Monday, August 29, 2005

after the end (before the beginning). I think someone famous called it "space between", but I'll just refer to it as

a particular junction at which it’s easiest to disappear. "Delete" buttons tend to present themselves readily here, and they’re cleaner than erasers because they don’t leave rubber residue. This interstitial period allows for cognitive reconstruction. I’m using it to anatomize people and places like parts and rebuild them like an engine which I will use to drive myself into a new driveway.

Friday, August 26, 2005

smells like popped collar

I came across an interesting situation this past weekend in which the “popped collar” as much as I despise its presence, actually illustrated an interesting cultural point. While visiting the more southern parts of our country, I was forced into an Abercrombie and Fitch store (quite possible the initiator of popped collars). During this visit, I did what any normal human being would do—
I surreptitiously weaved through mannequins, bending collars back and where they belong. I wiped the beads of sweat dripping off my forehead, and looked around disappointed that I couldn’t get them all. Then I noticed something. I questioned it. It turned out to be true.
Here in the south, only men pop- no female pop-age occurs in these parts.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

find out what it means to me

It was 5:15 when my plane lowered its belly to the ocean and touched down at logan. The family sitting adjacent to me was both nervous and excited about how close we were to the ocean. I remember that excitement- I had it too the first time I watched bushy green trees fade into rows upon rows of paper thin houses. At 5:30 I checked my watch and heard the guy behind me- two earrings (one for each ear) answer his cell phone, “Yeah, we just landed, I’ll meet you at baggage claim,” and all the usual terminal jargon. I looked out the window at the baggage trucks and accepted the feeling of being home- the feeling that no one would be greeting me at baggage claim. The anticipation of vacation was replaced with a vague, comfortable familiarity, which grew along the subway tracks eventually giving way to a full, bright smile, once I stepped onto the street.
I can’t explain why I belong here, other than to simply say: this city has kicked my ass. And for an arrogant, typecast, disorganized, absurd, wicked city- I respect it for just that.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

expiration date

0blong mirror stares at plastic bristles sliding down strands of hair. It’s
8 pm. I’m thanking the sun for setting
16 minutes earlier today than yesterday, reminding me to forget the past
2 minutes— tomorrow they’ll be gone anyway.
0r at least, realize that my father forgot my birthday,
0nly six days after its occurrence. I don’t feel bad. I feel I’m going bad—
5 days past due.

Monday, August 15, 2005

this time

two years ago I wrote a song about letting go. it was significant for 2 reasons. 1) I did actually let go. I heard my voice for the first time and lost all composure at the sound, and 2) I did actually let go. I wrote my own answers to the questions that kept me up at night.
I played it one night (without composure) for a guitarist I happened to be in love with, at the time. he listened with his eyes closed and when I was finished he told me that my song needed drums.
All your songs need drums he had said. I spent days staring at my metronome and practicing (with tight composure) my foot tapping.


a song takes on new meaning when it’s been dissected into parts. It never comes back together quite the same way. Kind of like deciphering an optical illusion, once you pick out the old lady’s face- you can never look at that picture again without seeing it. (broken social scene is accelerating, in this slow, smooth way.) I wish I could explain what it feels like,
but I don’t have the terminology to articulate.


a few weeks ago, in an un-crowded bar, I heard this band play. it was spontaneous—
the music that is, not me in the audience. the drummer played as though he had time completely pinned down. certain sounds and cymbals subdivided, sharing the song on their own terms. they tapped me on the shoulder once, and questioned my understanding. my former conceptions about their supporting roles are still waiting for callbacks.

this time, drums were the most interesting part. they made up for whatever was missing.
and drums are not at all like interesting guitar; which usually consumes the foreground, blurring the band into a scenic landscape. drums spread out temporally and spatially until the walls are pressed. they demand attention through subtle anticipation. his drumming provoked the other instruments, it seemed to be pushing and pulling and increasing tension on bone so that it could get at something deeper. his drumming was interactive, it played chase with guitar—
chess with bass.
it was always there.

it shook me up.

I felt pulled in and pushed around and briefly taken—
like maybe my heart was beating differently, in this context.
like my pulse wasn’t stuck as much
in awkward pauses.


now I’m thinking about my songs with drums, but disappointment has completely dulled their sound. and while disappointment is busy disappointing itself, I'm uninspired. It seems like something is missing. I worry that people in my audience will think it too.

But I’ve never played with a drummer
and I’ve never had drums in my songs.
and yet,
now I miss something I never had.

I miss something I’ve never even had.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

it still moves

today,
the horizon was dreamlike in the fog—
literally
a movie set.
the ocean waved
and
I was wondering why familiar feels so good—
better than good itself,
sometimes.
my fingers gripped gritty fiberglass
and seawater turned my skin to
sugar melted in sun.
the boat rocked in lingering
exhaust
the same as
when I was 5, in a hot pink
Woodstock life-vest.
water knocked the hull
and foamed at the mouth
before swallowing itself down
smooth.
I hope
the other people with pink noses
and leather shoes
thought it was just salt
in my eyes.

