Paranoid Canal Street traffic. Lower East Side Holland Tunnel mistake. Exits and roundabouts that don’t make sense as I’ve found my way drunken, stumbling through Chinatown and the one textile square that is Little Italy. Horns honk and voices buzz and fizzle and carbonate. We have grown to normalize trauma so that when someone gets mugged in front of us, we will freeze up and step aside. And then maybe at last minute trip the bastard and make him fall and eat cement.
Venetian canals that must be so empty in these strange times in our lives. I want to go back on the boat and drink champagne this time, and really capture what it’s like to be a buoy on that water. I want to go and stay. Hear the bells ringing from St. Mark’s Square before it all goes underwater. Some Assassin’s Creed Atlantis game where who knows where the heck we’ll be in 300 years.
Ear canal, cochlea, Human Phys diagram. Extra credit, A-, non-exempt final. High school, honors student, science wing – A bird taking flight. I taste the protein bars I used to pack back when I did not have a lunch, but no 8th period. Those were nice, strange, interesting days. The protein bars grew tiresome and would often sit in my bag, smushed in their wrappers, saving my appetite for when I got home. This chocolate covered protein bars were chalky, chewy, and always seemed to taste the same no matter the flavor. Synthesized plant protein – with whey of course because whey is the destroyer of all things. Somebody call the Romulans.
Little curled embrace, womb-like in the way the blankets cradle my warm body. Heartbeats eagerly. Strawberry red cheeks, Peppermint Pattie. Cartoon comic strip, voices overlaying each other. I do not understand the joke, nor have the patience to read. If all is forgiven, why do I still feel remorse when I wake up in the morning?
Scottish funeral on a grassy knoll. Sips (and gulps) of whiskey all around. Drone tones abound, as bagpipes play to send off the man that once meant so much to everyone. I think we should live in worlds where skirts can look good on a man, and embrace the moments and times where he is encouraged to “show a little leg”. The morning dew of the grass has soaked through my shoe and has thoroughly saturated my socks. My toes are cold, frigid – uncomfortable. I find my buzzed mind drifting to clothes dryers, and fireplaces in winter where it’s the warmest. I think about times before modern medicine and where someone might find that little piece of paper I crumpled up, in my handwritten admission of the fact that yes, I do have a crush on you. I can taste the barrels where this whiskey was aged. I suck on my tongue to absorb all possible flavor, but also because I’m nervous and and its cold and I don’t know what else to do to increase my own body heat. I look out upon misty mountains and here a bird cry out; It is in awe at its own freedom and location, privilege. He could’ve cracked his egg opened anywhere, but it was here, in these mountains where he was born. Here there are no noisy honkings of car horns, the mountains are not piles of garbage, the ground is not pavement, but sweet, moist earth where worms are plenty. Nostrils clear from the whiskey and mountain air. The bagpipes play and rip through my soul. I find myself sitting down, then succumbing to my back, arms spread in Eagle-like fashion and formation. And my eyes are bleary and now my back and bottom are soaked. But I don’t care anymore. Leave me like this, in mourning, blissed defeat. Carve down deep the outline of my body. Bury me here too. I won’t make it down the mountain. Cannot summon the strength or will. I will toss in turn in bed forever, knowing that open ends like this exist. The melody line hovers over my third eye and coaxes out a bolt of lightning made from a tesseract. I just want to know what it means to feel this way, and if this is a low or a high. And if I will ever feel any other way again. I don’t care, but they say that I got to.
There is something majestic and royal about a large, grandiose ship leaving port, casting off thick mooring rope, to trek onwards to a new destination. The horn bellows in salutation, thanks, and auf wiedersehen. Folks wave hands, blankets, teddy bears, tissues, handkerchiefs to no one and everyone. It is an exertion of excitable energy. It is a testament to the inventions of humankind; Combustion engines and steel construction. Elegance and terror and strength. You’re living in it now. The spray of salt water comes up from the ocean deep with a little naval baptism. You are blessed and now one with the water, all your land sins forgiven. You are new. Your soul blessed and renewed, to start a new life on the this months long voyage on this vessel. The halls still smell of fresh, white paint and the newness of a classroom on the first day of school; Like you are the first student to have ever entered it, no one else has been here before you. Hotel rooms too; The illusion that no one has come before you; You are the first, everything has been untouched, just kept pristine by magic and good intentions. As the dock and shoreline get closer and closer, a slow-motion zooming out of the world you once knew, before long, your only line of vision is the place where the sea meets this sky; This one, holy horizontal line. We are stuck in an infinite loop, we are stuck in an infinite loop, we are stuck in an infinite loop, we are stuck in an infinite loop – And suddenly your mind begins to become the water, and suddenly you are staying up later and waking up earlier until you no longer know what time it is, and no that clock can’t be right. And then you’re pacing in your claustrophobic cabin, afraid to eat, afraid to talk to anybody for fear you’ll be eaten. And that’s why, when you finally make your exit down the gangway, you drop to the ground and kiss the dirty earth of New York and say a prayer to God incarnate in the Statue of Liberty herself, that you’re blessed because you made it, and if you had to have gone just one more day, you’re not sure if you would’ve made it.
