The glass makes no sense upside down. Hot glued to the ceiling, the wrong side has gathered all that dust. The bowl is still clean, incapable of holding wine, or anything. Below, the small awkward gathering drinks water from matching wine glasses; matching each other and matching the extra one on the ceiling. The bed, the couch, the kitchen, the bookcase, the bathroom. The five distinct messes have spread and swirled into each other. There are bed sheets in a pile with some encyclopedia volumes. There is a 10” skillet, crusted over from when the yolk split during a routine breakfast.
Crust has begun to creep up the walls, a few feet only, for now, the scouts, the advance guards, the first casualties, unofficial, that don’t even make it into the statistics, that won’t even be a footnote in the history books, or any books. A plunger, upside down, is leaning against the wall, dropping brown and yellow streaks to the floor, its handle being used as a bookmark between pages five and six of a novel, boring, outdated, and rancid, but on the crusty list of things that ought to be read by the educated class. Reading Proust is eating your vegetables, but nobody ever got big on Proust, except, obviously, for Proust.
Something falls from somewhere into something, releasing a cloud of some particles or something.
That’s not the only movement though, far from it. In the area that once would have been considered the couch, but now might be the bathroom, they are drinking water from two water glasses. He has no idea what she means when she calls it classy. When her clothes come off they will never be seen again, not never, but never when they are being looked for. A section of the apartment-organism is pulsing with hunger already.
There are disparate appetites in the room and they will find a way to work together. Gently, lovingly, he removes a steel knitting needle from where it has stuck four inches into her thigh, rips off a crusty strip of cheese cloth from under the coffee table to tourniquet the flow. It had been a curtain until it was needed to strain the greek yogurt until it had been needed for something else. You knit? The stabbing has relaxed her. I think those are from a previous tenant. A thick black lump buzzes against the Dukakis poster blocking the window, then flies off to bump into something else.
At once, the ceiling glass falls and crashes onto the old pile of broken ceiling glasses, adding to the delicate stalagmite.
There will be no cuddling in the morning. We can’t stay still too long or the mold will take us. Look, the small of your back is already crusting over.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
0508
Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize 'humongous'
Things are not surprising with the right perspective. That a shadow look like another shadow is nothing jealous. Shadows, for, are imprecise and capture, something surely, but are not detailed, like life. Life is detailed and leaves marks on itself, unique among itself, and within itself. Do you read my twisted knots? I think they will make a lovely tattoo at some point. Not for me, obviously, but for someone else, someone willing to make a lasting decision.
Do you think you shouldn't ever risk regret?
Is there anything it's impossible to regret?
What is the place of regret, anyway?
Where does regret live?
What really is regret?
Why so regret?
Regret?
Do you think you should never do anything you might regret?
It is easy enough to disguise yourself as another person if that person's shadow looks like yours and if whoever you're hiding from can only see shadows. We can all only see shadows, but that' not really relevant here. Please stop introducing irrelevancies. All the doctors say you shouldn't do it. Any doctor that says you should do it is a quack, because all the doctors say you shouldn't do it.
Night time speed. Streetlight altercations. Shadow moves independently of you, impossibly, in lieu of a compass point, we find many compass points, a sphere, a cloud, no true north, no clear direction except into the past. Out, out, brief insight. Youa re too delicate for this world, this only world, the world.
There is one world and its name is the world. It is called the world because it cointains the world and is the world. Live in it or risk floating into the land if wind and ghosts.
Please toast my memory. Please acknowledge or invent my impact. Please feel something of my uniqueness, my very uniqueness, my uniqueness. Please feel something humongous. Remember to repeatedly utter my name. Please drink deep. Please drink with the right people. Drink with everybody who will have you. Anybody. Hobos are the only people worth knowing anyway. Are you a hobo? You are. To the extent that you try not to be, you kill yourself.
There are things that are the same. There are things that are different. Nothing is different. Everything is the same. You are not so unique. There are many more unique than you. To be only as unique as you are is fairly common, to be expected you might say. You are literally the least unique person in the room. You are a shadow on the filthy road, your area cut by the gutter, by the sleeping animalperson, by miscellany itself. When the power blinks off, you blink off. It is, though, ok not to care, because right now the power is on. The power is on and you exist. You are on. You have opportunity. You can do things you may later regret. Like anything. The power is on and you are a shadow. You do not exist because you are a shadow. Two shadows do not, can not, look alike. There is always something different, some difference, and that difference is the entire world, the one that contains the whole world, called the world, the world.
Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize things which are humongous.
Things are not surprising with the right perspective. That a shadow look like another shadow is nothing jealous. Shadows, for, are imprecise and capture, something surely, but are not detailed, like life. Life is detailed and leaves marks on itself, unique among itself, and within itself. Do you read my twisted knots? I think they will make a lovely tattoo at some point. Not for me, obviously, but for someone else, someone willing to make a lasting decision.
Do you think you shouldn't ever risk regret?
Is there anything it's impossible to regret?
What is the place of regret, anyway?
Where does regret live?
What really is regret?
Why so regret?
Regret?
Do you think you should never do anything you might regret?
It is easy enough to disguise yourself as another person if that person's shadow looks like yours and if whoever you're hiding from can only see shadows. We can all only see shadows, but that' not really relevant here. Please stop introducing irrelevancies. All the doctors say you shouldn't do it. Any doctor that says you should do it is a quack, because all the doctors say you shouldn't do it.
Night time speed. Streetlight altercations. Shadow moves independently of you, impossibly, in lieu of a compass point, we find many compass points, a sphere, a cloud, no true north, no clear direction except into the past. Out, out, brief insight. Youa re too delicate for this world, this only world, the world.
There is one world and its name is the world. It is called the world because it cointains the world and is the world. Live in it or risk floating into the land if wind and ghosts.
Please toast my memory. Please acknowledge or invent my impact. Please feel something of my uniqueness, my very uniqueness, my uniqueness. Please feel something humongous. Remember to repeatedly utter my name. Please drink deep. Please drink with the right people. Drink with everybody who will have you. Anybody. Hobos are the only people worth knowing anyway. Are you a hobo? You are. To the extent that you try not to be, you kill yourself.
There are things that are the same. There are things that are different. Nothing is different. Everything is the same. You are not so unique. There are many more unique than you. To be only as unique as you are is fairly common, to be expected you might say. You are literally the least unique person in the room. You are a shadow on the filthy road, your area cut by the gutter, by the sleeping animalperson, by miscellany itself. When the power blinks off, you blink off. It is, though, ok not to care, because right now the power is on. The power is on and you exist. You are on. You have opportunity. You can do things you may later regret. Like anything. The power is on and you are a shadow. You do not exist because you are a shadow. Two shadows do not, can not, look alike. There is always something different, some difference, and that difference is the entire world, the one that contains the whole world, called the world, the world.
Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize things which are humongous.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Oil in the Pan
Look out! Here comes a brave new paradigm. Ready for trouble? Doesn't matter. Ready or not, trouble will find you. Did you notice that money flows out of your life like water through the holes in the dam made by the terrorist cell that those arab neighbors of yours turned out to be all along. So who's the racist? The racist, or the racist who won't sleep with the racist? And by racist, I mean black person, and by racist, I mean racist.
Stop. Listen to the footsteps of your companion, your life partner, your childparent. Is she dragging her heels? Is he trying to walk the other way? Is anyone there at all? How do you know you're not crazy? You don't know. You could be crazy.
Ever taken drugs? Maybe that's the real sanity and the rest of the time you're all crazy, crazy. Maybe you're still on the playground and hte kids are all laughing at you and pointing with stubby little pointers and calling you Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Man, that would suck to wake up to when you come out of your twenty year delusion.
Ever been drunk? That's pretty crazy right htere. Ever throw an empty beer bottle at a cop? Ever call your ex in the middle of the night and tell her you still love her? Ever drive?
Maybe you're not crazy. Nobody ever said you were. You can be sane if it's so damn important to you. But if you're sane, why are you so crazy all the time?
You can wear black and be all mysterious if you want to be. You can smoke opium and let your organs utrn to couch cushions. You can smoke grass and lie on the grass and jam out to some bluegrass.
So who's the racist? The fool or the fool who loves the fool? Drop some oil in the skillet and watch the dancing bubbles. Sometimes the hot oil lands on your bare skin. When a drop hits you it kisses you hello and then disappears. Maybe it leaves you a little dirty. maybe it lets you off the hook with a warning this time. Maybe it leaves a little scar, a bouquet of roses, something to remember me by.
I am oil in the skillet and I've been narrating your life this whole time. Weren't aware of me, were you? Thought you could just fry up some vegetables in me without revealing everything about yourself to whom so ever I should tell.
Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer.
