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.

La Jetée v. les singes

i watched La Jetée.

it rendered me speechless.

something must be said.

[
Chris Marker's film left me wishing i had never seen 12 Monkeys, not because it was a poor adaptation (it was a surprisingly close reading of the original, right down to the mise-en-scène of the jailors), but because my mind wanted to superimpose Gilliam's interpretation. the underlying issues are the same in both, but in 12 Monkeys they are subsumed by the narrative, effaced and rendered invisible to the point of impotence.

]

these things:

memory, Freud, childhood trauma, Oedipus and obsession

are at the fore of La Jetée,

without the distraction:

moving subjects...

poetry

the difference between

and prose

not to mention

allusion:

Vertigo.

carnivorousness

my yin has been threatening to eat a hamburger for over a week now, and in an attempt to stave off her carnivorousness, i suggested we head north instead and dine on ahi burgers. my question was timed to minimize the impact of left brain influence and she agreed, but this is beside the point.

the point is that the last time i had an ahi burger was well over two years ago, with two friends now living cross continent, Pacific and Northwestern. they were keen on late night dining and more than once we shared meals in diners, ordering french fries and covering them with kitschup.

one night, in Fort Lauderdale, we sat waiting for a milkshake and i expounded dubious wisdom, insisting certitude and eulogizing impermanence, not knowing both of them would be gone in less than one year's time...

on the occassion of the 4th anniversary of my father's 55th birthday

We rode in silence. My hand on your leg but all I held was my own counsel, wondering if the words were cutting through you...

We made our exit. Three right turns. And stopped after the first left in the road. Birds behind us and above, forming and reforming. Ebb, flow, a mandelbrot in the sky...

We watched and commented. You said surreal. I said they were there to pick the bones and wondered if you took my meaning. Or rather how you would take it. You said nothing...

We returned to our drive and you said you would never love anyone more than me. I waited and strained. My will was overcome by a lapse in judgment:

"Is there was a 'but' coming?"

You said no.

We hugged after we parked, came inside, lay down and talked in the dark. About him, about us, about our failing youth as it ails and withers in the face of experience. At best we have a pressed leaf (where a seed was once planted, and a tree might have grown)
next to our deathbed hearts...

Before we met I felt my will shaped by fate, and now I wonder if I was wrong. Perhaps she is as cruel as I've heard. My charm is not what it was, and the old bird has lain raw our skin and taken her toll in pinpricks and tar.

- from my journal (approximately), 25 September 2005

poem fragment under construction

the last day of summer passed without mention,
and i woke up in autumn,
wondering where it had gone:

was it

squeezed
between dreams
stretching inward
towards infinity?

or

was it

trampled
beneath the weight
of an endless
night?

or

was it

merely forgotten,

lost to

the celluloid

memory -

Bogart's Parisian Golgotha.

Rosh Hashanah is like...

relishing

kasha varnishkes

hiding from

gefilte fish

and playing with

Mr. Potato Head

and

the wake of self

inflicted

haircuts.

shofar, so good...

i met a (witch) doctor yesterday who told me my yin had the blood pressure of a cadaver and was in desperate need of red meat. she (the doctor, not the yin) had just conducted a thorough exam of her (the yin, not the doctor) feet to rule out the possibility of hormone-related gall bladder meridian disturbance. thankfully the results came back negative, but the doctor whispered that my yin may, in fact, have brain cells living in her stomach.

but this is beside the point.

the point is that my yin and i are ringing in the new year at her mother's (yin-in-law?) place this afternoon, and i'm excited because not only will this be our first year celebrating Rosh HaShanah together, it will be my first time celebrating it at all. i've been practicing my "L'Shanah Tovah" (in my head), and so long as it doesn't get lost amongst the fragments of French and snippets of Sanskrit,
i suspect the evening will be a success...