolism, I missed a party.
Who said freedom is free? I gotta pay 500 dollars to get out
Tomorrow so I can join my family for mother’s day.
Men always write about the ladies they let down,
However, I cannot write, for they kept my pen.
So I lay here and recite aloud to myself in isolation.
White brick reflects flourescent light that glows from the corner.
My bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and study are all within reach
Inside this joint on E. Hickory. Once green prairie,
They try to replace Dionysis with roads –
Oak, Sycamore, Pecan – named such to tell us what they took away
In the name of Justice, Law, and Order.
But Apollo cannot survive on her own. Cells must be filled
With those who live organic; those who say,
“this is where I find myself on account of my vice.”
Some lose their liver, some lose metabolism, I missed a party.
Who said freedom is free? I gotta pay 500 dollars to get out
Tomorrow so I can join my family for mother’s day.
Men always write about the ladies they let down,
However, I cannot write, for they kept my pen.
So I lay here and recite aloud to myself in isolation.
As News Spread
Jack sat alone. Seven o’clock, Saturday morning, within cinder block walls and one door with a single window and a gap like a ticket booth through which food is passed, room service pounded on the other side of the door, shouted, “Breakfast!”
Jack stepped off his cot, across the cold concrete floor, and took the microwaved biscuits.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes, please. Is there any way I could get a pen?”
“A what?”
“A pen, to write.”
“No, we don’t issue those,” and the man walked off.
Jack stepped to his steal stool, sat at the steal table implanted into the wall, and ate slow. He wasn’t hungry. Eating passed the time. First he ate the top half of the biscuit, half the sausage, the bottom half of the biscuit, then finished the second half of the sausage, sipping coffee with each bite. He went to the window and looked out, as if looking across a back porch; across a green field where morning birds come and go, grasshoppers flick dew off blades of grass, caterpillars squinch and stretch across leaves; but Jack saw none of that. He saw cinder block walls, a desk, a finger print machine, yellow tape to direct people where to stand for their photo. To his right, Jack read a sign that hung on the wall: “Guidelines for obtaining classifiable fingerprints.” He discovered his right thumb has an irregular print – his only point of pride during his 17 hours in that room.
A room like that diminishes a person. Cold metal, cold stone, emotionless colors. Nothing to stimulate the mind, but they don’t want that. Nothing to stimulate the soul. The one thing that kept Jack’s spirit alive was the thought of how high Ryan must have been to tell the two arresting officers, so nonshalantly, “We’re writers and this is such griss for the mill.”
Jack waited. Time passed like a locomotive unable to gain pace. The flourescent lights never changed and endlessly buzzed their sterile white light. The sounds were the same over and again – the clasp of a door lock, rollrollrollroll of the telephone rollrollrollrollroll, a flushed toilet several doors down, shouts of frustrated arrestees, shouts of jaunty arresters.
“I suppose I’m to consider my life choices and path?” Jack thought. He paced the floor and grew embittered at such wasted time.
Jack stepped off his cot, across the cold concrete floor, and took the microwaved biscuits.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes, please. Is there any way I could get a pen?”
“A what?”
“A pen, to write.”
“No, we don’t issue those,” and the man walked off.
Jack stepped to his steal stool, sat at the steal table implanted into the wall, and ate slow. He wasn’t hungry. Eating passed the time. First he ate the top half of the biscuit, half the sausage, the bottom half of the biscuit, then finished the second half of the sausage, sipping coffee with each bite. He went to the window and looked out, as if looking across a back porch; across a green field where morning birds come and go, grasshoppers flick dew off blades of grass, caterpillars squinch and stretch across leaves; but Jack saw none of that. He saw cinder block walls, a desk, a finger print machine, yellow tape to direct people where to stand for their photo. To his right, Jack read a sign that hung on the wall: “Guidelines for obtaining classifiable fingerprints.” He discovered his right thumb has an irregular print – his only point of pride during his 17 hours in that room.
A room like that diminishes a person. Cold metal, cold stone, emotionless colors. Nothing to stimulate the mind, but they don’t want that. Nothing to stimulate the soul. The one thing that kept Jack’s spirit alive was the thought of how high Ryan must have been to tell the two arresting officers, so nonshalantly, “We’re writers and this is such griss for the mill.”
Jack waited. Time passed like a locomotive unable to gain pace. The flourescent lights never changed and endlessly buzzed their sterile white light. The sounds were the same over and again – the clasp of a door lock, rollrollrollroll of the telephone rollrollrollrollroll, a flushed toilet several doors down, shouts of frustrated arrestees, shouts of jaunty arresters.
“I suppose I’m to consider my life choices and path?” Jack thought. He paced the floor and grew embittered at such wasted time.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Perch
I sit perched at the junction of a window ledge and a ladder. Two cars are parked on the other side of this tree. One’s silver, the other’s black. The black one’s a Chrysler, I think, but what’s that really matter? One of two A/C units blows beneath me. The one just below me waits until the weather gets warmer. Every window on my floor is open, except for one that’s in a closet. I painted it already. I painted all these windows. It’s taken quite a long time, with all the prep work and rain. But they’re done. So are the eaves, for the most part. But I’ve yet another task tomorrow before it’s completely finished. And, well, I gotta paint what I fix on the eaves again. This job never seems to end! At least with the next job, I imagine, I’ll have some creative liberties. I’m off to write.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Spring's Arrived
This, I say, is Spring's arrival. Early, I am awaken by the first morning storm, rain falling, thunder of the season. Lightning flashes almost constantly to makes up for the hidden sun. Six thirty ante meridian.
The brick outside my window, on the house next door, flickers with the tremors of lightning, flash-bulb lectricity sprawling through clouds. The rain hisses on the pine leaves outside the windows behind me. Larger bulbs patter onto window sills and into small puddles collecting beneath the eaves. Traffic passes outside in a wisp of mist from the wet road. The first sirens of the morning rush off through the barrage of rain, over slick pavement, to whatever trouble there is; cars probably wrecked from the sudden wash of water. The streets must be oily after so many days of dry and dust.
The brick outside my window, on the house next door, flickers with the tremors of lightning, flash-bulb lectricity sprawling through clouds. The rain hisses on the pine leaves outside the windows behind me. Larger bulbs patter onto window sills and into small puddles collecting beneath the eaves. Traffic passes outside in a wisp of mist from the wet road. The first sirens of the morning rush off through the barrage of rain, over slick pavement, to whatever trouble there is; cars probably wrecked from the sudden wash of water. The streets must be oily after so many days of dry and dust.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Old, New
Shannon dreamed, created, inspired, then died.
Her death drew fans who understood.
"I loved you," cries the headstone.
Haiku?
This doodle bug makes
way. Something lay before her.
"Ah," says she. "Soft moss."
The little light spider
scurries down concrete rock cliffs,
drips down its slick web.