Circular, diamond-studded watch face ticks away minutes, then hours – really seconds that become longer periods of time. It all adds up. We’ve found some way that makes sense to organize and catalog something we call Time. Water sundial, passing of Sun and Moon and Stars. Moving at a mathematically predictable pace. Had to figure it out from the ground up. It’s not my strong-suit, so I’m not sure if I ever could have done it. That’s why it’s all mysterious magical science to me. Some believe in Alien intervention, but I’m not too sure. Doesn’t that shadow the capacity for the human spirit and intelligence? Why should we not believe that we landed on the Moon, built the pyramids, and discovered astrology? It is too easy, and perhaps a cop-out to resign ourselves to “outside intelligence”.
Eyes wandering behind newspaper top, the lift above and scan the casino floor. Something fun and dark. Sunglasses lowered to the middle bridge of the nose, eyes casting downward enhancing the suspicion, the mystery. Drop-top convertible screeches to a halt. Valet hops out and reluctantly hands the keys, having to part with such a beautiful vehicle, the best he’s driven all day. Disagreements as my eyes unfocus. Surveillance cameras watching. Blue raspberry Spiderman popsicle from the ice cream truck. Springboard with the chin tuck at the pool. Slurpee arguments, toeing the line, testing the waters. This watch is not waterproof. Who possibly wears their FitBits so far up the arm like you’re technically supposed to? Fuck the phone, fuck notifications. I don’t want to watch it anymore, check it anymore. Frog in throat, hard to swallow, anxiety in slow-motion. “Watching The Wheels” – John Lennon. Documentaries that are still fresh in the mind hours after watching. “Bird On The Wire” – Leonard Cohen. Some days I just want to close my eyes and be ignorant to the whole thing; Not watch at all. Guardtower. Watchtower. Jimi Hendrix. Guitar reminding us that everything is not okay after all. There is trouble. There is trouble in the water.
Bluish hourglass with open top. Put some fresh-cut flowers in there, or leave it open. The craft of this pottery project – Wet clay, two hands, a kiln, a dream, glaze and paint. The fire smooths and purifies. Dancing outwardly, stillness inside. Stillness outwardly, ricochet pinball machine inside. Bells and whistles and neon screens. The noise and the solace of being lost in some activity that is here and now and perhaps has no meaning. Vase on the coffee table . These things can be built and they can break. Sobbing, the sound emblazoned in memories of haunted objects in a home. I will need to find a new way. Down spiral wooden staircases that lead to empty wine cellars and old black and white movies with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. Was the world ever right? Does history just smooth everything over – like glaze and kiln? Panic attacks in little cycles. Little amplitudes, waveforms, wave patterns. Scared to look. When the big to bubble I wish them away, but that genie has long gone. Adored photos on walls. Fixer-upper house. I can still feel the grooves in the old hexagonal tile, the creak of the tan linoleum floor. Splashing lifesource. Ships in bottles setting sail to nowhere. Please let these eyeglasses be the one. Please let this just be an adjustment period. Impatience and anxiety make for a miserable cocktail. Sterility, hospital bed and gown. Totally cancelled out by whatever they’re serving for dinner on this floor. Reminiscent of convalescence and nursing homes. Shatter, break, and crack – A million pieces scattered and now we have to gather them all up, mourn this lost piece of art. It was accidental with universal purpose. Sometimes we move too quick for our own good. Get caught in emotion, talking with our hands, moving our bodies too freely. Look what can happen. Spin and smash like I’m the Hulk, or Donkey Kong.