redux: 6am, 30 September 2007

My sister and I go dancing in Miami, two instead of three, us instead of we. Her departure is imminent; neither of us know. When the lights come on at 5am, everyone in the club becomes suddenly uglier. The bodies dancing in the dark grow faces, chiseled jawlines and beautiful silhouettes giving way to idiot words and various nervosas. We now see who was on what for how long and how strong; my sister and I become better looking.

We drive to South Beach to celebrate with pancakes:

At the booth behind us sit two large men, and it is impossible to discern whether they are siblings or lovers. Either way, there is a special intimacy as one berates the other. The hamburger sitting in front of the aggressor grows cold; eventually his performance causes the whole row of tables to shake:

(my sister turns around)

"Watch it buddy."

(the man jumps up)

"What the f_ck? What the f_ck?"

(my sister is from Baltimore)

"You're bangin' the table."

(bulging waistband implies gun)

"What the f_ck?"

(my sister is from Baltimore)

"[silence]"

(three men at corner booth stand up)

"Is there a problem here?"

(man turns to face three men)

"What the f_uck?"

(three men step forward)

"Is there a problem here?"

(lover/brother stands)

"What the f_uck?"

(three men in unison)

"We from New York."

(man steps forward)

"What the f_ck we care 'bout New York? "

(lover/brother steps forward)

"We from Camden."

[lapse]

We ask for our tab and leave for home, while unknown rappers exchange numbers in the corner booth of the café. Six months later my sister is gone.

redux: attachment

Part 1

One year ago yesterday I ran into my sister's former lover. He was sitting in the corner of a small coffee shop on King Street (downtown Boone's main thoroughfare) and from the moment I walked in something seemed familiar about him.

"Did you used to live in ____?" he asked.

I recognized the Kentucky in his voice, and somewhere in the back of my mind lights began lighting up one after another: cigarettes, turntables, jealousy and anger.

"Yes," I answered.

photograph of Ryan Adams with coffee

(a short conversation followed

i did not tell him i

once wrote a poem for him)

Looking back now, I wonder about the significance – if any – of our meeting. I do not believe in coincidences; to do so requires that one reject not only the primacy, but even the existence of karma.

Part 2

This afternoon, one year ago, I went to a small storage shed on the north end of the county. Inside were approximately 4000 comic books and my dead grandmother's belongings.

photograph by Stephanie Schneider

(

i remembered

were not there.

some of the things

there

were not remembered.

)

I made what will presumably be my last visit to that same shed two weeks ago. There was a cigar store Indian, a piano, and an oil stain on the floor. Only two of these things belonged to me, and I gave one of them away twice in as many days. The piano now sits in a three bedroom house overlooking a lake.

Part 3

It is neither letting go, nor the thought of letting go. It is the inability to reconstruct a memory that might explain the things I saw; it is the inability to imagine a memory that might make sense of the things I did not.

photograph of a photograph by Patricio Reig

?

?

?

artifact

or

memory

?

?

?

I wrote two-thirds of this one year ago. It is curious to see which of these memories still have emotional resonance and which of them have been relegated to the realm of "things that merely happened"... if such things can even be said to exist at all.

repost: Quantum Love Story

Three years ago (yesterday) i went with Saylor and a (future) mutual friend to stroll art galleries in north Miami. Along the way, I learned that my (future) mutual friend was a (present) mutual friend of the woman I was trying, with limited success, to date.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that the evening's events eventually gave rise to the poem below; and the poem below, in turn, ultimately gave rise to a forthcoming chapbook (currently awaiting Saylor's illustrations).

By way of full disclosure, a less poetic, more immediate version of these events lives here; the author does not pretend to know which assortment of words constitutes greater authenticity.

quantum love story

We watched quarks falling in love with neutrinos,
dancing in and out of existence in the skies over Miami.

Once upon a time we were like

but last night we talked about
love with the lights on:

“There is more than enough time for everything.”

Chasing nostalgia and remembering
the lies we tell ourselves when
we’re young and in love.

