A Small Terrarium
She had a ruddy complexion and a grocery cart full of spinach. Other products in her cart were prominently emblazoned with the word, organic. Her clothing was brightly colored and possibly hand woven in the Himalayas. These things I noticed with averted glances. Earlier, in the frozen food section, I had not felt this level of self consciousness while inspecting the carts of my fellow frozen food shoppers. I had made no effort then to cover my frozen pizzas and pot pies and meatloaf with mashed potato dinners and the six pack of frosted cupcakes with the little bit of healthy looking produce in my cart--the bananas, the oranges, the brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes. But now the contents of my cart seemed a travesty compared to this woman's in the checkout to my right.
I've already eaten three of the cupcakes and I sincerely doubt the other three will make it very far into the day. I would only say they were disgusting if I were some kind of cupcake snob but I can at the very least admit they are not that tasty. The good new is, the plastic container they came in will last a lifetime, and would make a nifty see through jewelry box or perhaps a small terrarium.
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A Voice From There
Yeah-uh, I sound a little funny this morning judging by the first words out of my mouth, which were--don't you go licking your butt and then come biting my arm. I'm not really talking about the subject matter. The previous statement pretty much qualifies as high discourse with me and the cat out here in this Virginia countryside. No, I have got me a minor cold, the trash can full of tissue and the red nose to prove it, moving down into my chest it is and I sound alien. I might not speak out loud again today and tomorrow I expect to be good as new and moving about under the cool fall sunshine performing tasks of arguable importance. The cat has moved over to that chair by the window and is staring very intently at one of my paisley shirts hanging from it. She's growing up fast and is now as big as a baby possum.
Traffic yesterday was easy out of NY which is a good thing because I was feeling puny and don't think I needed much challenge. I've got one of those EZ Passes now, attached to my cracked windshield, between the rear view mirror and the 3 month out of date inspection sticker and I just cruise right on through a toll booth without a care in the world. There were a lot of troopers on the road but I worry not so much about that by keeping to reasonable speeds and exuding by way of erect posture and hands at two and ten, a wholesome goodness.
After a few trips with nary a problem the cat has taken to minor car sickness attacks and while driving down Delancey I tried to stay focused on the road instead of her sitting up on top of the passenger seat back. Because she had a two inch long bubbly spit booger hanging from her chin. And then she would act like she had a bug in her ear and it would twitch and then her whole head would whip around and I would flinch in fear of being hit by flying cat spit. Like I said, I was already feeling puny. Puny includes a very light fever, some eye itching, mild body aches, and a hint of nausea. I was hoping to avoid too much contact with the spit. I had a T-shirt in my lap and waited for her to settle down there and when she did I wiped that crap off of her and kept driving on down the road.
Interesting. There was a paragraph here but now it's gone. I went to bed early last night, possibly as early as eight, and had a full night's sleep. I woke up before dawn and looked out the window over my head and thought how strange it was that the moon was setting in the east. As it turned out it was only 10:30 so I turned on the laptop and watched online a few episodes of Twilight Zone and then a couple of episodes of Dexter, a series in its second year about a do-gooder serial killer. A little after 2 I tried sleeping some more and the next time I woke up there were blazing red horizontal stripes across the early morning sky.
I lied about not talking out loud anymore today. I just received a call from Bill Macy in NY inviting me over to watch the Green Bay v. Dallas game tonight. Possibly the best NFL game of the year and it's on some stupid exclusive NFL network, that as far as I know, only Bill Macy of NY subscribes to. If I leave right now I could be there for game time. Then I got another call and it was a New Orleans area code and I get a lot of wrong number calls from Louisiana, which I ignore, but this one I answered, just to hear a voice from there and it was I am judging a black dude and I swear to you, after I said hello, he said, Spit? Yesterday on the Jersey Turnpike I got a call from someone sounding vaguely like Bernadette and just as I was starting to get familiar the woman said she was looking for James Alcindor. But I am not him and I told her so. And all the wrong numbers are sorry for disturbing me.
