May 14, 2006

• pillow

  The economy was a roaring beast – a gorilla, beating his chest, standing on the rising crest of modernity.  It was a new era and everyone was getting ahead, leapfrogging and sprinting to the top.  But of course, great gain means great loss in a universe defined by balance. 

  I took my time reading the paper.  There was crime.  And lots of it.  After a spate of violent robberies, it had become the policy of tellers to simply hand over the money; defiance was strongly discouraged.  For what did it gain a man to sneak a finger to a panic button while risking life or limb for the effort?  It’s one thing to jump brazenly in front of the woman you love.  Deflect arrows and insults and for your bravado an unrequited love becomes a wounded embrace.  But it was something else (and lesser at that) to unnecessarily aggravate a criminal who’d just as quickly leave everyone alone.  Ask no questions and do as you’re told.  So the article summed.

  I nursed grogginess over rye toast and hazelnut coffee.  Sitting shirtless at the window’s ledge, it was damp and the breeze was more a concept, less a sensation.  Below, the buses were full and on-time; the people, equally frenetic and tired.  Yet, I was simply the latter.  For the first time in my life, I had expectations with nobody to expect me.  I had life and little living.  I had grand dreams and a common view of the city.  I had cereal and no milk.  So, the day’s itinerary was to walk the dog, scan the classifieds and make phone calls.  I mulled it over on my way to the kitchen.  Bare-footed and unsteady, I scratched my belly. 

  As I scratched, I sang:

    I don’t mind your company every now and then
    But when I get home from work baby
    I can’t get into the house
    The kitchen
    The bathroom
    And I can’t get into my own damned bed

  Decisively, I turned off the radio.  And leaning against the kitchen counter, I was inspired.  I would write her a letter.

  I spent the remainder of the morning sitting at my desk, scribbling furiously.   And with every draft, my newborn project turned from twenty pages to fifteen to ten and eventually, one.  How do you boil something down to its essence?  What started out as a letter soon turned into a statement turned declaration.  Quality over quantity, you know?  The more sound, the less meaning.  By the time I was finished, it was well into the afternoon.  As I wrote and rewrote, I was increasingly consumed by the sound of my breathing.

  In.  Out.  Scribble, scribble.

  Pull.  Push.  Scribble, scribble.

  Take.  Give.

  “…”   Scribble, scribble.

  One afternoon months back, I went to an office supply store.  I walked down each aisle and spent the bulk of a weekend morning choosing the appropriate shade of Post-it note.  Perhaps I should have been thinking of the solution to world hunger or an equitable answer to the immigration debate.  True, I may not be the necessary genius to handle all of that.  But if we all coordinated to sit at a given hour and think of great ripostes to life’s challenges, wouldn’t the weight of that sort of pondering be enough to make something happen?  A universal, collective flexing?  In the parking lot, I thought about it as I examined my new canary yellow stickies.  The color was eye-catching!

  At any rate, that afternoon was long ago.  So I folded my day’s work with elementary precision.  It was now a yellow rectangle.  Folded again, a square.

  I was tired and in response, I slept.  Throughout the night, nonplussed by my soft breathing, the note sat ready to go on my dresser. 

  The Note read:
     Give me money now.
  
  Walking past the delicatessen the next morning, I sang:
  
    And you may ask yourself
    How do I work this?
    And you may ask yourself
    Where is that large automobile?
    And you may tell yourself
    This is not my beautiful house!
    And you may tell yourself
    This is not my beautiful wife!

  I ended up in a stale, marble tiled building.  Hands in my pockets, I waited as I looked at bemused eyes that belied uncertainty.  But that was all I needed and in the time it took to look at my watch, the floor, the wall clock and her oval face three times in succession, she was already filling the bag with shaky piano hands.  I affected a stern look that inadvertently broke into a hint of apology as I took its possession.  She was flustered, almost blushing.  Apparently, I put her in a state of shock.  It was new for both us.  My intentions had made me a criminal.  She had never been addressed so directly, so succinctly.  No irony, no sarcasm, no fluff, my actions left her lost in an unstructured sea. 
  

  Then, sharply aware of the cold linoleum floor, the geraniums nestled in each corner, the ostensibly well-heeled customers waiting patiently, and the overweight teller watching me leave, I said good afternoon to the security guard.  I was not overwhelmed by the moment.  In fact, I walked out of the building, broad-shouldered like a rich man.  Because I was.

