Now
I don’t have anything I want to write about so I’m just going to type. I need to exercise the muscle. Get back into the swing. Uzi pumps from speakers behind me. An auxiliary cord running from the back of the receiver to the output of my laptop. Its just long enough.
Looking, there’s basically no slack. And I’m reminded it isn’t just one cord, but three, inputting and outputting to each other, a perfect game of telephone.
I don’t know what to write about. I stopped to think, which I don’t want to be doing right now. I pushed myself back in.
I don’t know what to write about. I’m going to repeat myself. I don’t know what to write about, which makes it hard to type continuously. I still don’t really know.
I sit. I rock. Slightly pushing the ball of my foot into the ground. I push harder to feel the difference. I like the little rocks.
“I’m so high, don’t know if I’ll be coming down.”
I’m out of weed. Drybones. Mario style.
Fuck Drybones
Still don’t know what to write about, had to kick myself again.
I… pause.
My word processor tried to make a bulleted outline when I “Return”-ed after that last sentence. It took me two minutes to get everything back to normal. How much is too much?
Why would I want a numbered outline in the middle of this?
-
-
-
I wouldn’t
-
-
An Idea
- Dude
- Yeah?
- I’ve got the greatest idea
- What’s up?
- We all know I haven’t been gettin’ shit lately
- Yeah we do
- YEAH WE DO!
- Shut the fuck up
- Whatever keep goin’
- AND ITS NOT LIKE YOU’RE GETTIN’ ANY EITHER! But yeah, so I’ve been doin’ a lot of jerkin’ off
- Oh, you mean more than usual?
- FUCKIN’ SLAPPIN’ IT, ALL NIGHT LONG!
- Fuck, just listen. How is he even hearing this in there? HOW ARE YOU… oh, nevermind. Anyways, so this trend will continue
- If you’re a real man
- Exactly, so I might as well put it to good use, do something with it
- Make money donating sperm
- No
- LIVE WEBCAM
- No… I might have considered that though
- Wait, what? - WHAT!
- So every time I blow a load I’m gunna aim it at different spots over my mattress. That way it just happens to appear that I’m getting laid all the time
- Ah, this is an ego thing.
- Not really
- Its a little dirty
- Yeah, but I think its worth the false ego boost. Plus, if she ever happens to come over to get something she forgot she’ll think…
- Oh come on - ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!
- What? It’ll not only encourage more healthy sexual release, but will burn nightly…
- Sometimes morningly…
- Maybe afternoonly if I’m off work…
- Before partying-ly…
- You do that?
- Yeah man, trust me
- Hm, but yeah, burn a bunch of calories, and keep up my endurance
- What little there is
- AND YOUR CREDIT CARD BILL
- Dude, welcome to 2004, no one pays for porn anymore
Is it late or early?
There is too much running through my head to be able to sleep. Also, I haven’t smoked weed in probably three days.
My brain is tired. It needs the sleep, there wasn’t much to be had last night either, but that’s not to say it wants it. It runs in constant circles. Focus being pulled, folded in on itself, “Genuine Salt-Water Taffy” in the window on the boardwalk, shut down or run cycles.
Giving in to the many flowing streams of thought means no rest, which is not an attractive idea. But, that also means this. It means writing, as the streams all empty through my fingers onto the screen. It gives permanence, slowing the inevitable drying of ideas, a dam to hold it all in.
Fighting the current means much needed rest, give up on thought to shut down my head. Give it time to restore memory, cool-down, reboot. I wish it was automatic.
Its never easy going against stream. Especially when there’s five. And you never know which one you’re in.
Tribute
Q.
“It was non-descript. It was nice. It was sunny, light wind keeping the perspiration down to a minimum, not like the last few days. I dont know, I don’t know what you want to know.”
Q.
“Yeah.”
Q.
“There’s nothing to elaborate on.”
Q.
“Yeah, I had a good time.”
Q.
“That’s as much as I can give you.”
Q.
“You’re not making this very easy.”
Q.
“Its never been easy. But I thought you were supposed to help.”
Q.
“You’re right about that one.”
Q.
“The fact that you sit over there, acting like you know me. Like these three weeks have given you some kind of crystal-clear window into the inner-workings of my mind. But at the same time you claim I’m not, ‘giving you anything.’ There is some kind of disconnect there.”
Q.
“And even that answer is being analyzed, even if you didn’t do your little head shake, look down, scribble note shit. I can’t say anything. There’s nothing real here.”
…
“What did you just write?”
Q.
“Of course. Well, look, even if I wasn’t fucked up, I’d still have a problem with you, with this.”
Q.
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Even if I have a problem with this whole thing.”
Q.
“Does it matter? Would it change anything if it was something abstract or like, some traceable scar?”
Q.
“Isn’t that what you’re here for, or what I’m here with you for, I guess? I have no idea. And I could really care less. I guess I like it that way, as ‘off’ as that actually may be, as wrong as that may be.”