Yeah-uh, I sound a little funny this morning judging by the first words out of my mouth, which were--don't you go licking your butt and then come biting my arm. I'm not really talking about the subject matter. The previous statement pretty much qualifies as high discourse with me and the cat out here in this Virginia countryside. No, I have got me a minor cold, the trash can full of tissue and the red nose to prove it, moving down into my chest it is and I sound alien. I might not speak out loud again today and tomorrow I expect to be good as new and moving about under the cool fall sunshine performing tasks of arguable importance. The cat has moved over to that chair by the window and is staring very intently at one of my paisley shirts hanging from it. She's growing up fast and is now as big as a baby possum.
Traffic yesterday was easy out of NY which is a good thing because I was feeling puny and don't think I needed much challenge. I've got one of those EZ Passes now, attached to my cracked windshield, between the rear view mirror and the 3 month out of date inspection sticker and I just cruise right on through a toll booth without a care in the world. There were a lot of troopers on the road but I worry not so much about that by keeping to reasonable speeds and exuding by way of erect posture and hands at two and ten, a wholesome goodness.
After a few trips with nary a problem the cat has taken to minor car sickness attacks and while driving down Delancey I tried to stay focused on the road instead of her sitting up on top of the passenger seat back. Because she had a two inch long bubbly spit booger hanging from her chin. And then she would act like she had a bug in her ear and it would twitch and then her whole head would whip around and I would flinch in fear of being hit by flying cat spit. Like I said, I was already feeling puny. Puny includes a very light fever, some eye itching, mild body aches, and a hint of nausea. I was hoping to avoid too much contact with the spit. I had a T-shirt in my lap and waited for her to settle down there and when she did I wiped that crap off of her and kept driving on down the road.
Interesting. There was a paragraph here but now it's gone. I went to bed early last night, possibly as early as eight, and had a full night's sleep. I woke up before dawn and looked out the window over my head and thought how strange it was that the moon was setting in the east. As it turned out it was only 10:30 so I turned on the laptop and watched online a few episodes of Twilight Zone and then a couple of episodes of Dexter, a series in its second year about a do-gooder serial killer. A little after 2 I tried sleeping some more and the next time I woke up there were blazing red horizontal stripes across the early morning sky.
I lied about not talking out loud anymore today. I just received a call from Bill Macy in NY inviting me over to watch the Green Bay v. Dallas game tonight. Possibly the best NFL game of the year and it's on some stupid exclusive NFL network, that as far as I know, only Bill Macy of NY subscribes to. If I leave right now I could be there for game time. Then I got another call and it was a New Orleans area code and I get a lot of wrong number calls from Louisiana, which I ignore, but this one I answered, just to hear a voice from there and it was I am judging a black dude and I swear to you, after I said hello, he said, Spit? Yesterday on the Jersey Turnpike I got a call from someone sounding vaguely like Bernadette and just as I was starting to get familiar the woman said she was looking for James Alcindor. But I am not him and I told her so. And all the wrong numbers are sorry for disturbing me.
Bernadette's Penthouse
This afternoon in NY I was up on the roof of a five story building breathing fresh grey air on a rainy day. Twenty-five years ago the building and many around it were abandoned ghetto shells waiting for adventurous spirits, and were priced to sell. For a song and subsequent creative renovation financing a group of people in their mid twenties made a commitment to a neighborhood that was one of NY's seediest, long before the city itself made strides in assisting those who were looking for affordable places to own in Manhattan by finding ways to encourage the junkies and muggers to go to hell or find God. But this is not a campaign ad for the guy taking credit for that.
From this roof six years ago some of the residents watched the twin towers fall but today that view would be blocked by the big blue building, a nearly sold out condo tower with two units left, notably the penthouse with terrace, for 3.5 million, a sum almost but not quite 100 times what the owners paid for this entire building, before its gut renovation.
The above is mention of setting for the place I rest my head when visiting Bernadette. And today I did rest my head, because Bernadette gave me the day off from this trip's painting project, which was the basement office, now hopefully even more so than it was a clean well lighted space.
