Shed your skiiiiiiiiin! A great Title Fight record. I own it on vinyl, which I purchased from Scotti’s Record Shop in Summit, NJ what seems like another lifetime ago, but was probably only about six years ago. I haven’t been back since, mainly because I’m never in Summit and typically choose to spend my disposable income on other things other than records nowadays (which unfortunately, I never quite make the time to listen to as often as I’d like). I love records though. I love the way they sound, I love the mechanical science of it. It’s just so titillating and fascinating to me. The scratchy sound of the record before the music starts. I love all genres. The last record I listened to was Temples’ Sun Structures. I love the smell of old records. Worn and musty. The ones that have seen a lot of history, have played the soundtrack to it. The record rotation, spinning 33 and 1/3 times per minute.
My dog sheds. My lil’ Mario – My chocolate-dipped peanut / marshmallow ball whom I love so much. We recently got this combing glove that’s supposed to remove a lot of loose hair so it doesn’t get on our clothes and furniture. He’s do for another brushing soon. He is so soft, especially his ears. I pet and scratch them all the time for him. He’s very cuddly. I watch him outside and am constantly fascinated by his movements; The way his little paws gently touch the Earth and the grass. He’s constantly sniffing, skipping, jumping, running. He’s fast as lightning. A little jack rabbit scampering. Playing fetch with him and he becomes an excitable blur. He wants to be friends with the dogs next door. He’s constantly whining, vying for their attention when he smells them or hears them. Perks up his little head, his little ears and runs over, damning the fence that separates them. At doggie daycare, he tended to gravitate toward larger female dogs. That’s what he likes! His little eyes are like brown, hopeful orbs wanting love, attention, and food. He lays on my lap like a welcome heating blanket and he’ll stay like that for hours. He craves connection. We crated in him in the beginning to get him house-trained and adjusted to our home life, but once he got used to it, he wasn’t having it! Crying and barking in the night.
Talon Of The Hawk by The Front Bottoms is a near-perfect album and one of my favorites. I have Jersey pride, Ramapo pride. They are one of my favorite bands.
A talon is a long sharp nail, a smaller part of a lethal claw. I see talons as golden and belonging to hawks and vultures; big birds (but not Big Bird). Big Bird does have toes, but not talons. Summer doorsteps, sitting down melding and melting Time, as a cool ice cube begins is seasonal disintegration. The Cure plays loudly in my head sometimes. Cathartic release to listen to Robert Smith wail. Tradesmen flock to conventions to encourage a mass ego-stroking caveat. Lonely lumberyards remain abandoned. Watch your little dogs lest they be scooped up by raving and raging bird predator. Slicing to facts of life, unpretty truths that will make your skin crawl and your lip curl. I don’t want to be leftover and ravaged and scavenged. Reducting chemistry kits and science experiments. Flocking over to simple protection.
The stained, white carafe sits undisturbed on the board room conference table. The coffee’s gone cold. On the ceiling, there is a petulant hum and flicker of a florescent light that will not quit. It’s the only working bulb, and barely working at that. In the corners, there are faint outlines of cobwebs. A sheen of dust covers the table where files, dead laptops, pens, and coffee cups have remained stock-still and immortalized in their stillness. What was it Isaac Newton said? Surely, the inverse must be true. This abandoned office space must tell a story. Well-upholstered swivel chairs look as though they have been hastily pushed away; They remain there, cockeyed. The bulb in the EXIT sign has burned out. What emergency could have garnered this? The room smells of dirt and the fading stench of sour milk. Where are the ghosts of these office workers? Does anyone remember them? A stray thought painting a picture; Just one stroke could make all the others come to life. Sixteen festive birthday candles burned down to the frosting on a cake that still sits in the lunch room, the shape of it still intact. The scene must’ve been loud at the time. Complete with singing and applause. Maybe a gift card or two. Simple innocence ripped away with no time to blow out the candles? The dolly track of this camera backing up and outward so we may not touch this scene, but leave it rest so others may ask questions of what happened here. Dark grey cubicle farms like Stonehenge laying in wait. Outside it is grey, foggy, overcast, misting. Mysterious aura that has lasted every since. Time stopped, in a way. Where is the door to the other dimension?
Survive – Elements surpassed our expectations and now we are on the cusp of a life or death situation, deep in the muck of Harvard-scholarly wallow, drinking desperately at any cup of liquid remotely close to optimism or positivism. I too, lower my cup. Aching for solace on the homefront, a reassurance of narrow nave, the apse of my brain can only tolerate so much fight or flight, life or death, “true God from true God, begotten not made, one in being with the Father”. Elementary certainty. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Faith confuses and doctors truth (sometimes); Maybe it depends on who’s doing the thinking. Survival mode: The video game you can’t get out of, the holodeck that will not “Computer, Exit!”. My lungs need air, my heart needs something worth beating for, my stomach and blood need nutrients. This is functioning biological machine – we all are. I must maintain it to the best of my ability. Nursery rhymes be damned, I am atop this peak in myself climbing ever so higher until the oxygen depletes and I delude myself to jump down. How, why – everything. Master of massive existential domain, catapulting reality ever present now; How can we not anticipate the future of factual representation? A tiny cough I cannot quit. Hollowed and hallowed stumps and stones, gazing on the web of history.
Squares that make up part of the whole. Tile floors in my bathroom and kitchen. Nonna used to have white octagonal titles (or hexagonal?) in her connecting dining room / living room. With a black or brown grout, I guess? I think those tiles were the same titles through her history in that house, from the 70s. Those titles must remember little feet growing into bigger feet. Slow walks and quick little steps. That floor held a dining room table that hosted meals beyond your wildest dreams; Stuffed manicotti and pastina on cold winter days – I can feel the warmth of the broth and hear the sound of metal cutlery diving into the tomato sauce and ricotta. Always bread and pecorino romano cheese – I can feel the pillowy softness the bread’s freshness, and my tastebuds accepting the salty promise of that cheese. A can of Pepsi or Sierra Mist – I can hear the can click open and feel the bubbles dancing in my mouth. Chick peas, turkey on Thanksgiving. I can taste carrots, potatoes, and chicken. Too many meals to count. So many people convened at the table. Most of them are gone now, including my Nonna. But if the tile could talk…
I grew up in that house. I must’ve fallen on that tile a bunch of times as a kid. I wonder where the markings are. If you were to roll back time like a rewound lottery, where would those spots be? Tile…When Nonna moved in with us we got our first floor bathroom redone to be more accommodating to her needs, as well as give it a nice update. The bathroom now stands as a sort of shrine to Botticelli; The Birth of Venus is exemplified throughout it. But the tile work, especially on the walls is nice and exquisite. Little tiny tiles create a border around the small space. They are greenish; the kind of green that calls to the ocean and aquatic life more than anything. Maybe there are about 4 rows of these little tiles. I like to touch them sometimes and feel their smoothness.