Crowded in the car,
1 to 6, five short hours,
I'm gettin' a bed!
Scenes:
Two cats, perched like birds on a wire, watch the rain drip off the eaves and cars pass.
The river rushes down below, melted snow flowing fast over rocks and stone. The water, crisp, slow, erodes as it melts from the peaks of these mountains and trickles. I sit with ease and watch the pines sway. The wind elopes. It passes like a flock of birds, and leaves me at my perch.
Matt and Ryan greet me from the top, specks on a rock the size of a mountain. And a jumbo jet leaves a white streak as it passes discrete behind them. And they, those two, sway like the trees. And rocket strength winds whirl by me, through me.
Her death drew fans who understood.
"I loved you," cries the headstone.
Haiku?
This doodle bug makes
way. Something lay before her.
"Ah," says she. "Soft moss."
The little light spider
scurries down concrete rock cliffs,
drips down its slick web.
Crowded in the car,
1 to 6, five short hours,
I'm gettin' a bed!
Scenes:
Two cats, perched like birds on a wire, watch the rain drip off the eaves and cars pass.
The river rushes down below, melted snow flowing fast over rocks and stone. The water, crisp, slow, erodes as it melts from the peaks of these mountains and trickles. I sit with ease and watch the pines sway. The wind elopes. It passes like a flock of birds, and leaves me at my perch.
Matt and Ryan greet me from the top, specks on a rock the size of a mountain. And a jumbo jet leaves a white streak as it passes discrete behind them. And they, those two, sway like the trees. And rocket strength winds whirl by me, through me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
12 March, maybe
If today's 12, 11 I got to Amy's after dinner with Dad; after finishing everything at the lake. On 10 I got to the lake after leaving Mom's; after doing some chores for her; after pancakes at Granny's; after waking up there. I slept there to keep her company, comfortable. I slept there on 9 after dinner with Granny, Mom, and Emily; after getting groceries at HEB; after Emily went to practice; after she and I had lunch and hung out; after she and I had breakfast and talked the morning away; after I woke her, calling her from outside the house after the drive from Austin that began that morning around 4; after hanging out with Chris on 8, the same day I packed my car and left after I decided it was time to get going; after I returned from San Antonio after an incredible weekend that started the day before, 7.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Last Night
*Disclaimer: This writing uses language some may not like to read. Skip it if you'd like.
Last night, after seeing Ryan before he went home, I went to Lou’s, sat, wrote. I left, bought cigarettes, and sat at the Language building to call Amanda, but she didn’t answer. I made my way to Riprocks, bought a dollar beer, sat and wrote. I left, went to Lou’s – nobody was there, so I left.
Headed for Andy’s at the square – quite a walk away – I stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic when I heard someone say, “Hello!” I looked over my shoulder and he waved. “You want a ride somewhere?” he asked in a polite, flamboyant voice. He was overweight, balding. I said, “Sure!” and got in. The light changed green. “Just shove that stuff over!” he instructed in a hurry. “Hell, just sit on the shit! Help me out here, we gotta go!” I moved the things with some help from the passenger, and got in the back seat. “What’s your name, honey?” asked the driver and he reached his hand backward, lightly. I shook it, said, “I’m Brian.” The passenger sent his hand back and greeted me. The driver said, “You can call me Big Mama. This is Dan.”
The three of us drove down Oak Street, toward the square. Big Mama greeted the car next to us at a stop light. “Oh, you’re pretty, honey.” The light changed, the car drove off. “Come to karaoke,” he invited. “Well, I’m on my way to see some friends at Andy’s.” “Well fuck them. Come to the Boiler Room.” “What’s the Boiler Room?” I asked. “Oh, you know. Half straight, half gay. It’s fine.” “Well, maybe I’ll meet you there later.” We passed by occupied space after occupied space on the square. “Really? A fucking motorcycle taking up my spot?” The car from the stop light passed us. “Fuck you, honey. You’re ugly,” Big Mama shouted. We pulled forward, turned right into a parking lot, and Dan spoke up. “You’re gonna put me all the way over here?” “Oh, deal with it bitch.” We parked, got out, I said thank you, Big Mama invited me again, and I told them, “I’ll go to Andy’s and probably stop by here later.”
I did stop by Andy’s, only saw two old friends, briefly. And I did go to the Boiler Room. Wretched singing burst through the doors and I walked inside and down some steps. I handed my ID to the guy at the door and another man was walking toward me with a cane. “Oh, sorry,” I said, and moved my backpack and suitcase out of the way. “That’s right. You better get the fuck out my way,” and he continued up the stairs, grumbling, “I’m ready to” grumble grumble… “What have I gotten myself into?” I joked with the bouncer. I could give a damn about an asshole. The bouncer ended our exchange much more polite than he started. He had to give that little basement bar of half gays, half straights, and a single ass, old man a face lift. I walked to the bar, “You got a minimum on cards?” All I had was a debit. “Five bucks.” “Ah,” I slanted my mouth in a line of disappointment. “Alright, sorry,” and I headed back out the door where the bouncer had since gotten a tissue and continued to dig through his nose.
I went to the coffee shop, bought one cup, sat on my computer, made plans to meet an old friend and her boyfriend and his friends at a pool hall. She said, “Me and the boyfriend and his friends are,” so on, letting me know ahead that I wouldn’t end my night with her. It was good of her. But I got there and there she was, beautiful. She has a bright smile, long brown hair to the middle of her back, she’s thin with long legs and the bulbs of her knees protruded through strategic holes cut in her jeans. “It’s too bad you’re with him,” I wanted to tell her. Of course I didn’t, and I was polite to Matt and his friends, but we didn’t talk much. I’d arrived to see Cady, so we talked a while. Ended up seeing Austin from the party over the weekend – got his number. “Let me know if you wanna go to Austin this weekend or next, it doesn’t matter to me.” We agreed to let each other know, I have his number, he has mine, and he told Cady, “Sorry to interrupt.” “I don’t remember what I was talking about,” she said to me. “Your boyfriend was bi and Big Mama wanted to sleep with him?” Apparently, Cady had had a run-in with Big Mama before. He told Cady she was a cover-up and that, “Really, Mario’s gay.” Cady and I chatted a bit more and I rolled a cigarette for the road. We hugged goodbye and I stepped outside. I set down my suitcase, struck a match, lit my cigarette and made my way to Cool Beans to meet with Jamie.
We each had a beer, sat at a booth and talked about this and that, then went to the sandwich shop for fifty cent day-old bread. They were out. “We have fresh bread.” “How much is that?” “Two dollars.” I looked at the menu. A dollar more would get me a sandwich, but it was already 2 in the morning. I didn’t really have to eat – couldn’t afford it anyway. “I’ll give you a loaf for free,” I heard. I leaned forward, “What was that?” “I’ll give you a loaf for free if you pay for it.” How clever of him.