I read Mark Twain and floated down the river with Huck and Jim, only once dozing off, but so deeply I am still trying to get back. It seems I am tested way more in my dreams than I am in my waking life and I guess that is some testament to the level of ambition I exercise, or don't, while awake. This man, some facsimile of a former employer kept asking me am I afraid and I kept saying, no, not at all. But how can you trust that what you say in a dream is anything but the opposite of what you mean?
When I figure out what it is I'm afraid of I won't get back to you, I won't bore you with it, not so that you will notice anyhow.
This afternoon in NY I was up on the roof of a five story building breathing fresh grey air on a rainy day. Twenty-five years ago the building and many around it were abandoned ghetto shells waiting for adventurous spirits, and were priced to sell. For a song and subsequent creative renovation financing a group of people in their mid twenties made a commitment to a neighborhood that was one of NY's seediest, long before the city itself made strides in assisting those who were looking for affordable places to own in Manhattan by finding ways to encourage the junkies and muggers to go to hell or find God. But this is not a campaign ad for the guy taking credit for that.
From this roof six years ago some of the residents watched the twin towers fall but today that view would be blocked by the big blue building, a nearly sold out condo tower with two units left, notably the penthouse with terrace, for 3.5 million, a sum almost but not quite 100 times what the owners paid for this entire building, before its gut renovation.
The above is mention of setting for the place I rest my head when visiting Bernadette. And today I did rest my head, because Bernadette gave me the day off from this trip's painting project, which was the basement office, now hopefully even more so than it was a clean well lighted space.
I read Mark Twain and floated down the river with Huck and Jim, only once dozing off, but so deeply I am still trying to get back. It seems I am tested way more in my dreams than I am in my waking life and I guess that is some testament to the level of ambition I exercise, or don't, while awake. This man, some facsimile of a former employer kept asking me am I afraid and I kept saying, no, not at all. But how can you trust that what you say in a dream is anything but the opposite of what you mean?
When I figure out what it is I'm afraid of I won't get back to you, I won't bore you with it, not so that you will notice anyhow.
Cool Cat
Just now I was looking in the refrigerator for my cat. She hasn't really matured into that elusive stage yet so it is rare to enter the house and not have her come running, hey did you miss me, what do you want to do now, am I annoying you, is that one bowl of food all I get, it looks like your scabs have healed, can I shred your hands again, hey you wanna rub my belly? and so when she didn't come running I looked in the refrigerator first thing because she likes to climb in there anytime I open it. She wasn't in there so the next place I was going to look was the toilet or the bathtub, her second and third favorite places to hang out. She came yawning from out under the couch though which is where she goes to prove wrong my criticism that she is no better than a Swiffer. In her opinion she is every bit as good as a Swiffer and to prove this will grab onto any article of clothing I put in front of her and let me drag her all around the house over the wood floors. Or she will go under the couch where no Swiffer has ever been, and where her chances of being positively compared are greater.
I have been traveling with my cat since she was 8 weeks old, by car, to Pennsylvania and NYC these last couple of months but have been contemplating leaving her behind on upcoming trips. I was out of boredom perusing a kitty care web site recently and was struck by the vehemence of one or two replies to a woman who asked how soon would it be ok to leave her new kitten by itself for one day. Her kitten was five or six weeks old and the one day trip she was planning was a month a way. First the woman got reamed by a person who was from the camp that subscribes to the belief that kittens should not be weaned before 8 weeks. Conventional wisdom used to be 6 weeks but I guess now it is eight. Another responder seemed very upset at this woman and said--You got a VERY young kitten and are now thinking about going out of town and you got this kitten WHY? Ouch. It's good though to get advice about things you are not sure about, even at the risk of being yelled at. I think I will write to the web site and ask for how long is it ok to leave my kitten in the refrigerator.