A cut-up in my head:

missing my sister in rain-soaked galleries

missing my sister in rain-soaked galleries

missing my sister in rain-soaked galleries

Nothing can be written that compares to dusk from the
abandoned high rises overlooking the Bay of Biscayne;

I knew nothing of knock-breathed Wynwood, lies and doubt.

It’s hard to see, searching for poetry
in lust in truth in love. Words are just
letters; sometimes they have meaning.

(I tried to tell her:)

The whole
universe
lives in
the
center
of a rose.

I bent to kiss it and it was gone, she couldn’t

hear me through the murmuring of her heart.

in praise of Townes Van Zandt (chronology of writer's block on a Saturday afternoon)

2009

There is still:

the editing
the bibliography
the footnotes.

There is still:

a sofa
an altar
a decade
of journals.

Some clothes; a bottle of tamari.

There is a bachelor party and a wedding

but neither of them are mine.

Somewhere in New Jersey a woman is dying.

There are still:

letters of recommendation
an application for a fellowship.

Still:

Al Green is singing.

My sister is writing.

Saylor called to tell me,
Mardou has absconded the city.

But all this is beside the point.

The point is that a girl once told me - in all seriousness - that she didn't know if she wanted to be an artist or a scientist, and therefore she was going to be a firefighter. Apparently the intervening two years have provided her with some clarity because, when I spoke to her yesterday, she told me that she was going to start studying polar animals.

My first thought?

You live in South Florida.

2010

Yesterday i woke up from a dream at 4:37am about swimming in a gray murky lake and being made fun of by a swimming instructor for not being able to swim.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that I didn't fall asleep again until after 3:30 last night, and today feels like some odd combination of the last day of school (which it is) and the last day of summer (which it isn't). Part of me wants to sleep, part of me wants coffee. Part of me is already half-dreaming of what will happen tonight after I visit a real mental hospital and imaginary set of conjoined twins:

Evelyn Evelyn

suffice to say that yesterday i felt like i was coming down with writer's block and it didn't feel good and every word i wrote seemed to lead me in the wrong direction and i decided to get rid of all my punctuation and it wasn't until after i had locked myself in an empty classroom that i realized that the wrong direction was really the right direction in the wrong order

I proceeded to reorganize my thoughts and took the following note:

thoughts are memories in the present tense.

I do not know if this is foolish or wise or both, and in the end it does not matter because we are all going to die anyway and who can ever really know about what comes next?

lyres and prophets)

or

(liars and profits?

2011

Apparently I get writer's block this time every April, and I just watched a documentary on this dead Texan:

Townes Van Zandt

It was Mardou that told me about him. It seems years ago. It was years ago. It seems more years than that. I closed the curtains, I watched the film. I'm listening to him now:

I used to play the mouth harp pretty good
hustled up a little dough,
but I got drunk and I woke up rolled
a couple of months ago.

They got my harp and they got my dollar,
them low life so and so's.
Harps cost money and I ain't got it
it's my own fault I suppose.

I have one paper left to write.

I'm sick of words.

Tonight, music.

geography, Katy Perry and rejection letters

my sister is in Baltimore flirting with Camus, my brother is in North Carolina learning Italian, and my yin leaves tomorrow morning for Rishikesh. sadly i have been largely picture-less this past week, but she did encounter a Bengal two days ago in Ranthambore National Park:

you can read more about the tiger here

oddly enough, Katy Perry was there at approximately the same time, getting married or honeymooning or something. i'm really not clear on who Katy Perry is, but i know she's a famous singer of some sort and wrote a song about kissing girls.

thankfully, Katy Perry is beside the point.

the point is that my university is trying to raise AIDS awareness, and as part of their festivities have issued a call for poetry, essays and short stories. i submitted a poem two years ago, and the rejection letter read, in part:

Dear Mr. B___:

Thank you for participating... We received many excellent, thought-provoking submissions. Unfortunately, the Literary Expressions judges did not choose your work as one of the tops two entries. However, we do thank you for allowing us to share in your experiences with HIV/AIDS... Best of luck to you in the future...

this stands in stark contrast to the rejection letter i received last week:

Dr. Mr. B___:

Thank you for your interest in reviewing the books on Chris Marker for C_______. I'm afraid, however, that your proposal is far too academic for us. I suggest you try one of the academic journals.

