this year's costume

these past days i've been unknowingly running an experiment - preparing for Halloween - and it just dawned upon me that this year i'm going as a caricature of myself at age 21. my costume includes:

worry
regret
fantasy
solitude
nostalgia
diet soda
hyperbole
maudlinism
absenteeism
copious breads
lack of motivation
excessive ambition
increased dreaming
diminished appetite
the watching of clocks
anticipation of nightfall
dependence on technology
excessive use of future tense
rapid onset of loss of interest
keeping the the curtains drawn
preoccupation with dead writers

rumination on memory and voice

i heard a friend of mine on the radio today. we hadn't spoken in very long time, but i've held on fondly the memory of our friendship for more than a decade. she was interviewed on WABE in Atlanta about her work on NPR's Story Corps, and i listened online between classes.

she didn't sound the way i remembered, and i listened as if she was a stranger. the voice was different though i couldn't name how or why. my first inclination was to say it was like listening to the past, but it was not that. it was more like listening to the difference between the past and my memory of the way things were. i felt haunted and lost and doubtful of my mind. how far do we color outside the lines when we remember the people we knew?

class came and went, but the feeling would not leave me. i drove home and shared these things with the one i know i know the best. she is in New York and i hate phones. i worried about the fidelity of our reception. i heard the echo of knowing the limits of knowing.

what was it i heard in her voice? was my memory flawed or had it changed? did i hear age? did i hear wisdom? or was it the tyranny of geography in a country where people can't hold still? i have lived in six states in the past ten years, and at first each one felt like it might be forever... but eventually every one feels like the next.

was it all a dream, or did Brooklyn get the best of her Spartanburg?
i once walked Peachtree at midnight and sold coffee to call girls. will she find Atlanta more hospitable than i? i slept on the floor of the 17th floor and kept photo developer in the refrigerator. i married a girl from Florida on a Monday afternoon in Chattanooga. i slept during the day and did not own a camera.

perhaps it was only my hearing, but was it then or is it now? did i not listen to her in Durham? did we not compare Carolinas and speak of feminisms in the dark? this was no idle nostalgia. i sat in the floor under the hateful fluorescence of my office, listening to a woman i used to know. she answered questions i did not ask and told me things i needed to hear. it was not the words, it was the voice.

the voice was without context, the words were without content - there was nothing to tie me to the self i was. it was only her voice,
it was only sound. it was not the indulgence of nostalgia,

it was not the indulgence of nostalgia.

Listening to NPR in Atlanta (for Plumbs and peaches)

I listened to the voice of a woman
I knew nearly fifteen years ago, when
we teetered on the edge of adulthood.

I heard things that were, things that
were not, things that might have been.

I heard the girl next door
humming arias in the dark.

I heard Durham in August and
the diminishing of colloquialism
of South Carolina after the Return.

It was not like listening to the past.

Or living in Atlanta,
Manhattan and Denver.

"the incident"

"the incident" occurred last night at approximately 7:19pm, when i attempted to patch a hole in my closet using an (non-)aerosol caulk-like substance. its expansive properties proved to be prodigious, and surplus goo came foaming out of the hole and dripped down the wall. without thinking, i quickly wiped away the mess, only to discover that it was sticky.

very sticky.

being a supergenius, i acted without thinking and ran to the faucet, rubbing my hands together until the goo was spread over every inch of flesh. and then, for the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps i should read the directions. moments later i stood in my hallway scanning the small print on the side of the can. applicable words included:

"extremely sticky."

nearly twenty-four hours have passed since then, and the list of (would-be) solvents include: soap, water, scrub brush, finger nails, olive oil, acetone, pumice, WD-40, Goof-Off, and lacquer thinner. thus far, none off the concoctions have worked - although the lacquer thinner did provide slight intoxication, a lingering headache, and an intense burning sensation on the tops of my hands.

as a result i've walked around all day, half-maddened by the dried film of caulk covering my skin. i scratch, i wash, i pick, i shuffle around examining my hands and talking to myself like some absurd mix between a person with OCD and a methamphetamine addict.