Just now I was looking in the refrigerator for my cat. She hasn't really matured into that elusive stage yet so it is rare to enter the house and not have her come running, hey did you miss me, what do you want to do now, am I annoying you, is that one bowl of food all I get, it looks like your scabs have healed, can I shred your hands again, hey you wanna rub my belly? and so when she didn't come running I looked in the refrigerator first thing because she likes to climb in there anytime I open it. She wasn't in there so the next place I was going to look was the toilet or the bathtub, her second and third favorite places to hang out. She came yawning from out under the couch though which is where she goes to prove wrong my criticism that she is no better than a Swiffer. In her opinion she is every bit as good as a Swiffer and to prove this will grab onto any article of clothing I put in front of her and let me drag her all around the house over the wood floors. Or she will go under the couch where no Swiffer has ever been, and where her chances of being positively compared are greater.
I have been traveling with my cat since she was 8 weeks old, by car, to Pennsylvania and NYC these last couple of months but have been contemplating leaving her behind on upcoming trips. I was out of boredom perusing a kitty care web site recently and was struck by the vehemence of one or two replies to a woman who asked how soon would it be ok to leave her new kitten by itself for one day. Her kitten was five or six weeks old and the one day trip she was planning was a month a way. First the woman got reamed by a person who was from the camp that subscribes to the belief that kittens should not be weaned before 8 weeks. Conventional wisdom used to be 6 weeks but I guess now it is eight. Another responder seemed very upset at this woman and said--You got a VERY young kitten and are now thinking about going out of town and you got this kitten WHY? Ouch. It's good though to get advice about things you are not sure about, even at the risk of being yelled at. I think I will write to the web site and ask for how long is it ok to leave my kitten in the refrigerator.
Hole To China
My parents tried to instill in me a work ethic and I'm not saying they failed completely, I do have some relationship with the work ethic, but I have an eye that sometimes wanders too much, we can call it a lazy eye so as to avoid the calling of my whole being as lazy, although people have and I know at the very least that I am too lazy to argue with them.
It was my parents idea to have me mow lawns in my childhood neighborhood of Dallas, and a good thing too or I would still be digging holes to China in the young BC's backyard or crawling through the storm drains with his brother on hot summer days or engaging in other proclivities of the daydreamer. Hey, look at these pieces of metal shaped like the letter H I found on that construction site, let's form a Hercules Club. Well, in truth, I did those things and mowed lawns.
But after the day I stuck the tip of my right index finger in the shute of a running lawn mower, it was, without much discussion at all, or actually, any discussion, decided that my lawn mowing days were over. In those days you mowed and bagged the grass, edged the curbs and walk ways, and swept up with a broom the dirt and grass dug up by the edger. For six or eight dollars a lawn or as much as 12 dollars when people felt sorry for you, you little skinny, drenched in sweat, red headed freckled wisp of a boy. Pushing the mower down the alley to do Miss Connie's yard under the bright afternoon sun, Mr. Hanlin the New Zealander would say--look at how red your hair is Jimmy, I thought your hair was brown. It was both, a package deal, a two for one special.
My lawn mowing fortune amounted to 700 cash dollars and I kept it in my desk drawer. I have never been an avid spender so the money just sat there for a couple of years until my mother found it. She thought my banking habits were a bit reckless so she suggested opening a bank account and I did that. And it sat there for another couple of years until during the Carter administration, with my father's help, I invested in Georgia bank stock. About a year later it was the most active stock on the market, losing half its value. Shortly after that, having dropped out of college in favor of following the wandering eye, I cashed out and used 100 of it to pay back a girl who had bailed out a jail mate of mine, although as it turned out he had already been released, under the condition that he promised to go back to Canada. Mr. BC had put up my bond (it would not be the last time) and I would say it is unlikely that I have ever paid him back, although I'm sure I made some less than steadfast effort towards that goal. The rest of the money I used to finance my next low budget cross-country hitchhiking trip or to purchase cheeseburgers everyday until the mood to roam hit me next.
So how is it that I have ended up on an exclusive 40 acre property with two houses, a swimming pool, tennis and bocce courts, surrounded on every side by the Shenandoah foothills? Did I stare down that bear market and with money saved from collecting cans along the highway ride the next bull market to wondrous oblivion? No, I did not. This is a borrowed lifestyle, thanks again to BC, who on occasion wishes to resurrect the Hercules Club and sees me as the only credible Lieutenant. It is a good thing that with the Internet and highways and jet planes and trains the world can sometimes be shrunk down so that we are all closer to each other, because in that way when I leave here in the spring I can say not goodbye but see you soon.