Thank you for your consideration.

i'm torn as to which one i prefer. the first one is certainly better-written, but it is also painfully generic. there was an entire paragraph (redacted for your pleasure) devoted to plugging events associated with their World AIDS activities.

the second one, on the other hand, is short, sweet and tells me where i can stick my proposal (approximately). best of all, i like that they address me as "Dr. Mr. B___" because it's utterly baffling. since i'm not a doctor, and certainly didn't represent myself as such, i assume that 'Dr.' is an abbreviation for 'Dear.'

to my knowledge this is a non-standard abbreviation, but perhaps the book review editor at C_______ is too busy to deal with those middle two letters.

i need to return to the point.

the point is that i plan on submitting an essay to the AIDS Committee this year and tell a more direct and personal tale than the obtuse poem i submitted in 2008. there is a small cash prize associated with winning, but my main motivation is just to practice the whole submissions process. rejection is an inevitable aspect of all creative endeavors, and each time someone says 'no,' i believe that it nurtures that part of us that, as Chris Marker says, "insists on drawing profiles on prison walls."

with that in mind, i offer a revamped version of the poem that garnered my previous rejection. read it in whatever direction appeals to you:

(kissing) cousins

Kissing cousins

seven years old

to Grandmother’s house we go

Holidays home

nineteen and closetless

stained sheets and seventeen

weekend beers at auntie’s

singlewide lust

single widelust

Grandma says

that college done changed my

Kissing cousins

have you heard the sound of the cardinal

falling on a Sunday afternoon?

One gone Junky

one gone Queer;

illusions of Burroughs in every line

how many licks does it take to get to the two c-note sinner?

One gone straight

two got tested

retractions of allusion

in every rhyme

how many sticks does it take to get to the T-cell winner?

Come back in three months:

waiting…

waiting…

waiting…

Close the door.

on problems of syllables

too often, now, it seems
my mind running away
pulled into the pleasant
swirl of metaphor, dirge
and Manhattan: meaning
less and empty, over full
and void; the inner

rupture of syllables.

eleven. e-lev-en.
|iˈlevən|. 11.

(my sister says "make a wish.")

is each consonant not a death in itself?

(a, e, i, o ,u)

the lips touch.

why ten?

would a world of amputees count in base-2?

the
laptop
severed
extension
of my soul
are you jealous
of pen and paper?
the five forgotten
vowels holding
language
to get
her

the space between words.
t h e s p a c e b e t w e e n w o r d s.

i have encountered. every. logical. objection.

(and still, i wait)

"the music's stopped, but we still dancing..."

another version of this poem lives here

dancing with kid sister
(everything is more fun with palpable sexual tension)

It’s a habit
I have it
I half it

then double up again.

and again and again.

and again and again and again.

Taylor

and Sarah

and Sara

and Jeff

and Meghan

and Meghan

and Me

and one more Jeff
just for good measure.

It was like Noah’s ark that
chichi sushi Saturday night
before the meningitis took hold.

We ran inside the club to escape
ping pong balls pelting the pavement
pregnant with the promise of free bar tabs.

Singing with my sister:

“the music’s stopped but we still dancing...

the music’s stopped but we still dancing...

the music’s stopped but we still dancing...”

(Not every gerund is a metaphor.)

Meeting for the first time, half
knowing looks exchanged with
old friends once, sometimes
twice, met before.

[lapse]

She saved me:

a) an embarrassing retelling
b) sauerkraut and anorexia
c) we relocated to Dada

The answer is:

d) all of the above.

We relocated to:

a) crab-ridden couches
b) one a.m.
c) brownies
d) tonic water

The answer is:

e) Wednesday night in the rain.

illustration from:
For An American Girl With a Czech Surname
1st edition chapbook, limited to 50 copies
(suggested) contribution $5.00
email: circlesallthewaydown@gmail.com

attachment

Part 1

yesterday i ran into my sister's former lover. he was sitting in the corner of a small coffee shop on King Street and asked me,

"did you used to live in ____?"

i recognized the Kentucky in his voice and answered "yes."

photograph of Ryan Adams with coffee

a short conversation followed

i did not tell him i

once wrote a poem for him.