Jamie and I left, saw EB at his usual spot selling his herbal blends to relax, stimulate, focus, or cleanse your body. “Where you headed?” his friend, who happens to also be called Dan, asked me. “Not sure yet,” I told him. That was bullshit. I like to play up what I’m doing to the level of romance that may keep someone interested. I know what I’m doing, where I’m headed – well, I know sooner or later. I told EB I was just at Jimmy Johns and couldn’t afford the two bucks they wanted for bread, so I couldn’t buy tonight. “Well you should just do what I do.” “What’s that?” EB liked to say a quick something then pause. He’s a Renaissance Fair guy and loves to entertain and draw you in. “Go to Seven Eleven and get two hot dogs for two dollars.” “Wow, you’re right!” I exclaimed. In my mind I planned to do that the next day. EB and his friend kept talking about the good deals at Seven Eleven. I could only think about how terrible the food there is – terrible for you – which is how it usually goes when something tastes that “good.” (We all know it doesn’t truly taste good, but we think it does, as our mind turns grease and lard into flavor so that we can make it through good ol’, Yankee Doodle American food.) Dan talked about how cheap things used to be and so on and at a pause in there somewhere, I said, “Well, I don’t wanna keep her waiting,” and Jamie and I were off. “Good luck EB. See ya soon.”
We got to Jamie’s place. She opened the door, we stepped in, I set down my things, and she got busy to work setting me up with a place to sleep. She turned on the space heater. She got me two fleece blankets. She handed me another blanket her grandmother had knit. She handed me a bed comforter and a pillow. She asked if I needed water. I didn’t. She came back from the kitchen with two boxes of Teddy Grahams. “You better take those with you tomorrow,” she demanded. “You don’t want them?” “I bought ‘em thinking I do. Apparently I don’t.” She’d had them since November. It was presently February. I was settled in. Jamie handed me a DVD to watch and she went to bed. Her cat laid next to me on the floor, wheezing with allergies, sneezing. I woke up the next morning. The cat sat on the back of the couch at the window where the sun shined through. The cat snored. I was covered in the cat’s hair. I wrote a while under my blankets before getting ready for the day, out the door, back down those streets.
Last night, after seeing Ryan before he went home, I went to Lou’s, sat, wrote. I left, bought cigarettes, and sat at the Language building to call Amanda, but she didn’t answer. I made my way to Riprocks, bought a dollar beer, sat and wrote. I left, went to Lou’s – nobody was there, so I left.
Headed for Andy’s at the square – quite a walk away – I stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic when I heard someone say, “Hello!” I looked over my shoulder and he waved. “You want a ride somewhere?” he asked in a polite, flamboyant voice. He was overweight, balding. I said, “Sure!” and got in. The light changed green. “Just shove that stuff over!” he instructed in a hurry. “Hell, just sit on the shit! Help me out here, we gotta go!” I moved the things with some help from the passenger, and got in the back seat. “What’s your name, honey?” asked the driver and he reached his hand backward, lightly. I shook it, said, “I’m Brian.” The passenger sent his hand back and greeted me. The driver said, “You can call me Big Mama. This is Dan.”
The three of us drove down Oak Street, toward the square. Big Mama greeted the car next to us at a stop light. “Oh, you’re pretty, honey.” The light changed, the car drove off. “Come to karaoke,” he invited. “Well, I’m on my way to see some friends at Andy’s.” “Well fuck them. Come to the Boiler Room.” “What’s the Boiler Room?” I asked. “Oh, you know. Half straight, half gay. It’s fine.” “Well, maybe I’ll meet you there later.” We passed by occupied space after occupied space on the square. “Really? A fucking motorcycle taking up my spot?” The car from the stop light passed us. “Fuck you, honey. You’re ugly,” Big Mama shouted. We pulled forward, turned right into a parking lot, and Dan spoke up. “You’re gonna put me all the way over here?” “Oh, deal with it bitch.” We parked, got out, I said thank you, Big Mama invited me again, and I told them, “I’ll go to Andy’s and probably stop by here later.”
I did stop by Andy’s, only saw two old friends, briefly. And I did go to the Boiler Room. Wretched singing burst through the doors and I walked inside and down some steps. I handed my ID to the guy at the door and another man was walking toward me with a cane. “Oh, sorry,” I said, and moved my backpack and suitcase out of the way. “That’s right. You better get the fuck out my way,” and he continued up the stairs, grumbling, “I’m ready to” grumble grumble… “What have I gotten myself into?” I joked with the bouncer. I could give a damn about an asshole. The bouncer ended our exchange much more polite than he started. He had to give that little basement bar of half gays, half straights, and a single ass, old man a face lift. I walked to the bar, “You got a minimum on cards?” All I had was a debit. “Five bucks.” “Ah,” I slanted my mouth in a line of disappointment. “Alright, sorry,” and I headed back out the door where the bouncer had since gotten a tissue and continued to dig through his nose.
I went to the coffee shop, bought one cup, sat on my computer, made plans to meet an old friend and her boyfriend and his friends at a pool hall. She said, “Me and the boyfriend and his friends are,” so on, letting me know ahead that I wouldn’t end my night with her. It was good of her. But I got there and there she was, beautiful. She has a bright smile, long brown hair to the middle of her back, she’s thin with long legs and the bulbs of her knees protruded through strategic holes cut in her jeans. “It’s too bad you’re with him,” I wanted to tell her. Of course I didn’t, and I was polite to Matt and his friends, but we didn’t talk much. I’d arrived to see Cady, so we talked a while. Ended up seeing Austin from the party over the weekend – got his number. “Let me know if you wanna go to Austin this weekend or next, it doesn’t matter to me.” We agreed to let each other know, I have his number, he has mine, and he told Cady, “Sorry to interrupt.” “I don’t remember what I was talking about,” she said to me. “Your boyfriend was bi and Big Mama wanted to sleep with him?” Apparently, Cady had had a run-in with Big Mama before. He told Cady she was a cover-up and that, “Really, Mario’s gay.” Cady and I chatted a bit more and I rolled a cigarette for the road. We hugged goodbye and I stepped outside. I set down my suitcase, struck a match, lit my cigarette and made my way to Cool Beans to meet with Jamie.
We each had a beer, sat at a booth and talked about this and that, then went to the sandwich shop for fifty cent day-old bread. They were out. “We have fresh bread.” “How much is that?” “Two dollars.” I looked at the menu. A dollar more would get me a sandwich, but it was already 2 in the morning. I didn’t really have to eat – couldn’t afford it anyway. “I’ll give you a loaf for free,” I heard. I leaned forward, “What was that?” “I’ll give you a loaf for free if you pay for it.” How clever of him.