My parents tried to instill in me a work ethic and I'm not saying they failed completely, I do have some relationship with the work ethic, but I have an eye that sometimes wanders too much, we can call it a lazy eye so as to avoid the calling of my whole being as lazy, although people have and I know at the very least that I am too lazy to argue with them.
It was my parents idea to have me mow lawns in my childhood neighborhood of Dallas, and a good thing too or I would still be digging holes to China in the young BC's backyard or crawling through the storm drains with his brother on hot summer days or engaging in other proclivities of the daydreamer. Hey, look at these pieces of metal shaped like the letter H I found on that construction site, let's form a Hercules Club. Well, in truth, I did those things and mowed lawns.
But after the day I stuck the tip of my right index finger in the shute of a running lawn mower, it was, without much discussion at all, or actually, any discussion, decided that my lawn mowing days were over. In those days you mowed and bagged the grass, edged the curbs and walk ways, and swept up with a broom the dirt and grass dug up by the edger. For six or eight dollars a lawn or as much as 12 dollars when people felt sorry for you, you little skinny, drenched in sweat, red headed freckled wisp of a boy. Pushing the mower down the alley to do Miss Connie's yard under the bright afternoon sun, Mr. Hanlin the New Zealander would say--look at how red your hair is Jimmy, I thought your hair was brown. It was both, a package deal, a two for one special.
My lawn mowing fortune amounted to 700 cash dollars and I kept it in my desk drawer. I have never been an avid spender so the money just sat there for a couple of years until my mother found it. She thought my banking habits were a bit reckless so she suggested opening a bank account and I did that. And it sat there for another couple of years until during the Carter administration, with my father's help, I invested in Georgia bank stock. About a year later it was the most active stock on the market, losing half its value. Shortly after that, having dropped out of college in favor of following the wandering eye, I cashed out and used 100 of it to pay back a girl who had bailed out a jail mate of mine, although as it turned out he had already been released, under the condition that he promised to go back to Canada. Mr. BC had put up my bond (it would not be the last time) and I would say it is unlikely that I have ever paid him back, although I'm sure I made some less than steadfast effort towards that goal. The rest of the money I used to finance my next low budget cross-country hitchhiking trip or to purchase cheeseburgers everyday until the mood to roam hit me next.
So how is it that I have ended up on an exclusive 40 acre property with two houses, a swimming pool, tennis and bocce courts, surrounded on every side by the Shenandoah foothills? Did I stare down that bear market and with money saved from collecting cans along the highway ride the next bull market to wondrous oblivion? No, I did not. This is a borrowed lifestyle, thanks again to BC, who on occasion wishes to resurrect the Hercules Club and sees me as the only credible Lieutenant. It is a good thing that with the Internet and highways and jet planes and trains the world can sometimes be shrunk down so that we are all closer to each other, because in that way when I leave here in the spring I can say not goodbye but see you soon.