Part 2

this afternoon i went to a small storage shed on the north end of the county. inside were approximately 4000 comic books and my dead grandmother's belongings.

photograph by Stephanie Schneider

i remembered

were not there.

some of the things

there

were not remembered.

Part 3

it is not letting go, nor the thought of letting go. it is the inability to reconstruct a memory that might explain the things i saw; it is the inability to imagine a memory that might make sense of the things i did not.

photograph of a photograph by Patricio Reig

?

?

?

artifact

or

memory

?

?

?

timing

(part 1)

a letter arrived this morning

i woke this morning to find an email from a friend of mine, someone i haven't seen in years, and one of the only people (outside of my family) who has known me with some regularity and intimacy over the past two decades.

in my experiences few friendships evidence this type of stamina, and ours runs from meeting one another in a miserable, unintentionally atonal middle school marching band in 1989, through the unexpected punk rock reunions and antics of 1996, all the way to our last conversation, which probably transpired sometime in 2003.

ours was not the twelve tone of Schoenberg

but this is beside the point.

the point is that i only just realized that each of those memories is separated by 7 years which, as any good anthroposophist knows, is the length of human change. Rudolf Steiner wasn't alone in these ideas, and i have often heard my own teacher discuss how human beings enter a new stage of life every seven years, corresponding to the next phase of their spiritual development.

Rudolf Steiner, looking a bit like...

Skeletor

this, too, is beside the point.

the point is that my friend's letter was one of the most amazing pieces of writing i've read in a long while, simultaneously heartfelt, courageous, and comedic. it contained great phrases like "murderize", witty observations about Portland, and an unconventional melding of form and content that would cause Donald Barhtelme to blush from envy.

Barhtelme, looking writerly

(part 2)

some questions arose this morning

how do we account for the exits and entrances from our lives?

Mardou, somewhere in California

not the introductions we make, or the circumstances we escape, but the inexplicable ebb and flow of the people we hold dear?

Jache, somewhere in my living room

why are the people closest to us sometimes the ones furthest in geographic or temporal proximity?

my sister, somewhere in Baltimore

why do we sometimes find ourselves sharing our most precious moments with the most distant of strangers?

my shadow and mirror, location unknown

(part 3)

epilogue

i read my friend's email to my yin, who laughed aloud, and i eventually cut short my morning hatha practice so i could set about drafting a reply. my goal was to respond with the same beauty and honesty that my friend had shown to me.

it has since been sent, and i'm excited to see what happens next...

survival v. anniversaries

yesterday i managed to survive:

1 giant burrito
2 big box retailers
3 hours of wedding plans

but this is beside the point.

the point is that i met my sister three years ago yesterday, on a dark and rainy Friday night, in the courtyard of a coffee shop populated by thieves and charlatans. why my sister was there i may never know, and my own reasons for being there are even murkier, but i suppose it doesn't matter. if i've learned anything in this current lifetime, it's that the chain of cause and effect is sturdy but uncertain, and that karmas have their own way of linking one person to the next.

the link connecting me to my sister was Saylor, and as he presented me to her, i wondered how many cigarettes one woman could smoke during the length of an introduction. my sister has a prodigious capacity for nicotine, caffeine, and (probably) Ovaltine, but what really caught my attention was the way she spoke:

half-goof

half-laugh

all genius.

she said things like

"the salted weight of the day"

and,

after a brief flirtation with incest,

we quickly settled into a routine of pizza, sand, and crises. we saw Cat Power, we danced in Miami, we alternately lamented and celebrated the ambiguous genetics of metaphysical siblingry.

we ate brownies, we drank tonic water, we stared at half empty (always half empty) glasses of wine on fence posts as the summer rains fell in late September. she introduced me to an auto-nomen with a mild case of synesthesia, and told me about the heartbreak of her DJ-ed lovers.

we did all of these things; we did none of these things.

she left two years ago, this Sunday, on Train 52 from somewhere in central Florida, and this morning was the first time i ever realized that we only knew each other a year. it seemed so much more than that, and i wonder:

why do we insist on this arbitrary measures of meaning? why all these anniversaries and remembrances and fracturing of our lives into months and weeks and years and minutes of the day? why this particular persistence of memory rather than another?

