Who died where your bed is?

July 30, 2010 § 1 Comment

Sometimes when I see my new neighbor who rents the studio apartment next door I want to tell her:

“In 1986 the man who owned your apartment died in a room filled with stacks of pornography to the ceiling with no clothes on and weird junk piles all around him and the neighbors smelled him and called the police and that is why it has not been sold for a couple of decades.”

…But I bite my tongue because I have to ride in the elevator with these people. Sometimes I’m too tired to walk up five flights of stairs.


July 18, 2010 § 2 Comments

let my hair get sweated
white tanktop
move the breasts to the floor
and pick up the mess (spraypainted box filled with to-be-stored vhs, holders broken)
her knee and my knee
we say 123
CVS calls. refills? are you holding her hand? other line.
“i am at cvs….”
“the woman across from you is talking to me”
then i hear them talk to one another and they hang up on me.

i have a face sheen
i have been writing a short story
wait till you find out what has been in your blood!
i bet you suspected it all along
3 doctors quit on me. being on medicaid sucks.

are you coming out are you
no i am frozen in the heatlock of my hips and knees
if you understood the summer of 2002
you’d get it, i swear. just give me a moment. i leaf through my
iphone and pluck out a diagram
“here is the map”
i am an advertisement for humans especially when i look
so regular or irregular. all those days in between i am
black and white floor tiles of preferred bathrooms
you kneel in and most of those are cracked
from people dropping.

we fixed the marker light. it popped out. we went to sears
no long phillips head screwdrivers
and i almost fainted
and then i read my trade paperback in the garage.
this chair sure is squeaky.
do you want money or a new
radiator for your birthday?
“jeez” i say. we’ve been at the shop all day and my skin is crawling
from the sun or the motor oil or conductor lube or whatever the fuck is
staining this place and i realize all i’ve said is jeez because i’m smelling everything so i look at his hands and say,
i want the radiator. i want to drive to new paltz, and you know i don’t give a shit about money. duh.
i actually say “duh.”
“good girl”
he actually says “good girl”
i think i never want to drive again. just the other day, demz touched my back and said i was sweaty. well its hot out and i’ve been driving you around. CRIPES they don’t use directionals. “what are directionals?” WELL THEY LET ME KNOW WHERE PEOPLE ARE GOING MAN LIKE IF LEFT OR RIGHT. “dude” eleni says. you have to try this candy i got. its more sour than warheads.


since age two she has been drawing in my journals. she is six now.


sit on the brooklyn side of the east river. look at manhattan. hug someone. do not trivialize anything.

Progress/ Goodreads/ How I felt about that:

July 6, 2010 § 1 Comment

I am now on goodreads.com ( http://www.goodreads.com/dontyoutellme ) which is a nifty site that tons of people knew about and I didn’t get into until the other day. You can keep track of your library, swap books with people, rate books, get ideas for new reading material, etc. Below is a photo of my non-swap area:

Things I will not swap: Journals from 2007- 2009 (what hectic years), a Colonel Akbar guy, my signed copy of Carolyn Forche’s A Country Between Us, A strange (prob fake composite metal) frame holding a random Victorian looking newsprint found at a Goodwill near Healdsburg, CA, Walden, The Secret History by Donna Tartt (held together with rubber band), The Little Friend by Donna Tartt, An old Leonard Cohen copy of Death of a Lady’s Man, The Ghastly Crumb Tinies by Edward Gorey & the Melvins CD: Electroretard (out of print). Also, thats the corner of a print of Georgia O’keefe from the O’keefe museum in New Mexico. I’d just feel like a louse swapping that for a people magazine and three grape Charms blowpops.

I will put swap stuff up. I think. I become really attached to books. They’ve become the architecture of my room. Corny, sentimental. Go ahead, tell everyone my secrets. Shakti knows. I gave her The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls yesterday. I hope she reads it and likes it. We are able to swap because we get out things back. I gave her back her Didion, etc.

Speaking of swapping talents and fun and all of that… Ahmed and I went out on a super secret adventure the other night. We did some nightshooting (not what it sounds like I explained to my Bronx raised father) and I didn’t even have a tripod for most of it! Some of it is posted on my flickr, others are going to be blown up hopefully. I’m making an album for this summer and those will go in there. Guess who else I owed a letter and CD discs of photos to?

