Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Bright bright day
So warm and sunny here, just as he imagines summer to be. Spend an hour by the pool, go for a jog, watch his hair lighten neath the summer sun. He knows the others he left behind sit at their windows watching the rain ruin their summer days, but he cannot feel bad because the summer sun is just too nice. He stretches out on the grass, watches Izzy chase a squirrel, wonders what to eat when the time comes to eat. Or maybe he will wait to eat until the sun goes down. Though that could be a while with so much sun to go around. Sorry, rainy friends, he thinks, I took my share of sun and yours, too. And yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours...
Friday, June 19, 2009
Crumbly bits away
He stood still on a street that ran through the center of the town he once called home. His eye had caught something glimmer off of a storefront window, begging him to pause. He obliged and saw only his own reflection. He found very little to report at the sight of himself. A shave should come soon. And a jog. New pants someday, though no time soon. He looked whole. One being, one body, one whole person standing and staring at himself in the window of an old time photo shop. His head sat on his shoulders which led right down the torso and legs. He could hardly believe it all standing right there before him, under him, on him. Just him.
He took a last glance and moved on. As he walked the image of his whole dissipated. He could hardly remember how his neck curved out and met back up to some sort of bone and something else went down into a thing and then who knows what came after that. And his head could have been everywhere and nowhere for all he knew. It took a hefty anchor to plant that head down to a single spot. Arms, heart, legs: they all drifted their own ways. Left toe could well be gone, but he opted not to check. Every part of him went their own way.
He stopped halfway down the block and looked at the window of a shop filled with junk disguised as antiques. There again, he stood in the reflection. All of him. He held the sight of himself for a minute just to make sure it was no ruse of supernatural window-walkers. He moved on. And away it all went again.
Two blocks later and away from the stores, he found a bench just off of an expanse of grass. He sat and gazed off past the buildings, people, cars, and other assorted clutter. He wondered what glue had held him together long enough to see what he had seen in those windows. He realized he had travelled a long way to come back here. He had left bits along the way. To the south he had left knees, a hunchback, and some pride. To the east some fingers, toes, and tongue. From where he sat he remembered leaving, perhaps very near this bench he had left a shoulder and a thigh.
All corners had been left some heart. They could all keep their parts of heart he had left, he thought. Much as it pained him not to have that whole, he knew that leaving the pieces would always bring him back to the south, to the east, to the west. He stood up again and started away from the bench.
As he walked on, he felt it almost time to leave this place again. It had been home but he had other former homes and new one on the way. He had some little parts left to leave with others as he went, though he wondered how much was really left to leave. Very soon he could give all and fade away. He just had to wait and see. What a day that would be. Staring into the window of a candy shop, taffy being pulled as there he stood, just fading away.
He took a last glance and moved on. As he walked the image of his whole dissipated. He could hardly remember how his neck curved out and met back up to some sort of bone and something else went down into a thing and then who knows what came after that. And his head could have been everywhere and nowhere for all he knew. It took a hefty anchor to plant that head down to a single spot. Arms, heart, legs: they all drifted their own ways. Left toe could well be gone, but he opted not to check. Every part of him went their own way.
He stopped halfway down the block and looked at the window of a shop filled with junk disguised as antiques. There again, he stood in the reflection. All of him. He held the sight of himself for a minute just to make sure it was no ruse of supernatural window-walkers. He moved on. And away it all went again.
Two blocks later and away from the stores, he found a bench just off of an expanse of grass. He sat and gazed off past the buildings, people, cars, and other assorted clutter. He wondered what glue had held him together long enough to see what he had seen in those windows. He realized he had travelled a long way to come back here. He had left bits along the way. To the south he had left knees, a hunchback, and some pride. To the east some fingers, toes, and tongue. From where he sat he remembered leaving, perhaps very near this bench he had left a shoulder and a thigh.
All corners had been left some heart. They could all keep their parts of heart he had left, he thought. Much as it pained him not to have that whole, he knew that leaving the pieces would always bring him back to the south, to the east, to the west. He stood up again and started away from the bench.
As he walked on, he felt it almost time to leave this place again. It had been home but he had other former homes and new one on the way. He had some little parts left to leave with others as he went, though he wondered how much was really left to leave. Very soon he could give all and fade away. He just had to wait and see. What a day that would be. Staring into the window of a candy shop, taffy being pulled as there he stood, just fading away.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Guideposts and Warnings
A person who admires someone's "dominant submission" has no idea what they are saying and should be avoided at all costs.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
River Deposit
She packed up everything she owned and dumped it into the river thinking that it would free her from the onus of ownership. A world for her of zero belongings and ultimate freedom. Instead she just felt homeless and exhausted. Curious.