Jamie and I left, saw EB at his usual spot selling his herbal blends to relax, stimulate, focus, or cleanse your body. “Where you headed?” his friend, who happens to also be called Dan, asked me. “Not sure yet,” I told him. That was bullshit. I like to play up what I’m doing to the level of romance that may keep someone interested. I know what I’m doing, where I’m headed – well, I know sooner or later. I told EB I was just at Jimmy Johns and couldn’t afford the two bucks they wanted for bread, so I couldn’t buy tonight. “Well you should just do what I do.” “What’s that?” EB liked to say a quick something then pause. He’s a Renaissance Fair guy and loves to entertain and draw you in. “Go to Seven Eleven and get two hot dogs for two dollars.” “Wow, you’re right!” I exclaimed. In my mind I planned to do that the next day. EB and his friend kept talking about the good deals at Seven Eleven. I could only think about how terrible the food there is – terrible for you – which is how it usually goes when something tastes that “good.” (We all know it doesn’t truly taste good, but we think it does, as our mind turns grease and lard into flavor so that we can make it through good ol’, Yankee Doodle American food.) Dan talked about how cheap things used to be and so on and at a pause in there somewhere, I said, “Well, I don’t wanna keep her waiting,” and Jamie and I were off. “Good luck EB. See ya soon.”
We got to Jamie’s place. She opened the door, we stepped in, I set down my things, and she got busy to work setting me up with a place to sleep. She turned on the space heater. She got me two fleece blankets. She handed me another blanket her grandmother had knit. She handed me a bed comforter and a pillow. She asked if I needed water. I didn’t. She came back from the kitchen with two boxes of Teddy Grahams. “You better take those with you tomorrow,” she demanded. “You don’t want them?” “I bought ‘em thinking I do. Apparently I don’t.” She’d had them since November. It was presently February. I was settled in. Jamie handed me a DVD to watch and she went to bed. Her cat laid next to me on the floor, wheezing with allergies, sneezing. I woke up the next morning. The cat sat on the back of the couch at the window where the sun shined through. The cat snored. I was covered in the cat’s hair. I wrote a while under my blankets before getting ready for the day, out the door, back down those streets.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday Night, Walking
A yellow, plastic dump truck, a kid's bike with training-wheels, two lawn chairs and a grill, all lit by amber porch light; white lights shine inside. I walk through mild fifties under high cirrus clouds that dim the stars, but certainly not more than these street lamps. The middle school facade is lit brick, bright and proud.
This Can't be Right
A handful of clouds are lit pink on top where the sun's last Sunday light can reach, shadowy violet on bottom. Jet-setters soar by - birds perch on decrepit limbs of Winter's trees.
I've thought about drinking all day, and finally, "Brian, you want some wine?"
"I'd better not."
"You better not?"
I ignore the question, step outside.
I let my heart be wrenched by possibility of a past lover's moving forward - foolish me - so I sit with a cigarette; punish my lungs for my heart's childish hurt.
I've thought about drinking all day, and finally, "Brian, you want some wine?"
"I'd better not."
"You better not?"
I ignore the question, step outside.
I let my heart be wrenched by possibility of a past lover's moving forward - foolish me - so I sit with a cigarette; punish my lungs for my heart's childish hurt.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Continuing...
Continuing...
brian s goreThese are, my boggled thoughts in synchronized letters, typed from cold, dry, rashy hands. My narrow cheeks itch behind three months of trying to grow a beard. I’ll roll this cigarette.
I sit in a heatless house with a squeaky door at the porch on the side of a mountain alone.
I listen to inspiration.
In cigarette fogged dim – poets penetrate the silence. A cursor awaits my next words, which could mean less than those before them, which could mean not much at all. Someone needed to know what I was thinking, though.
Computer in my lap, smoke between my lips –my itching eye-lids flake dead skin – my chin and throat and elbows are red with rash from dry desert cold and arid winds that seep through the windows and doorjambs – I drink water equally cold and dry – I drag.
One light glows inside, one outside, the fridge-motor stops humming with a click and the deck-door slams with each gust, otherwise silence.
My keyboard clicks by my mechanist fingers. “Hold my cigarette,” I tell them.
In my bed on the couch in the living room of a three bedroom mobile-home, I shiver.
In a hearthless house, I’m surrounded by echoing silences pummeling each other like waves.
Tempests bang drums in my migraining mind and I wonder – who is beyond this?
Why doesn’t know Conundrums are infinite, so the only way to follow one is to be at the center, with every eye open. They whirl about you, the ever diminishing veins of a single leaf found in a cyclone of brothers and sisters falling from their parent branches. Why must crows stay, reminding of stark winter’s sorrow? Trees in autumn are a ticker-tape parade, but it all fades the same. It’s just another claim to say that time is worth anything material. Pennies saved amount to pockets full of copper, green finger tips. Eventually, I’ll have enough to have something else. Why is that worth?I still can’t afford this smoke (altered significantly since first printing) I sit in Texas’ musty Summer evening and see more jet-setters than stars in the sky. I feel free yet trapped
on old brick porch-steps; slugging a beer, listening to beats; and I still can’t afford this cigarette.
“My Fingers”“Monetary systems are as true as a Geo-centric universe,” I tell them.
“And further, Life has no center.
It’s permanent as a cliff’s face, meaningful as erosion, and
creates as it simultaneously destroys.
There, I’ve said it.”
Back in my pockets, they fidget with coins.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
(Lonesome Heart)
b r i a n s g o r e
The moon is a spotlight for the night, ripples lit in white. Waves carry lightly 'neath night-birds in flight and the quiet lullaby of collapsing crests sighs quite nicely.
There is passion. Follow it. Passion cannot be confined to one or any other thing. Love is not constrained to a single aspect of life. Romance, even, holds to more than sex. Sex can happen between any people for any reason, but romance is red wine - candle light - brooding alone. Love is helpless, selfless, selfish desire. I desire passion. Passion consumes. Passion is hopeless, but never hopelessness. It's desperate, but not grasping. It's a closed rose - any color.
I sit in a half-lit home with my wine and mind. The cold wind moans. Pinot Noir alone; nostalgia; pasta for one - dark chocolate - National Public Radio - glazed eyes through my cigarette's fog - sounds haunt the blind. Too much wine - too many cigarettes - how many times have I said this? I can't sleep, but I can dream drunken hallucinations of company. The windows howl, fog seeps through the door, and my sight's gone bent. Mountain-side, my pen and me, surrounded by phantasms. I can't look up, they won't let me look down, so I glance frantically around. Light on the patio; shadows inside. The half-moon is hidden. The clouds go west. Silence but for the single creaking door.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
(More Than Just Italy)
I
To find a vacant hotel room took me seven hours. I arrived on the train from Aeropuerto Romano into Florence with my backpack and oversized duffel bag somehow bulging with excess. I certainly didn’t know how to pack light back then. I looked ridiculous. My torso leaned heavy right in a sort of crippled strut as I tried to keep balance and move the mass with each step. The strap went diagonal across my chest and diagonal the other way went the strap of my camera bag. So I was there, in hustling, bustling Florence; foreign, lost, alone, excruciatingly over-packed, and I had to discover where my class was.
