when do i get back to the project of being the person i am
when may i make public my miseries
in between flavorless chores wherein i realize my miseries must remain private
and all misery should be private
misery is the solitude of singular suffering
where even the most earnest efforts of others drift away
and again I see my pain is common
at the scale of all things it is nothing
just a stomach ache or skin rash from something only I am allergic to
there's the idea that the sum of all physical mass on earth has been constant since pangea
or that the infinite universe is still growing
and beside that my experiences now seem superficial
comfortably insignificant
a random concentration of energy perceived in either particles or waves
and me the sole observer
the one whose entire purpose is to feel and act
on the grand stage of
the show designed with me in mind
and it's when i'm at my most shortsighted
that i am the easiest to provide for
getting what I want
but never what I really want
eating everything and tasting nothing
so what about the project of being the person i am?
why give me this idea?
why the fuss about freedom and actualization?
manifesting a better version of myself?
too much incidental brutality for my tastes
let's just call it what it is
a funhouse with one exit and one way to get to it
i'm always willing to accept the truth or the next best thing
the idea that the trajectory of my life is predetermined
that i am a particle carried upon the crest of a wave
driven less by my will than the will of the water
don't poison me with hope
place me in a wicker basket and set me adrift
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Stop what you're doing and pray
The cat peed on the bed again but this time there was some blood. The stain was typical, peanut-shaped with a smaller red peanut inside the larger one. My response was appropriate. Concern for the health of the animal overshadowed the first frustration of having to do laundry, again, for the I don't know how manyeth time this week. How bad are things when you lose count of how many times you've done laundry in a week? Well, if laundry trips is the metric, we are beyond countable times.
Laundry itself isn't an ordeal, just one of those things we have to do that we go and do and when we're done we sit down and think of a treat to give ourselves- some coffee, a bagel, coffee and a bagel, a little perk to get us through because even when the washing and drying is done it's home for the folding and sorting. Two hours in the day where you can't totally commit to anything and as a reward- clean clothes and you have successfully put off the doing of laundry for a week or two, depending on how deep your reserves are. I'm 34, I have a hard time throwing away clothes, I wash my pants about four times a year barring any incidental soiling, I shower four times a week, change my underwear four times a week barring any incidental soiling, potentially I could go a month or two without wearing the same t-shirt twice, but ultimately I'd be left with a mountain of dirty laundry and a molehill of will to get it done. So, there's a two week laundry schedule I commit to in order to get that perfect amount of clothes where it's not so little I'm wasting my time and not so big that I'm hanging folding sorting balling up socks all day. There be no coffee big nor bagel scrumptious enough to will me into that task.
This week we were terrorized with urine.
On the comforter and classy duvet last week. Audible groan, off to the laundromat.
Once on the bed a few days ago. Wash the comforter and classy classy duvet that we use because of how classy we are. Go to classy classy Bed Bath and Beyond, pick up a diapery sounding mattress protector, some perfectly accenting throw pillows for the couch and an impulsively purchased LCD track light that isn't gonna do what I wanted it to do but will definitely serve as a reminder against future impulse purchases from BB&B.
Again on the bed this time with blood. Inaudible groan, off to laundry. Wash the comforter again and take Fred, the cat, to the vet.
Back from the first vet trip and once again on the bed with this time my fuzzy dumpling clearly articulating his feelings on having been dragged to medical attention by strategically pissing between the four pillows, getting piss on each pillow, each pillow case, the top and flat sheets, but also testing the quality of the mattress protector whose integrity and function withstood trial by urine with great resolve making it a fine and worthy purchase unlike the LED track lights that were $19.99 plus the cost of ten AAA batteries even though it uses only six leaving me with four batteries to float around until I can lose them moments before I need them. Back to business, throw away the four old and soiled pillows, recase two pillows from the closet (welcome back pillows) and buy the last two other nice new fluffy medium-firms at Target for about thirteen bucks apiece. Bad news first, the bed is now a comfy, reassuring, pleasantly scented place for a cat to take a piss. Good news, if you've been keeping track, four new pillows. (If you've been listening as closely as you ought you may have noticed in this narrative, written in 2015, I had two pillows just sitting in my closet waiting to be recased and put back in rotation. Historians may debate the veracity of this statement for ages because who has extra pillows in a closet? Moving on...)