2c Victory
All of us second graders sat in the auditorium waiting for something to happen, something was obviously afoot. There was about to transpire a thing so big it was outside our scope to even imagine it. As the teachers of the four second grade classes consulted with each other down front, we second graders restrained ourselves from loading clear plastic Bic pen shooters with gooey spit balls. This uncharacteristic line towing amongst the four classes was testament to the power of belief in a promised future goodness. That we were being duped did not even occur to most of us. We had been threatened by the most foreboding of the teachers and told to sit quietly, face forward, and keep our hands in our laps. On that day I for one had no greater promise from anyone, of an unknown reward, so did exactly as told. The feeling I derived from this bridling of self was one of both satisfaction and uneasiness. I did not know then that the duping went on throughout life, every day if you cared to look, and so tried, pretty successfully on that day, to be good and thus win a vaguely promised prize. After a wait that began to have all the earmarks of punishment, when there was throughout the auditorium the faint sound of ripping paper and a concealment of chewing, one of the teachers told us what the deal was. We were all going to return to our separate classrooms for a contest in which only two of us, one boy and one girl, would be chosen as winners. We were by class, 2a, b, c and d lined up single file and led back to our rooms. There was throughout this process so much wasting of valuable learning time that we all began to feel somewhat, already like winners. So we of grade 2c sat forward in our desks and waited nervously for the contest to begin. I was not then and am not now a classic winner. I was second in spelling contests and could add numbers together and write one page murder mysteries, if someone helped me spell knife. I had guilelessly outsmarted the Grim Reaper once, or maybe twice by then, but had no trophies to show for it. I was surviving the pummeling love of my older siblings but knew not what worth there was in that. The teacher said--we are going to have a smiling contest, and we all smiled. But she wasn't kidding and that's what we did, smiled our best smiles while she walked around the room and inspected us. In the end it was Greg Parker and Emily Rhimes who won, which I begrudgingly admitted to myself later on, as logical, seeing as how they had the exact same smile, and seemed to need no joke or promise of love or tickling of ribs to bring it on. They got to represent the second grade for the newly formed elementary school student council, minor figure heads really, as the seventh graders of course ruled the school. Since that day 40 years ago I am apt to see myself in every forced and awkward smile begging for a reason to be real. I did later in my youth win a trophy or two, for team sport participation, but one of them had my name misspelled.
All of us second graders sat in the auditorium waiting for something to happen, something was obviously afoot. There was about to transpire a thing so big it was outside our scope to even imagine it. As the teachers of the four second grade classes consulted with each other down front, we second graders restrained ourselves from loading clear plastic Bic pen shooters with gooey spit balls. This uncharacteristic line towing amongst the four classes was testament to the power of belief in a promised future goodness. That we were being duped did not even occur to most of us. We had been threatened by the most foreboding of the teachers and told to sit quietly, face forward, and keep our hands in our laps. On that day I for one had no greater promise from anyone, of an unknown reward, so did exactly as told. The feeling I derived from this bridling of self was one of both satisfaction and uneasiness. I did not know then that the duping went on throughout life, every day if you cared to look, and so tried, pretty successfully on that day, to be good and thus win a vaguely promised prize. After a wait that began to have all the earmarks of punishment, when there was throughout the auditorium the faint sound of ripping paper and a concealment of chewing, one of the teachers told us what the deal was. We were all going to return to our separate classrooms for a contest in which only two of us, one boy and one girl, would be chosen as winners. We were by class, 2a, b, c and d lined up single file and led back to our rooms. There was throughout this process so much wasting of valuable learning time that we all began to feel somewhat, already like winners. So we of grade 2c sat forward in our desks and waited nervously for the contest to begin. I was not then and am not now a classic winner. I was second in spelling contests and could add numbers together and write one page murder mysteries, if someone helped me spell knife. I had guilelessly outsmarted the Grim Reaper once, or maybe twice by then, but had no trophies to show for it. I was surviving the pummeling love of my older siblings but knew not what worth there was in that. The teacher said--we are going to have a smiling contest, and we all smiled. But she wasn't kidding and that's what we did, smiled our best smiles while she walked around the room and inspected us. In the end it was Greg Parker and Emily Rhimes who won, which I begrudgingly admitted to myself later on, as logical, seeing as how they had the exact same smile, and seemed to need no joke or promise of love or tickling of ribs to bring it on. They got to represent the second grade for the newly formed elementary school student council, minor figure heads really, as the seventh graders of course ruled the school. Since that day 40 years ago I am apt to see myself in every forced and awkward smile begging for a reason to be real. I did later in my youth win a trophy or two, for team sport participation, but one of them had my name misspelled.