Outside the terminal, I saw a policeman and asked, “Dove Via de Rustici?” He didn’t recognize the name of the street so looked at the map I had. He ran his finger over the glossy paper that showed landmarks and the paths that led to them. Finally, the officer found it and told me a bunch of directions in rapid Italian. I watched his hand and listened for key words, street names and left or right, unable to understand all the words between. I said “Grazie mille” and started my trek clear across to the other side of Florence, luggage hanging on me every place luggage could.
I walked around the corner out of the train station to the road which was a big circle with four inlets and a statue standing proud in the middle. The traffic ran similar to how it does in the States, that is, look left then right then left again when crossing the street, but Italian drivers are a bit more sporadic. They will turn from any lane. They will straddle the lines. Mopeds will trickle through traffic to the front of the queue. And pedestrians have a rule of “cross at your own risk,” even when there is a crosswalk. I made my first crossing safely as I followed the cue of another person a few yards away from me. Already the luggage was dragging but I kept going, determined to find the class and certainly not look like an outsider, although, I was carrying a bag I could have fit all my six foot self in, a backpack bulging like a tortoise shell, and a bag of camera equipment. I was absolutely a tourist. I had unruly long hair nearly to my shoulders held back with a blue bandana. I was wearing a thrift store t-shirt and long, thrift store pants, with black and white no-brand sneakers. Believe me when I say, Italians, for the most part, but especially in Florence, do not wear thrift store, no name clothes and, if their hair is long, it is certainly not held back with a bandana. It will be long, shining clean brilliance, brushed – not a nappy, dirty mess. Italians in the city are keen on trends and high-expense clothes. So no, I wasn’t quite fitting in, but I knew Italian, which boded well for me – very well.
I continued walking in the direction of Via de Rustici but was truly lost. I kept looking at my map but never saw street signs until I realized they were chiseled into the brick of tall buildings at intersections. This discovery helped tremendously, although it still took me forever to find where I was going. I went this way and that, through traffic, through crowds, along the Arno which was still foreign to me. I found a school, but it was not the one I was supposed to find. I asked the lady behind the desk where Via de Rustici was. It was just as foreign to her, but she asked the next lady who came in and she pointed me back the direction I’d come from and told me quick directions. I told them thanks and walked out to find this impossible destination.
At this point I had well-defined grooves in my shoulders, aching and throbbing. My legs were wobbly, ready to collapse. But alas! Via de Rustici! I found the number for my classroom and buzzed outside the gate. No answer. I buzzed again. Still no answer. I saw there was an office in the adjoined building and rang that buzzer. They answered in Italian. Now, on the spot, I had to remember all my lessons, decipher what they were saying, explain my situation, and be let in, with no hand gestures to articulate my flabby words. But I was let in. I went upstairs, set my bags down, and the guy working the desk tried to get in contact with the office next door but had the same difficulty. He told me I could leave my things with him and get them the next day, which I did with overwhelming gratitude. I left the enormous duffle bag and my camera and took my backpack so I could have a change of clothes with me, toothbrush, toothpaste, et cetera.
I left the building and went on my weary way to explore Florence. My first day there by myself, I finally had so much less on my shoulders, I put a bit of a swagger in my steps. I tried to fit in. I refused to look twice at a street sign and never opened my map. I wandered aimlessly and, for some reason, proud. I soaked in the Italian jabbering all around: the British English from men in shorts and Birkenstocks with pulled high crew socks; English from ostentatious groups of people who didn’t care; Germans who spoke in the most powerful yet collected and soft voices among themselves. I looked in awe at the things that became so familiar to me in the time I spent there: The Duomo, Piazza de Republica, street vendors who scurried to gather their things as two policemen sauntered behind them and, behind the policemen who never looked over their shoulders, street vendors setting down their items to sell. I always knew that I would see two cops moseying when I saw twenty or so hurrying men with bundled blankets thrown over their shoulders like a sack of gifts. And the gypsies, who looked in as much despair as the Holy Mother, who were pregnant with pillows stuffed under their dresses, with painful eyes and scraggly braided pony-tails, jingled their cups for change until they saw the police coming. Then they would simply turn their backs to them, cease the jingling, and meander about their selected spot until the police were gone. All this I saw with wondering eyes my first day but it became very familiar routine in my following weeks. The Duomo became a meeting spot, the gypsies became a nuisance, the street vendors became stories of how my friends got screwed out of fifteen Euros.
I went back to Via de Rustici to see if the class had arrived. It hadn’t, so I decided to find a place to stay. I finally found a hotel, went to my room, unloaded, and laid down all night long. I tried to stay awake to keep a normal sleep schedule, but couldn’t and I was asleep by 8:30. I leisured around the next morning: went to the toilet, drew a bath, sat for twenty or thirty minutes. I was terribly sore from all the walking the day before. I clothed and threw the sheets across the bed, then headed downstairs to my complimentary breakfast. I ate the freshest fruit and pastries and drank the freshest juices I’d ever had. Italians take great pride in serving something that keeps you. Doesn’t keep you coming back or wanting more, but lets you enjoy your time eating. There’s no rush. And I savored it. I ate fresh meats and drank smooth coffee. I gorged myself on as much as I could fit, partly because I was so hungry having eaten nothing the night before, but mostly because it was too good to quit eating, and have to pay for food.
I reluctantly submitted to my overstuffed belly and went to my room to get ready for the day. I gathered my things, went down the elevator to check out, and went on to find my class.
I took my time getting there, stopped here and there to look into shops in town and enjoy the sunny, cool of an early-Italian-summer.
Expecting class to start leisurely as I had the first day, I lazily strolled to the gate I’d seen the day before and someone let me in this time.
Quick, “Oh, you must be Brian. I was just sending you an email to see where you were. Great! Class is just starting,” and she rushed me into a room full of my friends going over the list of what to do, what not to do, how to stay safe, and I interrupted. In fact, I walked through the door and the class roared in unison, “Brian!” and clapped for my arrival – flattering. And my professor in the far corner dropped her face into her hands and shook her head in a kind of “You had me worried sick, but of course you got lost.” Thus my entrance made. I found my seat next to my professor still shaking her head and told her, “Sorry I’m late.” We left for a quick tour of Florence shortly and I got a tour-guide story for places I’d first met the night before. They were confusing labyrinths yesterday, now history. Later they were landmarks.
* * *
I met Robby three weeks before we left for Italy. In that time between introductions and flight across the Atlantic we realized we shared two classes, Italian and Philosophy of Social and Behavioral Sciences. (We were both desperately behind in Tolstoy’s War and Peace for that class but agreed that the professor was brilliant.) We hung out together quite often and he agreed to live with my roommates and me in the upcoming semester. When he got back from Italy, Robby had two days to move from his old apartment into his new one. But Robby would have waited that long to start moving even if he’d been in town.