  Leaving the freshness of the air-conditioned lobby, I didn’t run.  In no hurry, I walked casually for two blocks and feeling aimless, walked into a diner.  I determined I was hungry and ordered a tuna sandwich and soup.  The bread was toasted and there was too much mayonnaise.  I only ate a little and bagged the rest for my dog.  Outside, I saw a moped zip by.  At that specific moment, I really really wanted a moped. 
  

  On the way home, I wondered what it would be like to drive a moped.  Snaking my way through  foreign traffic, I would wear big aviator goggles and a scarf.  The scarf would whip in the wind.  I would look at the drivers around me and grin. I would wear gloves with the fingers cut out.  But something seemed missing from the idea as I walked.

  So I sang:
  
    And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
    And you may find yourself in another part of the world
    And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
    And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
    Wife
    And you may ask yourself-well…how did I get here?

  When I got home that afternoon, my dog was asleep and barely lifted his head.  But not the world around me.  Rather, it was pulsating with a life beautiful, scary and unstoppable.  Markets were both opening and closing according to the sun.  Bedouins were laughing in the midst of sandstorms.  The oil hidden deep beneath their feet was sloshing and calling for action.  Everyone was going somewhere, moving and shaking.  A million eyes were fixed on the rippling lines of interest rates.  Boards released esoteric puzzles and thousands scrambled to piece the words together.  It was an accelerated expansion.  The senses of the world were ablaze.  And somewhere moped dealers were making a killing, selling quick wheeled wonders to dreamers and cute actresses.  

  I made toast.  I ran a bath.  For an hour, I rested my head against the warm tiles of my bathroom wall.  I listened to the shampoo fizzle in my hair and I watched the soap bubble on my arms.  I thought about an equitable solution to the immigration debate.  I came up short.  I considered ways to end man’s wanton desire for death and destruction.  Nada.  I weighed the merits of shampoo blended with conditioner.  A perfect invention because it saves a lot of time.  And the green bottle is eye-catching!  I nodded off.

  I dreamed I was walking on a Stockholm stage, the next Nobel laureate.  I regaled the audience with the story of one “kickass” weekend reef diving in Guam.  “And dude, after my last dive, I was crazy jonesin’ for a chili dog & Pabst combo when -BAM!- the theory of sub-sub-sub-atomic particle equilibria hit me.”   The unending applause was deafening and hitting me in waves when -BAM!- a better, cheaper, more efficient schematic for ocean desalination was birthed.  “And dude, after my last Nobel Prize acceptance speech, I was crazy jonesin’ for…”

  They rapped on the door with heavy flashlights.  I was naked and pruned, bubbles fizzling on my skin as I tried to climb out of the bathroom window.  But it was pointless and only humorous filler for Thursday’s police blotter.  Soap notwithstanding, I wasn’t going to slip away so easy.  The dog yapping, the neighbors peeking, I was handcuffed with nothing but loosely wrapped terry cloth for pride.  But I was just fine as we walked down the dimly lit, pocked hallways of the building.  Watching through barely open doors, I was alternately laughed at and feared.  Look!  The emperor has a towel.

    bubble  fizzle

  The economy was a gorilla sitting where he pleased.  I’ll eat a banana here.  No, on second thought… there.  And I’ll take some palm fronds.  Outside my apartment window, the night was cool and the street lamps glowed warmly.  Around the halo of one light, there was a soft comfort.   And the concentric softness reached out to me in fading circles.  Eyes fixed to it, I felt my eyes droop heavy. 

  Sleeping clean in a black and white cab, head against the grilled barrier, I dreamed myself rich on a moped, steady piano hands holding my waist for soft comfort.  An oval face resting a cheek on my right shoulder, my scarf dancing around her, we zipped at quick speed and were keenly aware of our breathing.
  
  ——–

  

  ——-

  REVIEW – Gnarls Barkley
                      Track – Crazy

  waribashi
  

  people of indigenous cultures

  broken flowers
  

  bovine freedom

  ——-

  

  —–
  
  The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done. 
  - George Carlin
  
  “I want to keep fighting because it is the only thing that keeps me out of the hamburger joints. If I don’t fight, I’ll eat this planet.” 
  - George Foreman
  
  purple party

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  Matt11:28
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

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