Today, fall of 2015, the day of the feline mass extraction, Fred, my darling child, relieves himself on the comforter alone. A gutsy move considering he did not have the bed to himself at the time. Perhaps speaking more to discomfort than guts but objectively a gutsy move. The comforter washing routine now dangerously assimilated into daily tasks. No big deal. Barely any groaning.
So now that that's been cataloged I guess it's only been five times in a week, but five times in a week for something normally five times in two months is a lot for a guy like me. And don't forget with a comforter you gotta wash it, dry it, move it around inside the dryer and dry it some more to dry it evenly so it's an extra trip to the laundromat and half an hour of bonus laundry time. Call it the labors of love, the joys of parenthood, probably a few other applicable cliches but who has time to think of them when another load of laundry is surely on its way as soon as Fred and the bed have time to themselves.
The first trip to the vet was a little like doing laundry. Cram the cat into a thing, bring him over, wait a lil bit, bring him home. [Gesture where you clap your hands vertically, the international sign for one and done. If you can't visualize it I'll do it for you in person.] Pretty much the only thing different from doing the laundry was all the feline misery and bad news.
Bad news first- the cat was of course miserable for the entire experience, the other cat has been hissing at him since he got home because I guess he smells different and he needs surgery. He's got a big ball of something in his bladder. They couldn't tell what it is because he, like a coward, emptied his bladder inside the carrier on the way there, but it's there, and even if they could tell what it was it would still need to be ripped out. Good news- we are rich yuppies (haha) who can afford rent, duvets, pillows, worthless LED tracklights and cat surgery.
So today in between trips to the laundromat to wash and dry the comforter for the final time for at least a few days, I bring the cat to the vet for the procedure. Good news- the vet is only a few very walkable blocks away. More good news- a friend let me borrow his cat carrier so I didn't have to stuff him into that over the shoulder catpurse thing that was a little too small for my 18 lb. feline companion.
That's how much my cat weighs. We know how much he weighs now because of that magic stainless steel tablescale the vet had. Ever see Fire in the Sky? That movie about the alien abduction? Did you know that cats watch that in film school and talk about how it's all metaphors and projections related to the experience of your human love-and-food attendant taking you to the vet? The strangers, the anal probing, unintelligible language, stainless steel tablescales, trauma and alienation from friends and family. It's all in there. Very deep stuff for feline students of film.
So my fluffy 18-pounder in the big awkward plastic carrier getting lugged to the vet. Ever lugged anything? It's joyless. Overstuffed grocery bags get lugged up walkups. Dead bodies get lugged into marshes. If there's no shoulder pain you're not lugging. Moving on...
It's a cool and breezy early fall day in the borough and the locals are out. The long term locals with plaintive faces ambling about; the middle and high school kids with their chunky headphones and obnoxious conferences at all corners; the new element with their Urban Outfits and semi-discreet white wired headphones walking with great poise and dutifully avoiding conflict by way of eye contact. A day without a riot in a neighborhood where the rents are either spiked or stabilized and the two groups mingling without incident. Easy access to alcohol, caffeine, transit, minutes from Manhattan, stainless steel appliances, minimal felonies, pet friendly.
Fred cries a few times and I give him my best cat voice to let him know I'm still there.
Me walking with my chunky caterwauler in a tupperware box with holes and a gate. The cool breeze and the Brooklyn noises.
A tiny mouse on the sidewalk so tiny and cute and I wonder if Fred can smell him or if he's busy smelling everything or even anything at all.