(in need of constant adult supervision)

playing hooky

my yin is spending the rest of the week in New York, and i took her to the airport this morning, burdened by some strange nausea and the lingering weariness of waking before 5am. i do not know why i slept so poorly, and i suppose - ultimately - it is beside the point.

the point is that i undertook a calamitous journey to Whole Foods after i dropped her at the airport, and since returning home, i've been listening to Leonard Cohen, baking cranberry almond granola, and writing long sentences with lots of commas. i do not know if laze or malaise is to blame, but the thought of going to school is too burdensome to bear. i've decided to forgo the journey south and procrastinate in the dawn-curtain privacy of my own home...

you missed something

blink
(don't blink) ... blink (don't)
don't ... blink ... blink ... blink ... don't
don't ... (blink) ... ..... ... ....... ... ..... ... (blink) ... don't
don't ... blink ... blink ... blink ... don't
(don't) blink ... (don't blink)
blink

you might miss something

blink ...
(don't blink)
... blink (don't)
don't (...) blink ...
blink ... blink ... don't
don't... don't ... (blink) ...
... don't ... (blink) ... don't ...
... (blink) ... don't ... don't
don't ... blink ... blink
... blink (...) don't
(don't) blink ...
(don't blink)
... blink

la nuit dernière

my yin and i spent last night carousing two counties in pursuit of art, sustenance and libation, and our search led us to a gallery opening across from the city bus terminal, where a sad white girl with her head in her palms under a lonely halide light attached to the station wall. i imagined what troubles brought her there and heard the sound of the train in the distance, while three black men sat under a tree in a vacant lot across from the station, sharing their impoverished camaraderie and sipping from brown bags. the crescent moon shone, silent, through the cloudy gauze of regret.

(i talked of Memphis and the bus station terminals i saw in the summer of 1994).

our goal hovered within reach as we watched a woman pour five buckets of water into a container built for only four. there were rumors that it was supposed to burst, a shattering testimonial to impermanence, but instead the pot sprung a leak and dribbled water onto the white rectangle constructed around the exhibit. i left, wondering what art - if any - had been lost.

we stopped at a 7-11, and inside there was a half-crazy woman buying $5 worth of lottery tickets. the clerk knew her name and flirted some, but the woman ignored his advances in favor of the scratching penny promise of easy money. the slurpy machine was spilling over onto the floor and a man stepped up to the counter and bought a $6.08 pack of Newports. he was on his way to the club, and i stepped in line behind him. i paid $1.38 for my (diet) soda, and on the way out i passed a tall red hair with boots, making a quick stop before going to dance for the man with the Newports.

we arrived to find the Avenue packed with men who smelled like women, women who looked like mannequins, and mannequins with sculpted breast impacts in the store window. there were three drag queens dancing on the sidewalk and i ate red snapper on a bench, feeling half-spacey. i saw a guy i used to know walk past with two other men, (all steroid and cologne), but it was the skinny red headed boy from New Jersey that walks in the center, a half step ahead of the others. i hardly recognized him and felt like Jack Kerouac in Denver, totally and completely lost in the great expanse of time. i plagiarized him the morning after.

this is the Plastic Peacock Parade of the first Friday night of Season.

while the thoughts raged

i listened to a heavy-set guy playing a ukulele on a concrete table, serenading two women playing a game of catch. my mind was full of theses and potential theses and portential theses, and all i really wanted to do was drink my coffee and clear my head before class began.

little did i know, yesterday's musical mid-afternoon foray proved to be just what i needed. it seems the man was some sort of modern day troubadour, halfway between Bob Dylan and Adam Sandler. it appeared to be an original composition with the following splendid refrain:

"hush girl... just shut your lips...

do the Helen Keller... and talk with your hips..."

this, from the same university campus that boats a Dunkin Donuts on the ground floor of the library...

dots>connections

at present, i'm in a small rectangular room with three computers, one iced tea, one bottle of water, fluorescent lights, and lots of books. i hear chatter in the hallway outside and feel an odd, lurking dread in my stomach. the past weeks have been hectic, and it seems (momentarily) i see more dots than connections.