Friday, August 12, 2005

how free is a bird from the chains of the skyway

I was sitting in the grass today, eating my bbq pulled pork sandwich, feeling incredibly free. there was a moment in which i was so transfixed by the sky that i actually felt like it had invited me in. my first day off- and i actually felt it- it felt like freedom. unfortunately i also felt something crawling on my leg. needless to say this sensation dislodged me from momentary nirvana and catapulted me into a paranoid delusion about a bug infestation. I had to leave at once and take shelter/ a shower to ensure purity.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

"neurotransmitters take a holiday"

i'm starting a HEART cover band.

Monday, August 08, 2005

afternoon nap

“what’s your goal…” she says to me smiling- or I think she is smiling, but I can’t be sure without my glasses.
“what do you mean?”
“You have to think about this. What’s your goal? How do you want to feel?” She’s empathetic, though I can’t see it in her face.
And I’m thinking…that right there really is the question.
My thoughts take on the shape and sound of a wonder year’s voice over.
“I don’t want to be someone else’s disappointment.”
I wasn’t sure it would come out that way, but once it had, I realized it was true.
I don’t want to be someone else’s disappointment

Sunday, August 07, 2005

I'm not much for anniversaries,

but here's me one year ago exactly, attempting to describe public transportation.

“The Unspoken Irrefutable Ever-Present Social Rules of the T”

Rule 1:
Passengers are to remain quiet at all times. This includes, but is not limited to the following restrictions:

a) no cell phone usage
b) no casual/deep philosophical conversations with passengers related to or traveling with you
c) no talking to strangers
*note: breaking rule 1a-b will result in any/all of the following:
a) scolding glances
b) adjustment of passenger positions on the train
(for breaking rule 1c please see rule # 2)

Rule 2:
Speaking to other passengers is strictly prohibited. There might be certain circumstances for which it seems reasonable to break this rule, but please be advised, in actuality, there are no exceptions. Consider the following examples of reasonable circumstances that are NOT exceptions:

scenario 1. you spot another passenger wearing a sweatshirt with the name of a school 2000+ miles away that you also attended (yes, I actually saw someone with a Stetson sweatshirt)

scenario 2. you need the time

scenario 3. you spot a passenger wearing a sweatshirt with the name of a school you currently attend.

scenario 4. you are waiting at a T-stop with the same one person, everyday, at the same time, and this person is your age and attending your school (or at least wearing the sweatshirt), for over 5 minutes.

note: failure to comply with rule # 2can have disastrous consequences. please be advised, that in the event you mistakenly assume it is okay to speak with strangers, the following are bound to occur:
1. passengers seated/standing around will reposition themselves far away from you.
2. psychologically challenged or homeless individuals will take this opportunity to move closer, as you have now established yourself as one open to speaking with strangers and a violator of social rules.
Rule 3:
Eye contact is strictly forbidden. That’s what all the stupid posters are for. (It’s okay to stare at people though, just as long as they don’t see you do it).

Friday, August 05, 2005

and freud just laughs

Last night I dreamt I was in a glass elevator. It was dark and full- so full in fact, I didn’t notice it was glass until later. The people on the elevator were all my age, I didn’t know any of them, though it seemed as though I might have known them during the dream. The elevator was rising and we were all happy as it traveled through the stories. Later though, it stuttered, and we all looked at each other in disbelief. Moments later it sharply descended. The sky was light, and blue, as I could now see it through the glass. As we fell, I realized we were outside- on top of the building. And when we crashed, it was onto the roof of the building. The glass broke and pieces of this mechanical atrocity burst and broke and fell into the roof. We stood, in formation, completely unharmed. I could see the impact, but I couldn’t feel anything.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

take the "L" out of lover, baby

9:30 AM
I’m wondering how steady my footing can be when my brain is actually a large vat of oatmeal- thick and rich, warm and sweet, but bearing little direction. my left arm always swings when I walk. when I was six years old my grandma told me to stop swinging, “ it makes you look like a little boy.”
and really, what could be worse.
the weight of this situation has no place on my shoulders- or they don’t feel all that heavy. or at least all, the weight can be attributed to my laptop. instead, thoughts are flickering like strobes of summer storm, then rising and falling like swings on the set.
It’s been 5 months. Despite numerous run ins: whole foods market (5X), reservoir T-stop (1X) and copy room/meeting room/stairway/coffee shop (priceless- I mean countless), no words have been exchanged.
He approaches me and my swinging arm with quite the entitled confrontation. I look up at him and he doesn’t even look real. He talked for a few minutes before I realized a response was warranted. I said the only thing I could say.
“I just totaled my car”
to which he actually laughed at me.
A keystone of our relationship was the superficial attitude he took to all my problems. At the time, I thought he was laughing with me- it being the best medicine and all. Now I know, he actually had me laughing at myself.
My indifference was provocative for him, I could tell by the way that kept talking and walking, always 2 steps ahead.
Now, if I had been able to formulate thoughts at that moment they might have been something of the following:
1. what was the origin of his entitled confrontation?
2. was he really moving back to California?
3. was he still miserable?


I’m curious. but I’ll never be curious enough to ask. Besides, I already got the one answer I needed.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

case in point

Grolier Poetry Book Shop 6 Plympton Street, Cambridge, MA 02138, 617-547-4648, Grolier is the “oldest, continuous poetry bookshop in North America;” as well as featuring book signings, autograph sessions, a yearly poetry contest and poetry readings, this book store also carries little magazines and over fifteen thousand current poetry titles.