We make it to Eastern Parkway and I take a knee to rest my already weary shoulders and administer some more cat voice. "my boy, my boy... it's okay papa, you be okay"
Three or four more blocks and my arms are a little tired and I'm hoping someone sees what I'm doing and gives me a sympathetic nod, but no, and that's fine, and it's only a block or two to the vet, and Franklin Ave is the Franklin I have come to know and expect only there's me with my cat and his terror and his mass in his bladder and I am leaving him with strangers to be terrorized for reasons that a tiny walnut sized brain like Fred's does not understand.
He gets received like a load of laundry and I am quickly back on the street and his trials have begun and I am on my way home but first maybe a bagel or two bagels but the good bagel place is on Nostrand and I don't really feel like it so I turn around to the good coffee shop for an Americano and as the telepathic link between me and the love of my life gets stronger I am close to pouring my guts out like the dirty black shot of espresso splashed into the paper cup but I don't because I don't expect sympathy or understanding from this barista nor anyone I meet on the street plus and more importantly I am a rock I am an island and I do the things I need to do and I don't break my stride I simply do these things for they must be done and I am the man to do them and the idea of convenience or inconvenience does not cross my mind but still there is inside of me the sadness of the animal and it is clear now there is a bond we have created that a walnut sized brain is perfectly capable of creating and very quickly I am vibrating with fear and sadness and here's my coffee and let's go home and do the things we do on our day off and Brooklyn is still Brooklyn it is the Brooklyn that only the dead knew that only the dumb know now and here's me here's another dude another heartless gentrifier with a novelty t-shirt and an Americano almost crying, almost crying, feeling emotions perhaps not his own but very much his own, my own, me sad about Fred alone under extra terrestrial lights with masked aliens and oddly shaped instruments of torture, me walking south on Franklin, across Eastern Parkway even though the light was red but safe distance from traffic because he who crosses first is coolest and to be cool is to be on top of things, no emotions and if I am he who crosses first without having to Frogger my way from one curb to the other then I am cool and who cares anyway it's the kind of thing that happens a thousand times a day, people cross streets all the time no matter what color light looms overhead no matter if its a reddish hand or a white walking stick figure this is new york goddamnit and most of them make it just like most cats make surgery and live to pee wherever they want.
I'm on Franklin around the corner from my apartment and one more street to cross before the laundromat where my almost done drying comforter is in and I see the tiny mouse again and it is on its side and the eyes are closed and the funny little teeth show from the funny little slightly opened mouth and one arm twitches. It is either dying or already dead.
That is the story of the tiny mouse.
A story within a story standing shoulder to shoulder with countless other stories in a packed subway car circling the sun that thankfully is all a beautiful green brown and blue from the right distance.
The facebook status read as such: "I'm at the vet for my cat. Stop what you're doing and pray, you godless rabble." It was a little funny. Funny because you don't have to pray. You don't have to pray for the cat, you don't have to pray for the mouse, you don't have to pray for the plaintive faces, and you certainly don't have to pray for me. It was just a little scary, that's all.
He turned out fine.
We all did.
Amen.
Laundry itself isn't an ordeal, just one of those things we have to do that we go and do and when we're done we sit down and think of a treat to give ourselves- some coffee, a bagel, coffee and a bagel, a little perk to get us through because even when the washing and drying is done it's home for the folding and sorting. Two hours in the day where you can't totally commit to anything and as a reward- clean clothes and you have successfully put off the doing of laundry for a week or two, depending on how deep your reserves are. I'm 34, I have a hard time throwing away clothes, I wash my pants about four times a year barring any incidental soiling, I shower four times a week, change my underwear four times a week barring any incidental soiling, potentially I could go a month or two without wearing the same t-shirt twice, but ultimately I'd be left with a mountain of dirty laundry and a molehill of will to get it done. So, there's a two week laundry schedule I commit to in order to get that perfect amount of clothes where it's not so little I'm wasting my time and not so big that I'm hanging folding sorting balling up socks all day. There be no coffee big nor bagel scrumptious enough to will me into that task.
This week we were terrorized with urine.
On the comforter and classy duvet last week. Audible groan, off to the laundromat.