The simplest yet most vague word to describe Robby is that he is an artist. A classical musician with a knack for all instruments with strings, Robby plays guitar, bass, piano, and, his favorite, viola. His strengths are found more in writing music than speaking words, although his Italian was always better than my own. If you ask Robby a question or suggest plans, his eyes will widen, the corners of his mouth will come to center creating a blank stare, he’ll tilt his head slightly to the right, turn his eyes upward as if to rummage his mess of thoughts and plans and potential plans and ideas and recent concerns and music theory and Beethoven and physics, one corner of his mouth will raise, his eyes will return to yours, the smile will grow ever better and more pleased with his decision, and he’ll say to you, “Yeah. Yeah, ok. Cool,” and you’ll have a new roommate. That’s how simply his “big,” “Life decisions” are made. If you want to go to the bar, he’ll probably meet you later because he was about to practice “this song” or watch “this movie.” And by “later,” Robby probably means he’ll be ready to hang out when the bars are closing. He stays awake through the night and sleeps when he gets around to it, busy most often with creating something. He made blinds out of branches, painted a vortex into the wall of his house, composes music, and in Italy, he kept a brilliant journal of his adventures.
* * *
To find a vacant hotel room took me seven hours. I arrived on the train from Aeropuerto Romano into Florence with my backpack and oversized duffel bag somehow bulging with excess. I certainly didn’t know how to pack light back then. I looked ridiculous. My torso leaned heavy right in a sort of crippled strut as I tried to keep balance and move the mass with each step. The strap went diagonal across my chest and diagonal the other way went the strap of my camera bag. So I was there, in hustling, bustling Florence; foreign, lost, alone, excruciatingly over-packed, and I had to discover where my class was.
Outside the terminal, I saw a policeman and asked, “Dove Via de Rustici?” He didn’t recognize the name of the street so looked at the map I had. He ran his finger over the glossy paper that showed landmarks and the paths that led to them. Finally, the officer found it and told me a bunch of directions in rapid Italian. I watched his hand and listened for key words, street names and left or right, unable to understand all the words between. I said “Grazie mille” and started my trek clear across to the other side of Florence, luggage hanging on me every place luggage could.
I walked around the corner out of the train station to the road which was a big circle with four inlets and a statue standing proud in the middle. The traffic ran similar to how it does in the States, that is, look left then right then left again when crossing the street, but Italian drivers are a bit more sporadic. They will turn from any lane. They will straddle the lines. Mopeds will trickle through traffic to the front of the queue. And pedestrians have a rule of “cross at your own risk,” even when there is a crosswalk. I made my first crossing safely as I followed the cue of another person a few yards away from me. Already the luggage was dragging but I kept going, determined to find the class and certainly not look like an outsider, although, I was carrying a bag I could have fit all my six foot self in, a backpack bulging like a tortoise shell, and a bag of camera equipment. I was absolutely a tourist. I had unruly long hair nearly to my shoulders held back with a blue bandana. I was wearing a thrift store t-shirt and long, thrift store pants, with black and white no-brand sneakers. Believe me when I say, Italians, for the most part, but especially in Florence, do not wear thrift store, no name clothes and, if their hair is long, it is certainly not held back with a bandana. It will be long, shining clean brilliance, brushed – not a nappy, dirty mess. Italians in the city are keen on trends and high-expense clothes. So no, I wasn’t quite fitting in, but I knew Italian, which boded well for me – very well.
I continued walking in the direction of Via de Rustici but was truly lost. I kept looking at my map but never saw street signs until I realized they were chiseled into the brick of tall buildings at intersections. This discovery helped tremendously, although it still took me forever to find where I was going. I went this way and that, through traffic, through crowds, along the Arno which was still foreign to me. I found a school, but it was not the one I was supposed to find. I asked the lady behind the desk where Via de Rustici was. It was just as foreign to her, but she asked the next lady who came in and she pointed me back the direction I’d come from and told me quick directions. I told them thanks and walked out to find this impossible destination.
At this point I had well-defined grooves in my shoulders, aching and throbbing. My legs were wobbly, ready to collapse. But alas! Via de Rustici! I found the number for my classroom and buzzed outside the gate. No answer. I buzzed again. Still no answer. I saw there was an office in the adjoined building and rang that buzzer. They answered in Italian. Now, on the spot, I had to remember all my lessons, decipher what they were saying, explain my situation, and be let in, with no hand gestures to articulate my flabby words. But I was let in. I went upstairs, set my bags down, and the guy working the desk tried to get in contact with the office next door but had the same difficulty. He told me I could leave my things with him and get them the next day, which I did with overwhelming gratitude. I left the enormous duffle bag and my camera and took my backpack so I could have a change of clothes with me, toothbrush, toothpaste, et cetera.
I left the building and went on my weary way to explore Florence. My first day there by myself, I finally had so much less on my shoulders, I put a bit of a swagger in my steps. I tried to fit in. I refused to look twice at a street sign and never opened my map. I wandered aimlessly and, for some reason, proud. I soaked in the Italian jabbering all around: the British English from men in shorts and Birkenstocks with pulled high crew socks; English from ostentatious groups of people who didn’t care; Germans who spoke in the most powerful yet collected and soft voices among themselves. I looked in awe at the things that became so familiar to me in the time I spent there: The Duomo, Piazza de Republica, street vendors who scurried to gather their things as two policemen sauntered behind them and, behind the policemen who never looked over their shoulders, street vendors setting down their items to sell. I always knew that I would see two cops moseying when I saw twenty or so hurrying men with bundled blankets thrown over their shoulders like a sack of gifts. And the gypsies, who looked in as much despair as the Holy Mother, who were pregnant with pillows stuffed under their dresses, with painful eyes and scraggly braided pony-tails, jingled their cups for change until they saw the police coming. Then they would simply turn their backs to them, cease the jingling, and meander about their selected spot until the police were gone. All this I saw with wondering eyes my first day but it became very familiar routine in my following weeks. The Duomo became a meeting spot, the gypsies became a nuisance, the street vendors became stories of how my friends got screwed out of fifteen Euros.
I went back to Via de Rustici to see if the class had arrived. It hadn’t, so I decided to find a place to stay. I finally found a hotel, went to my room, unloaded, and laid down all night long. I tried to stay awake to keep a normal sleep schedule, but couldn’t and I was asleep by 8:30. I leisured around the next morning: went to the toilet, drew a bath, sat for twenty or thirty minutes. I was terribly sore from all the walking the day before. I clothed and threw the sheets across the bed, then headed downstairs to my complimentary breakfast. I ate the freshest fruit and pastries and drank the freshest juices I’d ever had. Italians take great pride in serving something that keeps you. Doesn’t keep you coming back or wanting more, but lets you enjoy your time eating. There’s no rush. And I savored it. I ate fresh meats and drank smooth coffee. I gorged myself on as much as I could fit, partly because I was so hungry having eaten nothing the night before, but mostly because it was too good to quit eating, and have to pay for food.