Last Few Steps
He ran through the night hoping that peace would come with the new amber light across the horizon. His aching feet, weary back, and tangled mind drove him forward despite their fatigues and sufferings. When the end of this sprint comes, he thought, then rest with it. He labored on with no knowledge of time or distance. His only constant was the vague idea that when it was time to stop he would know. The sun would tell him.
He passed a dead squirrel on the roadside and thought for a moment of stopping. The creature should have a proper place to rest even after death, he thought. His body screamed an incoherent mess at him and he continued on. Any stop would be the only stop. To stop for this dead animal would signal his end. Soon the squirrel was miles behind him to be buried by some other straggler with more time and less pain.
The vultures had gathered above him several days prior, though it may have been a month... he had lost count in the dark, truth be told. They knew what he had steeled himself against in blunt denial: soon he would fall to rise no more. He ached to curse the birds, but his mouth had gone dry long ago. No words could escape. No vibrations through the throat. His cords may have fused together in all this time. Some days he welcomed the scavenging bastards as the only constant in his life. Others he dreamed of leaping on their backs, tearing their feathers, and biting from the flesh of their necks. Always, he continued on in spite of them.
A morning came, the sun peeked through, and he thought for sure that the time had come. He would stop. He would stand in place ready to collapse, look to his left and right, and see places of rest waiting for him on either side waiting only for him. The sun continued to rise sending first pastels across the juncture of sky and land, then rich vivid oranges, and soon the whole sky an endless blue. He longed to stop. His body convulsed. His head throbbed. He could not stop. No place of rest appeared either. Until he saw such a place he would find no rest and his body did not know how to rest on its own. So he continued on.
And he ran. And the vultures circled on. And his mangled mind screamed incoherently through the blue.
He passed a dead squirrel on the roadside and thought for a moment of stopping. The creature should have a proper place to rest even after death, he thought. His body screamed an incoherent mess at him and he continued on. Any stop would be the only stop. To stop for this dead animal would signal his end. Soon the squirrel was miles behind him to be buried by some other straggler with more time and less pain.
The vultures had gathered above him several days prior, though it may have been a month... he had lost count in the dark, truth be told. They knew what he had steeled himself against in blunt denial: soon he would fall to rise no more. He ached to curse the birds, but his mouth had gone dry long ago. No words could escape. No vibrations through the throat. His cords may have fused together in all this time. Some days he welcomed the scavenging bastards as the only constant in his life. Others he dreamed of leaping on their backs, tearing their feathers, and biting from the flesh of their necks. Always, he continued on in spite of them.
A morning came, the sun peeked through, and he thought for sure that the time had come. He would stop. He would stand in place ready to collapse, look to his left and right, and see places of rest waiting for him on either side waiting only for him. The sun continued to rise sending first pastels across the juncture of sky and land, then rich vivid oranges, and soon the whole sky an endless blue. He longed to stop. His body convulsed. His head throbbed. He could not stop. No place of rest appeared either. Until he saw such a place he would find no rest and his body did not know how to rest on its own. So he continued on.
And he ran. And the vultures circled on. And his mangled mind screamed incoherently through the blue.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
One Last Night in 5F
Without curtains on the windows, the world becomes a whole lot nearer. The girls we spy on across the alley and down one floor see us staring plainly, rather than just a flitting of curtain as we dash away. A teenaged boy as big as a grown man sits on the fire escape, talks on the phone, and picks his toes: must be a lady on the other end of the line. The flicker of light across and up one says that someone is watching television. A luxury, we think, as we sold our television two days ago. Now their window is our television set. They entertain us until we need to change the channel and surf our eyes left, right, down.
Earlier today, a bird ran into the window and flapped away in a shock. Surprise Mssr. Pigeon! We took down the curtains just to ruin your day. He probably missed the air conditioner where he used to perch, but that went four days ago. Now the open window is our air conditioner.
That shape one up and to the left... is that a person? Or a bulbous something? Just a house plant silhouetted through windows, bars, and fire escape.
No faces have appeared at the windows yet, thank heavens. We can think of little worse than a face appearing, especially five stories up.
When it comes time for bed, no alarm needs be set. The sun rises when it rises and so we with it. This is our last night here with the giant windows, the squeaky floorboards, the perpetually streaming toilet, and the neighbor girls at their table with supper and laptops. We hope they (across the way) do not watch us while we sleep. If they must, at least let our faces be pleasant.
Goodnight.
Earlier today, a bird ran into the window and flapped away in a shock. Surprise Mssr. Pigeon! We took down the curtains just to ruin your day. He probably missed the air conditioner where he used to perch, but that went four days ago. Now the open window is our air conditioner.
That shape one up and to the left... is that a person? Or a bulbous something? Just a house plant silhouetted through windows, bars, and fire escape.