Snakes
There is a snake that sheds his skin in the shed every year. I don’t ever see the snake but I see his skin and think too late to follow the advice of a man who once banged on the door before entering so the snake in the shed would not drop from the rafters onto his head. Which is a very frightening thing to have happen to you. It happened to me once and I screamed and screamed while dancing awkwardly something vaguely ritualistic looking if we surmise that there is a dance to keep snakes from your head. As it turned out the snake was just an extension cord but it was too late to turn off the fright by the time I realized that. To this day I still think of it as the day the snake fell on top of my head. Yesterday I called a man whom I have for awhile been thinking was dead, but he’s not. He is 90. He calls me Louis. I wanted to discuss some business regarding a piece of land he sold me 25 years ago but he misunderstood and thought I was trying to shake him down for money. It did not seem to matter that I even suggested giving him some money. To change the subject I asked him about his son and he said the son had broken his neck a couple of years ago. The man said there may have been crack cocaine involved. When I moved back to the subject of business he said, you know Louis, just now when you were asking about my boy I could understand every word you said but this other thing—I don’t know what you are talking about. I can’t hear a word of it. I hung up shortly after that and am now suffering some regret that this misunderstood conversation will likely be the last one we ever have. His wife will ask, what did Louis want? And he will say, oh that little bastard was trying to get my retirement fund out of me. How can what people think not be true?
There is a snake that sheds his skin in the shed every year. I don’t ever see the snake but I see his skin and think too late to follow the advice of a man who once banged on the door before entering so the snake in the shed would not drop from the rafters onto his head. Which is a very frightening thing to have happen to you. It happened to me once and I screamed and screamed while dancing awkwardly something vaguely ritualistic looking if we surmise that there is a dance to keep snakes from your head. As it turned out the snake was just an extension cord but it was too late to turn off the fright by the time I realized that. To this day I still think of it as the day the snake fell on top of my head. Yesterday I called a man whom I have for awhile been thinking was dead, but he’s not. He is 90. He calls me Louis. I wanted to discuss some business regarding a piece of land he sold me 25 years ago but he misunderstood and thought I was trying to shake him down for money. It did not seem to matter that I even suggested giving him some money. To change the subject I asked him about his son and he said the son had broken his neck a couple of years ago. The man said there may have been crack cocaine involved. When I moved back to the subject of business he said, you know Louis, just now when you were asking about my boy I could understand every word you said but this other thing—I don’t know what you are talking about. I can’t hear a word of it. I hung up shortly after that and am now suffering some regret that this misunderstood conversation will likely be the last one we ever have. His wife will ask, what did Louis want? And he will say, oh that little bastard was trying to get my retirement fund out of me. How can what people think not be true?
The Weatherman
In NYC I saw cotton growing among the flowers in buckets on Ave A coming back from a poetry reading at a gay bookstore where my friend read his new book in its entirety so we wouldn't have to.
A day later I sat idling at a bus stop waiting to be told I couldn't which I eventually was but I wasn't on my way to drop off a cancer cat for his eternity injection, which I could have been.
Two truck drivers, the one while I waited said to the man in who's way he was, fuck you, and the other one high above as we approached the light outside the Holland Tunnel seeing me the recent passenger eating a puppy dog ear sandwich with a kitten on my shoulder gushed on and on about the little kitten, although at first I thought he was talking about the sandwich, until we moved forward without saying so much as so long.
Now back in the country no noise or evidence of life if life is the teeming masses. But the rain drops drip loudly so we're getting that and boy did we need it even if it is a day late. It will get cold on Sunday and if you want to discuss that with me I would love to, I would really love to.
In NYC I saw cotton growing among the flowers in buckets on Ave A coming back from a poetry reading at a gay bookstore where my friend read his new book in its entirety so we wouldn't have to.
A day later I sat idling at a bus stop waiting to be told I couldn't which I eventually was but I wasn't on my way to drop off a cancer cat for his eternity injection, which I could have been.
Two truck drivers, the one while I waited said to the man in who's way he was, fuck you, and the other one high above as we approached the light outside the Holland Tunnel seeing me the recent passenger eating a puppy dog ear sandwich with a kitten on my shoulder gushed on and on about the little kitten, although at first I thought he was talking about the sandwich, until we moved forward without saying so much as so long.