I reluctantly submitted to my overstuffed belly and went to my room to get ready for the day. I gathered my things, went down the elevator to check out, and went on to find my class.
I took my time getting there, stopped here and there to look into shops in town and enjoy the sunny, cool of an early-Italian-summer.
Expecting class to start leisurely as I had the first day, I lazily strolled to the gate I’d seen the day before and someone let me in this time.
Quick, “Oh, you must be Brian. I was just sending you an email to see where you were. Great! Class is just starting,” and she rushed me into a room full of my friends going over the list of what to do, what not to do, how to stay safe, and I interrupted. In fact, I walked through the door and the class roared in unison, “Brian!” and clapped for my arrival – flattering. And my professor in the far corner dropped her face into her hands and shook her head in a kind of “You had me worried sick, but of course you got lost.” Thus my entrance made. I found my seat next to my professor still shaking her head and told her, “Sorry I’m late.” We left for a quick tour of Florence shortly and I got a tour-guide story for places I’d first met the night before. They were confusing labyrinths yesterday, now history. Later they were landmarks.
* * *
I met Robby three weeks before we left for Italy. In that time between introductions and flight across the Atlantic we realized we shared two classes, Italian and Philosophy of Social and Behavioral Sciences. (We were both desperately behind in Tolstoy’s War and Peace for that class but agreed that the professor was brilliant.) We hung out together quite often and he agreed to live with my roommates and me in the upcoming semester. When he got back from Italy, Robby had two days to move from his old apartment into his new one. But Robby would have waited that long to start moving even if he’d been in town.
The simplest yet most vague word to describe Robby is that he is an artist. A classical musician with a knack for all instruments with strings, Robby plays guitar, bass, piano, and, his favorite, viola. His strengths are found more in writing music than speaking words, although his Italian was always better than my own. If you ask Robby a question or suggest plans, his eyes will widen, the corners of his mouth will come to center creating a blank stare, he’ll tilt his head slightly to the right, turn his eyes upward as if to rummage his mess of thoughts and plans and potential plans and ideas and recent concerns and music theory and Beethoven and physics, one corner of his mouth will raise, his eyes will return to yours, the smile will grow ever better and more pleased with his decision, and he’ll say to you, “Yeah. Yeah, ok. Cool,” and you’ll have a new roommate. That’s how simply his “big,” “Life decisions” are made. If you want to go to the bar, he’ll probably meet you later because he was about to practice “this song” or watch “this movie.” And by “later,” Robby probably means he’ll be ready to hang out when the bars are closing. He stays awake through the night and sleeps when he gets around to it, busy most often with creating something. He made blinds out of branches, painted a vortex into the wall of his house, composes music, and in Italy, he kept a brilliant journal of his adventures.
* * *
Sunday, January 18, 2009
This Life Needs Something
There is passion. Follow it.
But passion cannot be confined to one or any other thing.
When I think of love, I can't constrain it to any single asset of life.
Romance even holds to more than sex.
Sex can happen between any person for any number of reasons,
but romance is red wine - candle light - brooding over a page alone.
Love is helpless, selfless, selfish desire. I desire passion.
Passion consumes.
Passion is hopeless, but never hopelessness. It's desperate, but not grasping.
It's a closed rose - any color.
But passion cannot be confined to one or any other thing.
When I think of love, I can't constrain it to any single asset of life.
Romance even holds to more than sex.
Sex can happen between any person for any number of reasons,
but romance is red wine - candle light - brooding over a page alone.
Love is helpless, selfless, selfish desire. I desire passion.
Passion consumes.
Passion is hopeless, but never hopelessness. It's desperate, but not grasping.
It's a closed rose - any color.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
We Could Chalk This Up to a Rant
Sharon came into work, as she always did, with the headlines of the day. It was Black Friday. Thanksgiving was past, Christmas ahead; leftovers passed to the pigs. The single soul had shivered in the cold New York late autumn for her first place. She became three, and a line formed. The line became a mob. The mob pushed against the glass doors that were meant to hold them all back. The Greeter on the other side tried to explain, but they didn’t care. They burst through the doors as if sharks after a pint of fleshy blood. Stampeding like buffalo, the mob shoved over and trampled the Greeter, and nobody stopped until they had all passed and he was found, dead. “I was here first!” He wanted the best first sales! Everyone was on such a budget, afterall. And from the Grace-tables of Thanks-giving to the death of an employee, This is disgusting.
A driver of an SUV hit a pedestrian and drove off. Passers-by investigated the motionless body and walked off. A person on a scooter passed, turned around, looked closer at the person lying face down in the middle of the road, turned around again, and drove off.
A person waited in the clinic for assistance; she’d been there for nine hours. She began seizing. The two sitting across the room sat and stared. The nurse who walked in saw the crippled body and left. The doctor she returned with saw the breathless body and turned away.
Ronald McDonald smiles big. He’s hugging an old woman who smiles with him. There’s a smack of red make-up from Ronald’s kiss on her cheek. He wears his distinct yellow and red striped jump-suit.
Walmart’s Smile shines to bring in shoppers who are ignorant to what they themselves cause.
The death of an employee by a disgustingly ravenous appetite for cheap goods is an incredible point about who we are as a nation that boasts on “Pride.” (As long as the colors are right, afterall.) Yet, it’s brushed aside, off the news desk, to make room for
America’s First Black President!
“The audacity to dream of something better.”
As of right now, it’s a dream story. We’re bitter among ourselves and it seems a man will come along to mend the wounds we’ve scratched upon each other. All that could help him “help” us would be strings, collars. And all his predecessors seem to have enjoyed that.
You keep thinking things can be changed by a new face; the audacity to believe that a person in a place of power will in fact help the people he leads. His motives may even be good, but we need to help ourselves. Stop thrashing about each other as if you’re the only one in a particular situation. Take notice of what you have in common with your neighbor.
Where is our pride found? Flags shot up immediately Sept. 11. Flags stood proud when we invaded Afghanistan. They maintained at the beginning of the war in Iraq. They are erected for each day this country has to remember Veterans. When was a flag raised to celebrate well-funded education, low unemployment rate, negotiations? This is a foolish country proud of bloodshed that tramples its own people to consume consume consume. Afterall, consuming is what drives this nation. Pride in buying things, pride in battling other people. This is disgusting.
Where’s pride in what we as a people can do? Pride is found in the fact we now have a black president. “We’re progressive!” No, we still submit ourselves to the old ideas of government.