but this is beside the point.

the point is i'm getting together with Jache tonight, and i packed my bag with various totems and implements of witch-doctory before leaving my apartment. between now and our rendezvous on the beach, i plan to sit in a larger rectangular room and talk about Marilyn Monroe's vagina.

listening to January 2000 on a Wednesday afternoon in October

i remember Gainesville
watching my/self pass
invisible
and
undeniable as the wind.

all binge, no purge

my (someday) erstwhile neighbors have been yammering outside my window for over an hour, and their persistent insipid speculation regarding the status of the elevator is beginning to vex me. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i've been on the precipice of illness all week, and i hold my diet partly responsible. for reasons unknown, frighteningly large numbers of dead fish have been making their way into my stomach, and at this rate there will not be a salmon left upstream in all of the Pacific Northwest by year's end. i've been rationalizing by playing up the fuerte and omega-3's, but in reality the binge has gone too far...

whittling

it's after midnight, i'm hungry, and i have whittled down my (academic) workload to one half midterm, two articles, and unknown quantities of l'imparfait over the next 72 hours. i like to imagine myself falling asleep easily tonight, but the fear of not sleeping is on me and i've been listening to a child crying in the distance for nearly a half hour. but this is beside the point.

the point is that this week is the bulge and i've been trekking to the kitchen every ten minutes to scavenge assorted morsels. the trick is to eat just enough to stay awake without getting bloated, to maintain the appropriate level, and type, of agitation...

the temperature is 58°

last night the weather broke and we opened the windows, remembering the reason we live in South Florida...

summers are strange and amnesic here, and they wipe clear one's memory of winter, obliterating tactile recall and leaving you with nothing more than a lumpy, uncertain faith that mild weather will return. when that first cool night of autumn arrives, it is a vision of the Madonna...

i wonder if the tall, wobbling prostitute in the crosswalk last night was a harbinger. perhaps she was Mary herself...

hamburger, witch doctors, procrastination

at present there is some procrastination, but no hamburgers (yet), and i've been to see witch doctors three times in the past 36 hours. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i have three(ish) small papers to write, and i've rearranged my monitor so that it sets at approximately eye level (on recommendation of fore-mentioned witch doctors). this new configuration is certainly easier on my neck and appears to have the pleasant side effect of improved typing. unfortunately, there appears to be no correlation between typing and writing ability...

today's ingedients:

i dreamed last night in hubbub, of Mardou poisoning the talent pool in San Francisco and Amanda Palmer on television, proclaiming her new album the Epic record of the year. there is an older woman two blocks east carrying a ripped picture of me in her bag and a swimming pool, but no nudity is involved. there is a red-headed girl i knew in high school and my fourth grade girlfriend, the one i didn't call all summer.

dreams populated from the spinning wheel of time.

i spoke today to one former student and one crying student. i ate a lox sandwich on matzah while reading The Joys of Yiddish. i went to work and did nothing. there was granola baking and diet soda in the cup. my sister found her asan and Jache called to tell me his woes.
i told him crazy people do crazy things. profundity abounded.

let us celebrate this bleeding absurdity of life.

Stravinsky v. my yin

my yin came home tonight and caught me grading midterms, hair a mess, listening to Stravinsky's L'ouiseau de feu. she said it felt like walking into some strange movie, with me cast in the part of madman. she said,

"can you turn that off?"

(this is beside the point).

the point is that we ended up on the couch talking about annoyance, distraction, and diversion. the gist of the conversation is irrelevant,

(saying this is either very foolish or very clever),

but what emerged was something beautiful and profound. it seems the righteous, riotous Russian's score skulked past my yin's defenses because i heard myself saying

(to the effect of):

there is no union of two. there is only harmony. i have pondered the enormousness of equanimity. i do not confuse its size for enormity. the illusion of two experiencing a

(single)

one is a preposterous egoistic sham. listen to music. listen to your voice. there is no enlightenment. there is only the stuttering perfection of a thousand signifiers falling short of language, a semiotic garden in the pause before the Fall.