Baltimore, barbecue, and the Wire

i talked to my sister yesterday for the first time in ages, and she told me about the barbecue misfortunes of working for one of Stephanie Rawlings-Blake's underlings in the Baltimore mayor's office. it was a dastardly tale, full of intrigue, treachery and missed opportunities, and in spite of the poor cell reception, (or perhaps because), i couldn't help but think of The Wire, which is

easily the greatest television show ever produced about Baltimore.

i don't remember how i learned about The Wire, but it must have been in relation to The Sopranos, which i discovered by chance in crappy video store in New Jersey during the coldest winter i have ever known.

but this is beside the point.

the point is that one of the wonderful things about not owning a television set is that i'm always at least two years behind the curve when it comes to hot new television shows. all the anticipation and worry and wanting and waiting and wondering what will happen next is eliminated, replaced instead by the hedonism and gluttony of marathon sessions in front of my computer screen, eating metaphorical (and sometimes literal) blocks of cheese in my underwear. there are few pleasures that can compare to the willful disregard for mental health in favor of post-dated televised consumption.

[lapse]

one of those, however, is the liberal application of hyperbole on a Wednesday morning.

Sukhothai dog

part 1

this rambling satori-eyed bodhisattva:

photograph by Deb Huber

was caught on film, presumably in Oakland, by a big-eyed hobo photographer.

part 2

i met Deb(bie) just over two years on a Saturday night at the same restaurant, on the same crab-infested couch, where i once drank quinine and ate brownies with my sister in the rain. a high school friend of Saylor's, she was on her way to New Orleans with little more than a camera and rucksack. her ultimate destination was San Francisco, and although i did not know it then, she was a harbinger of departures to come:

my sister - 30 May 2008
Mardou - 13 June 2008
La Cienega - 12 October 2008
Saylor - 20 November 2008
Tarah - 22 November 2008

part 3

it's a rainy morning in south Florida, and i have spent my entire weekend reading the words of famous dead Frenchmen and obscure living Americans. summer is around the corner. i feel anticipation in my fingers and restlessness in my heart. i turned on the computer expecting to say nothing. instead:

a shining dog.

a faded picture.

a woman i barely know.

i find myself

remembering

the things that came

and left

before.

brothers and sisters, real and imagined

yesterday a half-Canadian madwoman threatened me with walking pneumonia, and this morning i woke thinking of two people:

the first was my brother, who recently recovered from a bout of bronchitis in North Carolina. we spoke at the tail end of his ailment, and i wondered if perhaps i had caught his illness through some sort of bizarre karmic telephonic connection. it seems unlikely, but if i have learned anything from the half-Canadian madwoman (or her spouse), it is that stranger things have happened.

the second thought was of my sister, whose chronic chain-smoking has decimated her lung capacity to approximately the size of two thimbles each. the one exception to this rule is her incomparable, inexhaustible ability to dance until sunrise. i have often wondered about this paradox, and the only plausible solution is that she is, in fact, some manner of mutant go-go girl, transported from the distant future:

my sister, dancer and possible time-traveler

in this future, San Francisco has slid into the sea, Chicago has collapsed into Lake Michigan, and New York has finally been gentrified beyond the point of recognition. it is a dystopia to rival Orwell's, and Baltimore, once shunned for its druggy murderousness, has risen from the ashes to take the mantle of America's sole bastion of hipness.

this is the world of my sister.

this is the world to come.

on turning 33

this one feels different.

i don' know why.

i don't think it's the math.
i don't think it's the trinity.
i don't think about it at all.

but i feel it.

i went for a ride today in a convertible, blindfolded, and had my chart read by a woman who isn't my mother. she told me my Gemini was ascendant. she told me i form meaning by means of montage and juxtaposition. i placed what she said next to the other thoughts in my mind and ate cheesecake under the watchful eye of a macaw named Taco.

i took off the blindfold and saw a room of friends i once knew as strangers. i read well-wishes from people i love in San Francisco. i did not want to think about the night ahead. my best friend cried in my living room. he asked me to give him permission to feel okay.
i walked him to his car and told him i was getting married.



i watched the woman i love age fifty years in the blink of an eye.
i loved her still. i loved her dying and frail.
i loved her after i was gone.

this body i call my own will not survive.
someday these words will wither into dust.