It’s patriotic to consume. It’s patriotic to fly your flag. It’s patriotic to vote. It’s patriotic to say the pledge. It’s patriotic to thank a veteran. It’s patriotic to support the president. It’s patriotic to protest, even. Yet, “patriots” are not “compatriots.” No one’s in this together. They fought at the doors with each other before they murdered an employee, then fought to the first things on their lists, then complained when no one was allowed to leave because the employee laid dead on the floor. They complained! PRIDE! “And I’m proud to be an American… I’ll gladly stand up, next to you,” unless you’re in my way. What a foolish, selfish, immature, naïve people – controlled by media that’s influenced by numbers rather than truth; hypnotized by the 2 and 4 year processes or otherwise disenfranchised, but equally a part; bound to everything by money; unable or unwilling to draw themselves out of what they agree is chaotic. And they say, “At least we’re free.” From what, I ask. We’re victims to the tyranny of the dollar, the dictatorship of jobs; You pledge to a finite nation, pray to a fictional god because you don’t find truth on your own. You watch the green screens of war. You follow the words in the book along the lines the preacher says. Simply, you don’t ask questions yet you never hesitate to tell me, “Get to reality.” You willingly submit yourself to all this nonsense. Yes, this is all nonsense. An untruthful governing body that people continue to take solace in, is nonsense. A monetary system that thrives on the lavishness of some and scavenging by others is nonsense. A God that continues to ask for money each week and spends it on bigger paychecks for the parish is nonsense. But I’m crazy, don’t listen to me.
I don’t have faith in this government. It’s citizens could do more for themselves if they’d lift their dumb eyes. Instead, like clockwork, they hold their daze to the footprints in front of them and say, “This is how it’s been done for so long.” I don’t need religion to find God. “But this is truth.” No, that’s truth for you. And I won’t tell you you’re wrong, but I’ll make a case why I’m right. Why am I right in this case? Because God is not trivial. The power-mad government, the divisive religions, the imaginary dollar is all trivial. I will not take part in those things; God is in none of that. So I’ll continue on my own way, on the outskirts of your “Real World.”
A driver of an SUV hit a pedestrian and drove off. Passers-by investigated the motionless body and walked off. A person on a scooter passed, turned around, looked closer at the person lying face down in the middle of the road, turned around again, and drove off.
A person waited in the clinic for assistance; she’d been there for nine hours. She began seizing. The two sitting across the room sat and stared. The nurse who walked in saw the crippled body and left. The doctor she returned with saw the breathless body and turned away.
Ronald McDonald smiles big. He’s hugging an old woman who smiles with him. There’s a smack of red make-up from Ronald’s kiss on her cheek. He wears his distinct yellow and red striped jump-suit.
Walmart’s Smile shines to bring in shoppers who are ignorant to what they themselves cause.
The death of an employee by a disgustingly ravenous appetite for cheap goods is an incredible point about who we are as a nation that boasts on “Pride.” (As long as the colors are right, afterall.) Yet, it’s brushed aside, off the news desk, to make room for
America’s First Black President!
“The audacity to dream of something better.”
As of right now, it’s a dream story. We’re bitter among ourselves and it seems a man will come along to mend the wounds we’ve scratched upon each other. All that could help him “help” us would be strings, collars. And all his predecessors seem to have enjoyed that.
You keep thinking things can be changed by a new face; the audacity to believe that a person in a place of power will in fact help the people he leads. His motives may even be good, but we need to help ourselves. Stop thrashing about each other as if you’re the only one in a particular situation. Take notice of what you have in common with your neighbor.
Where is our pride found? Flags shot up immediately Sept. 11. Flags stood proud when we invaded Afghanistan. They maintained at the beginning of the war in Iraq. They are erected for each day this country has to remember Veterans. When was a flag raised to celebrate well-funded education, low unemployment rate, negotiations? This is a foolish country proud of bloodshed that tramples its own people to consume consume consume. Afterall, consuming is what drives this nation. Pride in buying things, pride in battling other people. This is disgusting.
Where’s pride in what we as a people can do? Pride is found in the fact we now have a black president. “We’re progressive!” No, we still submit ourselves to the old ideas of government.
It’s patriotic to consume. It’s patriotic to fly your flag. It’s patriotic to vote. It’s patriotic to say the pledge. It’s patriotic to thank a veteran. It’s patriotic to support the president. It’s patriotic to protest, even. Yet, “patriots” are not “compatriots.” No one’s in this together. They fought at the doors with each other before they murdered an employee, then fought to the first things on their lists, then complained when no one was allowed to leave because the employee laid dead on the floor. They complained! PRIDE! “And I’m proud to be an American… I’ll gladly stand up, next to you,” unless you’re in my way. What a foolish, selfish, immature, naïve people – controlled by media that’s influenced by numbers rather than truth; hypnotized by the 2 and 4 year processes or otherwise disenfranchised, but equally a part; bound to everything by money; unable or unwilling to draw themselves out of what they agree is chaotic. And they say, “At least we’re free.” From what, I ask. We’re victims to the tyranny of the dollar, the dictatorship of jobs; You pledge to a finite nation, pray to a fictional god because you don’t find truth on your own. You watch the green screens of war. You follow the words in the book along the lines the preacher says. Simply, you don’t ask questions yet you never hesitate to tell me, “Get to reality.” You willingly submit yourself to all this nonsense. Yes, this is all nonsense. An untruthful governing body that people continue to take solace in, is nonsense. A monetary system that thrives on the lavishness of some and scavenging by others is nonsense. A God that continues to ask for money each week and spends it on bigger paychecks for the parish is nonsense. But I’m crazy, don’t listen to me.
I don’t have faith in this government. It’s citizens could do more for themselves if they’d lift their dumb eyes. Instead, like clockwork, they hold their daze to the footprints in front of them and say, “This is how it’s been done for so long.” I don’t need religion to find God. “But this is truth.” No, that’s truth for you. And I won’t tell you you’re wrong, but I’ll make a case why I’m right. Why am I right in this case? Because God is not trivial. The power-mad government, the divisive religions, the imaginary dollar is all trivial. I will not take part in those things; God is in none of that. So I’ll continue on my own way, on the outskirts of your “Real World.”
Friday, January 9, 2009
How is This Redundancy all so Constantly New?
Stove tops atop buildings of red brick, brown brick, yellow brick; brick-oven pizzarias; marble slab ice cream parlors; taxis, taxis, taxis; people: singles, groups, children, dogs, strollers; pigeons, so many pigeons; grey skies, chilled breeze; rest stop for pedestrians, Father Demo park across from Father Demo Hall, a fountain with foliage instead of constantly trickling water - serene. I'm at Bleeker St. Fire escapes, fire escapes; delis, trattorias, wine shops; park bench park bench park bench in groups of three, four, five; businessmen on cellphones; students on cellphones; after-shool snacks in shivering hands. White-light pedestrian at crosswalk - blinking orange palm holds foot traffic to the curb until those standing realize no passing cars and go.
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