No faces have appeared at the windows yet, thank heavens. We can think of little worse than a face appearing, especially five stories up.
When it comes time for bed, no alarm needs be set. The sun rises when it rises and so we with it. This is our last night here with the giant windows, the squeaky floorboards, the perpetually streaming toilet, and the neighbor girls at their table with supper and laptops. We hope they (across the way) do not watch us while we sleep. If they must, at least let our faces be pleasant.
Goodnight.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Been a while
The next time you see me the worry lines will be few, diminished by a string of long, restful nights. No more boxes half-packed waiting to be filled. The dishes gone with all of the furniture and excess shoes, and empty fridge to boot. The biggest day is only six away when the men come to load what is left onto the truck and stow it into a room -- our lives in sixty square feet. The next day and on a plane we go to the other side of the country. Family waits, and others. A new dog to meet. In among the clutter, a little glimpse comes through to the other side of the week. Then off into the summer and beyond.
Exhaustion could kill a man -- my dad says stress does, and too many women. This is not exhaustion, just fatigue and anxiety. Or anxiousness, rather, if it is indeed a word. It is long past time to go, but first there is waiting, an old friend. This waiting sinks in vicious hooks of nothingness as the rooms empty and the comfort disappears. The only cushion near is the bed, but spending the day there makes me feel ill. So then a long sit on the hard, wooden floor among the bags of freebies and boxes of keepers, my shoes, a power cord, and a lonely penny fallen from a basket of change. Let it be over and soon.
No more trips up and down the four flights of stairs. No more e-mails about pick-ups and discards and how tall things are exactly. No more blaring Reggaeton. No more spitting grandmas. No more Castro wandering the halls with a wafting trail of liquor. No more six-dollar peanut butter from Gristedes. No more honking gypsy cabs cruising for fares. No more hissing toilet. No more no mores.
We cannot move any more quickly than we are. Wait and wait and wait a little bit more. Try to sleep. Look ahead to the day when all is stowed and those few remaining needs are in a bag strapped to my back. The next time you see me I may need a nap, but the worry will go with it.
Exhaustion could kill a man -- my dad says stress does, and too many women. This is not exhaustion, just fatigue and anxiety. Or anxiousness, rather, if it is indeed a word. It is long past time to go, but first there is waiting, an old friend. This waiting sinks in vicious hooks of nothingness as the rooms empty and the comfort disappears. The only cushion near is the bed, but spending the day there makes me feel ill. So then a long sit on the hard, wooden floor among the bags of freebies and boxes of keepers, my shoes, a power cord, and a lonely penny fallen from a basket of change. Let it be over and soon.
No more trips up and down the four flights of stairs. No more e-mails about pick-ups and discards and how tall things are exactly. No more blaring Reggaeton. No more spitting grandmas. No more Castro wandering the halls with a wafting trail of liquor. No more six-dollar peanut butter from Gristedes. No more honking gypsy cabs cruising for fares. No more hissing toilet. No more no mores.
We cannot move any more quickly than we are. Wait and wait and wait a little bit more. Try to sleep. Look ahead to the day when all is stowed and those few remaining needs are in a bag strapped to my back. The next time you see me I may need a nap, but the worry will go with it.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Sitting on a Bench in a Room Brimming with Boxes Waiting for People to Come and Take it All Away While the Days Lumber On and Rain Falls in June :(
After the couch went so did the average level of comfort in his apartment. Trying to sit among the gaggle of boxes, empty shelves, and aged votive holders only made his back ache. So he stretched out on the hard wood floor thinking only of the shoes that had walked across it after walking across sidewalks soaked with dog urine. He sat up and shook off the urinary molecules, or rather attempted to shake them.
The computer chimed out as the e-mail slipped in: a response on the electronic finger stretcher. Perfect! Now he could make a swift five dollars on this electronic marvel that had cost him eighty-five only three months ago. He opened the e-mail and read: "Perfect! I've been looking for an electronic finger stretcher for months now! When can I pick it up?"
Any time today or tomorrow, he wrote, is there a time that works best for you? And send.
Another e-mail dinged its way in as somebody responded to the post about the high-density mixing bowl. "Du juu delivier diss?" the e-mailer inquired.
He had to think phonetically to communicate with this linguistic marvel. Maybe, he wrote, where are you located? And send.
The finger stretcher replied. "I can't come Monday."
Curious, he thought, Monday is four days from now. He read on. "Can you send more pictures of the finger stretcher? I don't know... will it fit on my fingers? You confused me now."
He took several more pictures of the finger stretcher from all angles and attached them to an e-mail. He wrote, the finger stretcher fits all finger sizes from gaunt to zaftig. And send.