Once on the bed a few days ago. Wash the comforter and classy classy duvet that we use because of how classy we are. Go to classy classy Bed Bath and Beyond, pick up a diapery sounding mattress protector, some perfectly accenting throw pillows for the couch and an impulsively purchased LCD track light that isn't gonna do what I wanted it to do but will definitely serve as a reminder against future impulse purchases from BB&B.
Again on the bed this time with blood. Inaudible groan, off to laundry. Wash the comforter again and take Fred, the cat, to the vet.
Back from the first vet trip and once again on the bed with this time my fuzzy dumpling clearly articulating his feelings on having been dragged to medical attention by strategically pissing between the four pillows, getting piss on each pillow, each pillow case, the top and flat sheets, but also testing the quality of the mattress protector whose integrity and function withstood trial by urine with great resolve making it a fine and worthy purchase unlike the LED track lights that were $19.99 plus the cost of ten AAA batteries even though it uses only six leaving me with four batteries to float around until I can lose them moments before I need them. Back to business, throw away the four old and soiled pillows, recase two pillows from the closet (welcome back pillows) and buy the last two other nice new fluffy medium-firms at Target for about thirteen bucks apiece. Bad news first, the bed is now a comfy, reassuring, pleasantly scented place for a cat to take a piss. Good news, if you've been keeping track, four new pillows. (If you've been listening as closely as you ought you may have noticed in this narrative, written in 2015, I had two pillows just sitting in my closet waiting to be recased and put back in rotation. Historians may debate the veracity of this statement for ages because who has extra pillows in a closet? Moving on...)
Today, fall of 2015, the day of the feline mass extraction, Fred, my darling child, relieves himself on the comforter alone. A gutsy move considering he did not have the bed to himself at the time. Perhaps speaking more to discomfort than guts but objectively a gutsy move. The comforter washing routine now dangerously assimilated into daily tasks. No big deal. Barely any groaning.
So now that that's been cataloged I guess it's only been five times in a week, but five times in a week for something normally five times in two months is a lot for a guy like me. And don't forget with a comforter you gotta wash it, dry it, move it around inside the dryer and dry it some more to dry it evenly so it's an extra trip to the laundromat and half an hour of bonus laundry time. Call it the labors of love, the joys of parenthood, probably a few other applicable cliches but who has time to think of them when another load of laundry is surely on its way as soon as Fred and the bed have time to themselves.
The first trip to the vet was a little like doing laundry. Cram the cat into a thing, bring him over, wait a lil bit, bring him home. [Gesture where you clap your hands vertically, the international sign for one and done. If you can't visualize it I'll do it for you in person.] Pretty much the only thing different from doing the laundry was all the feline misery and bad news.
Bad news first- the cat was of course miserable for the entire experience, the other cat has been hissing at him since he got home because I guess he smells different and he needs surgery. He's got a big ball of something in his bladder. They couldn't tell what it is because he, like a coward, emptied his bladder inside the carrier on the way there, but it's there, and even if they could tell what it was it would still need to be ripped out. Good news- we are rich yuppies (haha) who can afford rent, duvets, pillows, worthless LED tracklights and cat surgery.
So today in between trips to the laundromat to wash and dry the comforter for the final time for at least a few days, I bring the cat to the vet for the procedure. Good news- the vet is only a few very walkable blocks away. More good news- a friend let me borrow his cat carrier so I didn't have to stuff him into that over the shoulder catpurse thing that was a little too small for my 18 lb. feline companion.
That's how much my cat weighs. We know how much he weighs now because of that magic stainless steel tablescale the vet had. Ever see Fire in the Sky? That movie about the alien abduction? Did you know that cats watch that in film school and talk about how it's all metaphors and projections related to the experience of your human love-and-food attendant taking you to the vet? The strangers, the anal probing, unintelligible language, stainless steel tablescales, trauma and alienation from friends and family. It's all in there. Very deep stuff for feline students of film.
So my fluffy 18-pounder in the big awkward plastic carrier getting lugged to the vet. Ever lugged anything? It's joyless. Overstuffed grocery bags get lugged up walkups. Dead bodies get lugged into marshes. If there's no shoulder pain you're not lugging. Moving on...