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.

6am, 30 September 2007

my sister and i went dancing in Miami, and when the lights came on at 5am, everyone in the club grew uglier. we could see who was on what for how long and how strong, and my sister and i became suddenly better looking. we drove to South Beach to celebrate with pancakes in an unpleasantly cold café.

at the booth behind us sat two large men, and it was impossible to discern whether they were siblings or lovers. one berated the other as his hamburger grew cold, and eventually his performance caused the whole row of tables to shake:

(my sister turns around)

"watch it buddy."

(the man jumps up)

"what the f_ck? what the f_ck?"

(my sister is from Baltimore)

"you're bangin' the table."

(bulging waistband implies gun)

"what the f_ck?"

(my sister is from Baltimore)

"[silence]"

(three men at corner booth stand up)

"is there a problem here?"

(man turns to face three men)

"what the f_uck?"

(three men step forward)

"is there a problem here?"

(lover/brother stands)

"what the f_uck?"

(three men in unison)

"we from New York."

(man steps forward)

"what the f_ck we care 'bout New York? "

(lover/brother steps forward)

"we from Camden."

[lapse]

we asked for our tab and left for home, while (unknown) rappers exchanged numbers in the corner booth of the café.

dancing with kid sister

we once sat outside, drinking tonic water, and eating brownies in the rain. she was in love, i was out; we were not where we wanted to be.

two years ago, in the midst of quinine and chocolate, we sat on crab-
infested couches and danced in the streets, waiting for the ping pong balls to stop falling, hoping to find a way to stay in, and out, of the loves we thought we were...

illustration from:
For An American Girl With a Czech Surname
1st edition chapbook, limited to 50 copies
(suggested) contribution $5.00
email: circlesallthewaydown@gmail.com

two years ago today...

a friend of mine set me up with her roommate, a tall cute girl from South Carolina who invited me to her place for feta spinach burgers and homemade sweet potato fries. less than six weeks later, this tall cute girl was stricken by meningitis, which left her hospitalized, infirm, and burdened with an unfortunate moniker.

but this is beside the point.

the point is that the pairing never took, and i left her apartment that night with my pants vibrating. at that time i was still fascinated by text messaging and its bizarre mongrelized IM cum telegraph articulation, and when i opened my phone there was a message from Mardou. the specifics of her query were less important than her tenor, and i called back immediately, telling her that sadly, the answer to her question was "no."

we proceeded to meet at midnight and walk her dog under a full moon, passing along the way a trio of reiki healers and a pair of lovers making love on the sand. her boyfriend phoned during the walk, a call she chose not to answer, and this night on the beach proved to be the first in a trinity. two weeks of full moons in the dying days of summer, raindancing with our sister and swimming in the dark...

reflections on first four hours of waking

last night i dreamed in dots and nostalgias, friendships forgotten and severed, obliterated upon the trauma of waking. i drank water, i ate strawberries, i tried to chase away the taste of malaise with stevia and caffeine. i walked for the paper, i spoke to my father, i stared at the screen and typed away at a fiction of the woman i live with.

i called an autonomen (and left a message),
i sent an email to my sister (and Mardou),
i did all these things (parenthetically).

i played with form becasue i had nothing to say. i used words in lieu of the truth, and watched the letters appear from the void.

just because i could.

one year (time is a scam)

on this day last year
i was writing things like this
to myself:

she gave her two weeks notice (yesterday)
and this is a reflection of a reflection
of two weeks in September.

i watched her sleeping (briefly)
in my bed last night
same yellow boots she wore
for one night in September.

i looked at the crease in her skirt
where hip meets delight
and breathed.

the night before
i was sending emails like this
to my self:

C____,

this may be the kookiest experiment i have ever run; it is a practice in circles. the hypothesis goes something like this:

le denouement is about to begin
with a handful of circles,
one on top of the other.
Mardou,
le petite les bien,
et ma soeur,
it's circles all the way down.

i will talk to you tomorrow,

j_____