A reply from the heavy bowl arrived. "E 256 and York. Cum 2mm.."
Um, he thought, um. This may work, he wrote, but I don't know what 2mm means. And send.
Finger stretcher seeker replied, "What year is it? Can you send me the specs on it and what you're giving me with it. Sorry to be a bother :) I am a college student. Maybe can you ship it to me or meet somewhere easier to get to? My fingers need stretching now. But I am confused because I am looking at another finger stretcher that looks cooler, but your price is better. I will still come to look. He he ;)"
Did this winking icon not even read the posting, he wondered as he retyped the technical specifications of the finger stretcher into the body of an e-mail. He wrote, shipping does not sound conducive to our situation as the finger stretcher is not very big. It was purchased six months ago, he continued, and if it's not cool enough, please tell me now so that I can offer it to someone else. And send.
Heavy bowl replied, "2mm.. Juu cm. Hau bigeg bul.."
This person may be trying to kill me, he thought.
Finger replied quickly, "Damn, that's old finger stretcher."
"I bought it six months ago!" he shouted at the innocent, by-standing computer monitor. He read on:
"Sorry to bother :0 ;) :P My finger stretched and not help. Ship it to my work and I will pick it up then. But I am confused if I want it. Mebbe just bring it to me. Ju delivier 2mm?"
Oh my, he thought, these two are the same person. He slowly reached for the keyboard.
Craig, he typed, is this Craig? And send.
He waited. No reply arrived, not that day or the next. He had unfurled the ouroboros and discerned between the mouth and head. He had exposed the madness by pinpointing the epicenter of the chaos. Craig did not want finger stretchers and heavy bowls. Rather, Craig started a list in order to drive the rest of the world into inanity and anarchy.
The computer chimed with the arrival of mail: someone inquiring about the gas-powered smoothie maker. "I like smoothies the most! How much gas does it take? ;()"
The computer chimed out as the e-mail slipped in: a response on the electronic finger stretcher. Perfect! Now he could make a swift five dollars on this electronic marvel that had cost him eighty-five only three months ago. He opened the e-mail and read: "Perfect! I've been looking for an electronic finger stretcher for months now! When can I pick it up?"
Any time today or tomorrow, he wrote, is there a time that works best for you? And send.
Another e-mail dinged its way in as somebody responded to the post about the high-density mixing bowl. "Du juu delivier diss?" the e-mailer inquired.
He had to think phonetically to communicate with this linguistic marvel. Maybe, he wrote, where are you located? And send.
The finger stretcher replied. "I can't come Monday."
Curious, he thought, Monday is four days from now. He read on. "Can you send more pictures of the finger stretcher? I don't know... will it fit on my fingers? You confused me now."
He took several more pictures of the finger stretcher from all angles and attached them to an e-mail. He wrote, the finger stretcher fits all finger sizes from gaunt to zaftig. And send.
A reply from the heavy bowl arrived. "E 256 and York. Cum 2mm.."
Um, he thought, um. This may work, he wrote, but I don't know what 2mm means. And send.
Finger stretcher seeker replied, "What year is it? Can you send me the specs on it and what you're giving me with it. Sorry to be a bother :) I am a college student. Maybe can you ship it to me or meet somewhere easier to get to? My fingers need stretching now. But I am confused because I am looking at another finger stretcher that looks cooler, but your price is better. I will still come to look. He he ;)"
Did this winking icon not even read the posting, he wondered as he retyped the technical specifications of the finger stretcher into the body of an e-mail. He wrote, shipping does not sound conducive to our situation as the finger stretcher is not very big. It was purchased six months ago, he continued, and if it's not cool enough, please tell me now so that I can offer it to someone else. And send.
Heavy bowl replied, "2mm.. Juu cm. Hau bigeg bul.."
This person may be trying to kill me, he thought.
Finger replied quickly, "Damn, that's old finger stretcher."
"I bought it six months ago!" he shouted at the innocent, by-standing computer monitor. He read on:
"Sorry to bother :0 ;) :P My finger stretched and not help. Ship it to my work and I will pick it up then. But I am confused if I want it. Mebbe just bring it to me. Ju delivier 2mm?"
Oh my, he thought, these two are the same person. He slowly reached for the keyboard.
Craig, he typed, is this Craig? And send.
He waited. No reply arrived, not that day or the next. He had unfurled the ouroboros and discerned between the mouth and head. He had exposed the madness by pinpointing the epicenter of the chaos. Craig did not want finger stretchers and heavy bowls. Rather, Craig started a list in order to drive the rest of the world into inanity and anarchy.
The computer chimed with the arrival of mail: someone inquiring about the gas-powered smoothie maker. "I like smoothies the most! How much gas does it take? ;()"
Monday, June 1, 2009
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