It's a cool and breezy early fall day in the borough and the locals are out. The long term locals with plaintive faces ambling about; the middle and high school kids with their chunky headphones and obnoxious conferences at all corners; the new element with their Urban Outfits and semi-discreet white wired headphones walking with great poise and dutifully avoiding conflict by way of eye contact. A day without a riot in a neighborhood where the rents are either spiked or stabilized and the two groups mingling without incident. Easy access to alcohol, caffeine, transit, minutes from Manhattan, stainless steel appliances, minimal felonies, pet friendly.
Fred cries a few times and I give him my best cat voice to let him know I'm still there.
Me walking with my chunky caterwauler in a tupperware box with holes and a gate. The cool breeze and the Brooklyn noises.
A tiny mouse on the sidewalk so tiny and cute and I wonder if Fred can smell him or if he's busy smelling everything or even anything at all.
We make it to Eastern Parkway and I take a knee to rest my already weary shoulders and administer some more cat voice. "my boy, my boy... it's okay papa, you be okay"
Three or four more blocks and my arms are a little tired and I'm hoping someone sees what I'm doing and gives me a sympathetic nod, but no, and that's fine, and it's only a block or two to the vet, and Franklin Ave is the Franklin I have come to know and expect only there's me with my cat and his terror and his mass in his bladder and I am leaving him with strangers to be terrorized for reasons that a tiny walnut sized brain like Fred's does not understand.
He gets received like a load of laundry and I am quickly back on the street and his trials have begun and I am on my way home but first maybe a bagel or two bagels but the good bagel place is on Nostrand and I don't really feel like it so I turn around to the good coffee shop for an Americano and as the telepathic link between me and the love of my life gets stronger I am close to pouring my guts out like the dirty black shot of espresso splashed into the paper cup but I don't because I don't expect sympathy or understanding from this barista nor anyone I meet on the street plus and more importantly I am a rock I am an island and I do the things I need to do and I don't break my stride I simply do these things for they must be done and I am the man to do them and the idea of convenience or inconvenience does not cross my mind but still there is inside of me the sadness of the animal and it is clear now there is a bond we have created that a walnut sized brain is perfectly capable of creating and very quickly I am vibrating with fear and sadness and here's my coffee and let's go home and do the things we do on our day off and Brooklyn is still Brooklyn it is the Brooklyn that only the dead knew that only the dumb know now and here's me here's another dude another heartless gentrifier with a novelty t-shirt and an Americano almost crying, almost crying, feeling emotions perhaps not his own but very much his own, my own, me sad about Fred alone under extra terrestrial lights with masked aliens and oddly shaped instruments of torture, me walking south on Franklin, across Eastern Parkway even though the light was red but safe distance from traffic because he who crosses first is coolest and to be cool is to be on top of things, no emotions and if I am he who crosses first without having to Frogger my way from one curb to the other then I am cool and who cares anyway it's the kind of thing that happens a thousand times a day, people cross streets all the time no matter what color light looms overhead no matter if its a reddish hand or a white walking stick figure this is new york goddamnit and most of them make it just like most cats make surgery and live to pee wherever they want.
I'm on Franklin around the corner from my apartment and one more street to cross before the laundromat where my almost done drying comforter is in and I see the tiny mouse again and it is on its side and the eyes are closed and the funny little teeth show from the funny little slightly opened mouth and one arm twitches. It is either dying or already dead.
That is the story of the tiny mouse.
A story within a story standing shoulder to shoulder with countless other stories in a packed subway car circling the sun that thankfully is all a beautiful green brown and blue from the right distance.
The facebook status read as such: "I'm at the vet for my cat. Stop what you're doing and pray, you godless rabble." It was a little funny. Funny because you don't have to pray. You don't have to pray for the cat, you don't have to pray for the mouse, you don't have to pray for the plaintive faces, and you certainly don't have to pray for me. It was just a little scary, that's all.
He turned out fine.