Now back in the country no noise or evidence of life if life is the teeming masses. But the rain drops drip loudly so we're getting that and boy did we need it even if it is a day late. It will get cold on Sunday and if you want to discuss that with me I would love to, I would really love to.
The Legend Of Bill Macy
Over stale beers at a Mexican cantina in Chinatown Bill Macy said, please, call me William.
Earlier, outside the doors of an abandoned meat market seven of us stood in line waiting to sign forms that would prevent us from future actions. Hector did not want to sign the form. He walked off without so much as a warm manly embrace and went looking for his truck. He would find the truck three blocks away and drive to Jersey.
Bill Macy chanted, art, art, art as he marched through the maze which would lead to the beach minus Charlton Heston and the Statue of Liberty.
So there were only six of us at the cantina sipping stale beers. At about that point in time when we could no longer take solace in the fact that at least the beers were cold, the waitress came. We ganged up on her with all the communicative acumen we could muster and sent her away confused. As the minutes passed we were forced to reconstruct just what it was we may have communicated to her and realized it was absolutely nothing. In the bottles before us were the dregs of stale, warm beer.
Bill Macy said, check, and we on our way.
To the best of my ability I translated Chinese signage while following behind Graham Bell, Bernadette, Bill Macy, and Jimson and Julia Creed. We ended up in front of a synagogue that was not serving beers. We looked at the synagogue and enjoyed it while people on the street wondered why we weren't taking pictures.
At a bar around the corner we experienced the fortune of not loathing each other, or being in any particular hurry, as our beers were poured one drop at a time. As entertainment, while we waited, I performed science experiments and proved without a doubt that a pint of liquid will fit easily into a half litre container. Bill Macy looked on, neither amused nor impressed. At times it was hard to read Bill Macy, as he wore dark glasses.
Bernadette learned over and said to me, Bill Macy is asleep. And I think it is true that he may have for a moment passed into that netherworld.
Bernadette and I ordered a duck confit appetizer to share and it seemed, at that point after a very long wait, when a deaf waiter placed before us a plate of Swedish meatballs, that we would never actually know if the duck was worth waiting for. Graham Bell while devouring a juicy cheeseburger tried to cheer us up by making duck jokes.
Over stale beers at a Mexican cantina in Chinatown Bill Macy said, please, call me William.
Earlier, outside the doors of an abandoned meat market seven of us stood in line waiting to sign forms that would prevent us from future actions. Hector did not want to sign the form. He walked off without so much as a warm manly embrace and went looking for his truck. He would find the truck three blocks away and drive to Jersey.
Bill Macy chanted, art, art, art as he marched through the maze which would lead to the beach minus Charlton Heston and the Statue of Liberty.
So there were only six of us at the cantina sipping stale beers. At about that point in time when we could no longer take solace in the fact that at least the beers were cold, the waitress came. We ganged up on her with all the communicative acumen we could muster and sent her away confused. As the minutes passed we were forced to reconstruct just what it was we may have communicated to her and realized it was absolutely nothing. In the bottles before us were the dregs of stale, warm beer.
Bill Macy said, check, and we on our way.
To the best of my ability I translated Chinese signage while following behind Graham Bell, Bernadette, Bill Macy, and Jimson and Julia Creed. We ended up in front of a synagogue that was not serving beers. We looked at the synagogue and enjoyed it while people on the street wondered why we weren't taking pictures.
At a bar around the corner we experienced the fortune of not loathing each other, or being in any particular hurry, as our beers were poured one drop at a time. As entertainment, while we waited, I performed science experiments and proved without a doubt that a pint of liquid will fit easily into a half litre container. Bill Macy looked on, neither amused nor impressed. At times it was hard to read Bill Macy, as he wore dark glasses.
Bernadette learned over and said to me, Bill Macy is asleep. And I think it is true that he may have for a moment passed into that netherworld.
Bernadette and I ordered a duck confit appetizer to share and it seemed, at that point after a very long wait, when a deaf waiter placed before us a plate of Swedish meatballs, that we would never actually know if the duck was worth waiting for. Graham Bell while devouring a juicy cheeseburger tried to cheer us up by making duck jokes.