(left. left. left, right, left.)

a marching army singing cadence is union. i believe in the possibility of enlightenment, a choir singing Handel on l'île de la Cité.

short poem for Chris Marker

i watched Sans Soleil;

it left me:

in a pleasant meditative stupor.

images of Tokyo.
images of Africa.
images of a volcano

devouring Norwegian slumbers.

it left me
remembering

a memory of an adolescence

that never happened on
a continent i've never seen.

it left me
remembering

an adolescence of memory

i've never seen on
a continent that never happened.

it left me
remembering

a continent of adolescents

anon i've never seen
a memory that never happened.

i watched Sans Soleil;

it did not leave me.

dreaming as Bill Burroughs in mid-October

6:15 am

dream of a quasi-institutional setting like a probation office or methadone clinic. going in every day, knowing that one of the other clients is an employee or plant. one is an old-time regular. he knows the score - the heartbreak, the disillusionment, the futility. he's called in to impress these things on some youngblood.

no one knows, except for the old-timer, that i no longer belong here. he and i share an unspoken bond. it is too late for him, but i have been spared his fate; i'm marking time until the karmic clock finishes winding down and i can move on to the next stage of my life.

i am there watching it all, present yet not really part of it, neither doing injury nor causing harm... but i do not know that i'm helping to prevent what is beginning to transpire.

in memory of childhood friendships

I feel

the

Madness

and

Nostalgia

takes hold

masquerades

as

Memories

fond of

the

me

I

might have been.

"let me count the ways..." (before noon)

1. waking me with "cockadoodledoo."

2. calling 911 on/for degenerate neighbors.

3. disseminating granola-related libel.

4. etc.

gluttony v. dearth

depending on

orientation of

left eyeball

to

right ear,

i see

(either)

a glUt of things to do,

or

a deaRth of motivation.

it would be convenient

(for me)

and

advantageous

(for all)

if i could

keep

orientation of

(the)

left eyeball to

right ear

level.

stemming the rose

this weekend, when we've not been buying 20lbs of basmati rice, or 12lbs of short grain brown rice, my yin and i have been having a (mini)BGLT film festival in our living room.

Friday night we screened Transamerica, and although it left me feeling happy for the mother and her journey, i was unable to overlook my dis-ease regarding the treatment and plight of her son. the film's closing ten minutes were insufficient in my estimation, and the uplifting superficiality of the final scene between them seemed to gloss over the damage and trauma that the boy endured as a result of his mother's search for completion. her path to wholeness cannot substitute for his, and i felt an upsurge of doubt and discontent, wondering about the damage we cause in attempt to know our selves, how even the most benevolent of intents can be skewed and perverted by our inability to see into the hidden places of our being.

next up...

Saturday night we watched Brokeback Mountain, and i was pleasantly surprised. i avoided the film for years, initially from a complicated, self-imposed cinematic exile, and then from fear of disappointment, but Ang Lee's landscapes were stunning. moreover, the shot of Heath Ledger walking away in the side view mirror was equal parts poignant, breathtaking and sad. the exploration of masculine intimacy and its mediation through sex and violence was superb, and the film seemed to serve as a fulcrum balancing denial, self-loathing, and desire. it painted a touching portrait of interminable longing and indomitable love without veering into sentimentality, and the sincerity of the film made it possible to forgive its obvious, preposterously metaphorical final shot.

about last night

he's crying

parking lot

on the sidewalk between

in a

parking lot

twelve medication

illness

[her]

chemo

drama

side effects

his father's money

and

the new girlfriend

left inside.

something fishy

i'm listening to Thriller, it's the first day of October, and overnight the temperature dropped below 80 degrees for the first time in months. it feels like fall is finally here, and when i'm not busy putzing around with consonance, i'm trying to practice my Yiddish. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i ate lox on Monday and loved it. as much as i would like to say it was merely a sacramental indulgence, the truth is that i may have to renounce my vegetarianism for pescetarianism, which brings with it a level of pretension approximately 23% greater than my current status.

the one things will do for smoked salmon...