We all did.
Amen.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
hot oil
one day there's a place you walked into every day for as long as you can remember and the next the locks are changed and you're out in the cold no matter the season
there wasn't a cake, there wasn't a party, nobody went out for drinks after.
the sun went down on something and rose on something else and it's a big deal to only one person and that's you
so you talk to a friend and tell them what happened and they care because something you think is bad is happening to you but in all honesty they saw it coming and had the good sense to warn you but the decency to let you make your own stupid decisions.
and you're there stranded with all your excuses wondering where the tragedy went. you're begging for pity on your knees at the gates of a kingdom you swore would welcome you and they're about to pour hot oil out on you and your starving troops
and it pours
and it's not hot oil
it's cold water
and you screamed because it's not what you expected
and if you're lucky it keeps coming
and that gargoyle grimace you've been sporting for some time now beings to slacken
you're being washed
your clothes melt away
the sand hits the floor
then some hair
then a bit of skin and blood
then your bones turn to smoke and you're still exactly where you are
without a body
first a body then a cloud of dust then smoke then nothing
ages pass
and then like nothing
like this was all nothing
you're given another chance
you open your eyes and turn around expecting
an army of undead hellbent on your destruction
but it's gone
it's a field of flowers under a yellow sun
and now everywhere you go is a paradise.
a raisin floods your jaw with electricity
and you're finally allowed to be happy
you breathe through your nose and almost laugh out loud
there's motion behind the doors
the gates part and you're welcomed
and somehow there's hope
and you feel deeply
that as bad as it was
is as good as it's going to be
there wasn't a cake, there wasn't a party, nobody went out for drinks after.
the sun went down on something and rose on something else and it's a big deal to only one person and that's you
so you talk to a friend and tell them what happened and they care because something you think is bad is happening to you but in all honesty they saw it coming and had the good sense to warn you but the decency to let you make your own stupid decisions.
and you're there stranded with all your excuses wondering where the tragedy went. you're begging for pity on your knees at the gates of a kingdom you swore would welcome you and they're about to pour hot oil out on you and your starving troops
and it pours
and it's not hot oil
it's cold water
and you screamed because it's not what you expected
and if you're lucky it keeps coming
and that gargoyle grimace you've been sporting for some time now beings to slacken
you're being washed
your clothes melt away
the sand hits the floor
then some hair
then a bit of skin and blood
then your bones turn to smoke and you're still exactly where you are
without a body
first a body then a cloud of dust then smoke then nothing
ages pass
and then like nothing
like this was all nothing
you're given another chance
you open your eyes and turn around expecting
an army of undead hellbent on your destruction
but it's gone
it's a field of flowers under a yellow sun
and now everywhere you go is a paradise.
a raisin floods your jaw with electricity
and you're finally allowed to be happy
you breathe through your nose and almost laugh out loud
there's motion behind the doors
the gates part and you're welcomed
and somehow there's hope
and you feel deeply
that as bad as it was
is as good as it's going to be
Saturday, June 8, 2019
icebreaker
a ship as big as you've seen lunges into the arctic leaving a trail of whipped water frothing and fighting like demons bathed in hot oil. there is no crew no captain no hand on the tiller. forging on ungoverned and undeterred with nothing to stop it but itself.
at night there are lights on board and from a certain distance this monster seems alive and there may even be a sleeping bunch of men below deck huddling for warmth or casting lots and smoking cigarettes but instead this machine from hell is hurtling toward an unknown location.
the cold is stark. on nights without a moon there is nothing but the screaming engines and the white noise of churning chop. the scene is terrible.
i can see the ship.
i am cheering for it.
behold the champion of the cold
the marathon runner to which all my hopes are pinned to
cracking the thick frozen earth
i believe in you
you are immense
your power is infinite
and your will is subject
to neither whim nor worry
go
you steed
you metal hero
i am watching
and screaming for your success
i feel, like a fool
that it is my heart bearing you forward
and you
indefatigable you
will win
and victory will be bland
because there was no doubt
no doubt at all
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