My Aunt & Uncle whom I have let a year pass without sending them photos from our vacation. I included a bonus disc. (Please note: 2 Discs!) I wrote them a nice letter on some stationary because they think email is impersonal and so do I. We like to exchange post mail.

So you may have noticed that my last post was very un- tax-of-colors (was it? I’m not even sure…). I was getting through some stuff that was kind of like when you make paper mache and you feel like you are going to throw up all the time but you pop the balloon inside and then you can paint the mold to display briefly before its becomes elementary garbage. My fingers got away. That was not right. See! Things are tax-of-colors. Okay. So I was drowning and I waved my hands at my closest buddies, but they were behind a glass wall and help up instructions for self-cpr and I realized I was qualified to straighten my lungs into breathing regularly if just for a little bit. Again. Then they surrounded me and patted me on the back and all of the surf got spit in their faces and they were so good to me they wiped their eyes like they had been crying with me.

Maybe I should do this and maybe I should do that. I am indecisive too, but I knew I wanted butter-cream paint and I knew I wanted that camera and I knew I wanted you and then I knew I needed to drink an entire glass of water stock still.

Seeing the kids today filled me with joy. Bringing them 5alive juiceboxes and beating that level with E, washing their chlorinated hair, making them dinner, punished D for saying “damnit”when she lost (20 minutes, extremely lenient, girlscout cookies rewarded for no tantrum) and talking about camp and lanyards. Yes I went to chess camp. And rocketry camp. But I also went to a place where we did the box and barrel stitch and ran fucking nuts all over the place for two weeks with our summer buddies. E said to me: “I’m so glad there’s no homework and your car has air conditioning.”

Also…If you’ve never seen the Kids in the Hall French Fur Trappers…its something I’ve been referencing for a fucking decade at least and never leaves my mind. Take a moment:

The end scene always kills it for me so hard that it never gets old.

Let that one go Francois…

July 2, 2010 § Leave a comment

It’s for the best,
most would say.
(All do say this, in fact. Except one forgiving soul who says: “perhaps…”)

Notes on surviving the trappings of silence when resolution and fresh air are the only thing fresh blood needs:

If someone’s baggage exceeds yours, then it is your job to fuck the sunshine out of the world and finally unfold that map from your back pocket- the one that is supposed to guide you out of a paper bag when confused by crinkles (or when you’re half in the bag.)

Your personal map, however archaic, (even drawn in the thickest toddler crayon, [some start early.]) This isn’t about one’s personal baggage though, (this is about the trappings of the “other,” right?) and will surely show some meandering path out of countless bag styles. Baggage styles include:

  • The scary luggage with the impossible zipper.
  • The small and ornate doohickey which looks so pretty from the outside but contains nothing but a buffalo nickel.
  • The beat up leather one that proclaims one has “been around the block” but contains nothing but the same words written over and over in ball point pen.
  • The simple backpack that claims one a practical traveler of the urban, suburban, and country. (I like this one, it has often been my choice: full disclosure)

Surely all of these open and close in order to serve their designated purposes. Our job. That is, my job, is to find one which does not contain stale air and ghosts with realistic attributes that I wouldn’t recognize in a line-up save for the wrinkles in their faces and the necklines of their shirts.

With that said: maybe you loved that baggage. Maybe it hurt you for a reason. That’s as good enough of a reason to become the amalgamation of jabs and stabs and sewn up parts that were so cleverly hidden in glove compartments, computer hard-drives, and books behind other books in bookshelves. There is a subconsciously clever part of slowly and unknowingly taking on the weight of situations that leave you in a foreign, yet familiar place. The hologram of a grassy knoll. There is also a part that hurts when you realize: “you could have been a person that revised my map, helped me out of my own baggage, made my life seamless in places where it has been leaking.” Then there is the part that walks away from the analogy and its ploy to comfort the shaking shoulders.

For all of these problems we are human and we are the coping shrinking bodies that revised textbooks and DSM’s love to pry into. We have not changed. Our dumbing down is coping and the summer months are coping. Watching plants grow from the earth is coping and listening to Earth is coping. Sleep is coping. Poorly worded justification is a cop-out. It all seems so smart and secondhand at the time.(above: one place.)

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