…
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Stop your fucking scribbling. You wonder why this is hard? You wonder why its so hard for me? Anytime anything of any value comes up the only response you have is your fucking, head-shake and scribble. Why would I want to talk to someone like that? What is that doing? If I review your notes will I pass the test? On my fucking self? Will you pass? You’re little fucking yellow pad of paper, your little pad of secrets, of knowledge. How many people has that little, fucking yellow pad solved?”
Q.
“No, I don’t. That wouldn’t do anything.”
Q.
“See, that’s what I’m sayin’, you don’t even understand what I’m saying.”
Q.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I thought I was supposed to be truthful. That was a dumb question.”
Q.
“Because I was told you could help. I’ve never done this, so I thought I’d give it a try, but these three weeks have really shown me something, and I’m over it. You’re a glorified librarian, you label and categorize and put away, but you do it with people.”
Q.
“Yeah, librarians have to go to school too.”
Q.
“Look, as great and helpful as this has all been. I’m done, this is our last talk. I don’t know if its you, or me, or psychologists in general but this isn’t working.”
Q.
“Yes, I think its a great idea in fact. This only makes me mad.”
…
“I don’t know why you’re writing, I’m not coming back.”
Q.
“There is no, ‘in case,’ I won’t be back.”
Q.
“And I hope things turn out okay for you too. And you’re little fucking yellow pad. Tell it to give me a call when it figures out something I didn’t already know.”
Look Up
The sky is falling,
Clouds along with it,
One by one
The clouds are falling
One by one
White, grey, black,
Slowly dropping from the matter above
To the “love” below
Captured by logic,
never let go.
Formerly flowers, rabbits, trees.
Formerly floating any thing
Grounded,
The any thing becomes one thing
And the one thing, dissected
With care
Out of “love”
Until there’s nothing left to feel
The clouds have fallen
Trapped in their cells
The sky forever blank,
So no one notices its there
Look Up
They’re taking it down,
The sky that is.
Clouds along with it
Nets of curiosity
Winched down,
Slow
Arms outstretched,
Reach for
More.
Hands together
Pray for
More
Callused fingers
Grasp for
More
The clouds are grounded
Floating anything
Labeled, one thing
The sky is blank now
Look up,
See nothing.
NYU Fiction Piece
Wrote this little fiction piece, no ending, while at NYU:
The taxi carrying A.G.H stopped in front of The Wheeling Apartments on West 4th Street.
Inside, A.G.H shifted his weight and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and removed a twenty dollar bill in one swift motion and handed it through the window to his Middle Eastern cabbie. Opening the door and stepping out onto the side-walk, he moved to the back of the taxi to an already popped trunk. He pulled out an average sized black rolling suitcase and a black leather briefcase which looked to be Italian made. It wasn’t.
Before going through the revolving doors, A.G.H stopped on the sidewalk. He scanned his surroundings, looking for eyes recognizing him.
The Wheeling Apartments were 24 floors high. A mixture of brick, steel, glass and stucco, it was one of the more picturesque buildings on the west side. It also included an extensive garden covering the entire roof which the owners touted as their “Green Roof.”
A.G.H pushed through the revolving doors into the modest lobby of the building. The walls were all exposed, distressed brick. Black and white photographs of nondescript skyscrapers and construction workers sitting on high beams hung on the walls. Directly in front of him was the front desk where the rent-a-cop was always stationed.
Today, instead of the usual one rent-a-cop, there were two. One was pudgy, had jet black hair slicked and combed-over to the left and was sitting at the normal post behind the desk. The other was slightly less pudgy. He wore a noticeably bad toupee, a dark black mustache and was leaning with his forearms on the desk. Both were wearing the normal, blue rent-a-cop garb.
As he moved towards the elevator in the back-right corner of the lobby, he noticed the leaning one had become very animated, making elaborate hand gestures and raising his voice to a much higher decibel.
A.G.H had just recently shaved his head. Not completely bald, but a No. 1 on the buzzer-scale. He was told it would help him to blend in, “Now you don’t even have to worry about people recognizing you,” his mother had said. He thought it may have done the opposite. With all the hair gone people would recognize his face clearer. Plus, he thought he looked too much like a model.
“And then we got in the shower,” he overheard the once-leaning rent-a-cop say.
“Yeah? Then what?” the sitting one asked.
Eating Alone
Eating alone is an intimidating idea.
By eating alone, I guess what I really mean is dining out alone. Not just eating alone, everyone does that once in a while in their homes and cars.
Walking into a restaurant alone, sitting down alone, ordering alone, eating alone, paying alone and leaving alone is not an attractive idea.
By restaurant, I guess what I really mean is a real eating establishment. One with menus, servers, a wait time, appetizers, desserts and a check. Not just the local fast food “restaurant.”
It is understandable why most people would not want to do this. Eating brings people together. It is something we do with people we love, people we want to love and people we fake that we love. Having to sit down in a nice restaurant to a meal alone means no conversation, no small talk. The only dialogue is the mind’s silent racing.
By most people, I guess what I really mean is me.
Alone in New York, so much to do, so much to see and so many restaurants that must be visited before I leave.
Yet, I am alone in New York.
That means, if I want to visit the foodie places I have to go to every time I’m in New York, I have to do it alone.
Scary proposition.
Written in New York City during my 2 week stint at NYU