Stop. Listen to the footsteps of your companion, your life partner, your childparent. Is she dragging her heels? Is he trying to walk the other way? Is anyone there at all? How do you know you're not crazy? You don't know. You could be crazy.
Ever taken drugs? Maybe that's the real sanity and the rest of the time you're all crazy, crazy. Maybe you're still on the playground and hte kids are all laughing at you and pointing with stubby little pointers and calling you Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Man, that would suck to wake up to when you come out of your twenty year delusion.
Ever been drunk? That's pretty crazy right htere. Ever throw an empty beer bottle at a cop? Ever call your ex in the middle of the night and tell her you still love her? Ever drive?
Maybe you're not crazy. Nobody ever said you were. You can be sane if it's so damn important to you. But if you're sane, why are you so crazy all the time?
You can wear black and be all mysterious if you want to be. You can smoke opium and let your organs utrn to couch cushions. You can smoke grass and lie on the grass and jam out to some bluegrass.
So who's the racist? The fool or the fool who loves the fool? Drop some oil in the skillet and watch the dancing bubbles. Sometimes the hot oil lands on your bare skin. When a drop hits you it kisses you hello and then disappears. Maybe it leaves you a little dirty. maybe it lets you off the hook with a warning this time. Maybe it leaves a little scar, a bouquet of roses, something to remember me by.
I am oil in the skillet and I've been narrating your life this whole time. Weren't aware of me, were you? Thought you could just fry up some vegetables in me without revealing everything about yourself to whom so ever I should tell.
Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Wine + 0
Before this, I did not know what a north star was. Now, I always know the right direction, even if sometimes I run the wrong way anyway. I didn't ask to be born. Not that anyone did. Not that anyone asked if I asked.
Not that you care.
Did you hear the one about the oak tree and the willow? The oak tree says "We've been growing here next to each other for seventy five years. Hello." And the willow goes "Ahhh! A talking oak tree!"
The end.
We've talked a lot about trees here today, and that's been a lot of fun. But let's remember that, technically, wines come from vines. Vines are different than trees. Go ahead and remember that please.
Done?
Excellent.
One thing about vines is that they wrap. They have tendrils. Hell, they are tendrils. They are merely creepy, as opposed to terrifying, only because of their speed. Specifically, their lack of speed. If something moved like a vine but fast enough that it could chase you, you'd lose your shit.
Literally.
Don't gimme that old line that anything that normally doesn't chase you chasing you would be nightmare-world, because that's not true in the same way. Cash money chasing you, for example, would not be nearly as creepy.
Unless it was.
The bottle of ink is not labeled right. It really oughtn't to be called India Ink unless it comes from Indianapolis. Should you be angry about this? It's tough to know how upset to get about these little things because it's tough to know if these things are really all that little. Who, exactly, is the messed up label hurting? Not just who.
Who, exactly?
I want to run in the right direction. It's not a direction at all. I don't know what it is. If I know what it was would that help me run in it? Towards it? At it? I know what the north star is.
In theory.
Not that you care.
Did you hear the one about the oak tree and the willow? The oak tree says "We've been growing here next to each other for seventy five years. Hello." And the willow goes "Ahhh! A talking oak tree!"
The end.
We've talked a lot about trees here today, and that's been a lot of fun. But let's remember that, technically, wines come from vines. Vines are different than trees. Go ahead and remember that please.
Done?
Excellent.
One thing about vines is that they wrap. They have tendrils. Hell, they are tendrils. They are merely creepy, as opposed to terrifying, only because of their speed. Specifically, their lack of speed. If something moved like a vine but fast enough that it could chase you, you'd lose your shit.
Literally.
Don't gimme that old line that anything that normally doesn't chase you chasing you would be nightmare-world, because that's not true in the same way. Cash money chasing you, for example, would not be nearly as creepy.
Unless it was.
The bottle of ink is not labeled right. It really oughtn't to be called India Ink unless it comes from Indianapolis. Should you be angry about this? It's tough to know how upset to get about these little things because it's tough to know if these things are really all that little. Who, exactly, is the messed up label hurting? Not just who.
Who, exactly?
I want to run in the right direction. It's not a direction at all. I don't know what it is. If I know what it was would that help me run in it? Towards it? At it? I know what the north star is.
In theory.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wine Harold Bin 00005
Look, let's make a few things clear. There's much too much confusion up in this mother.
I'm not drinking this week. Gotta dry out after the weekend.
Fresh fish! We catch them you buy them!
Number one. It is not possible to get to know every bottle of wine that's ever been produced. Even if you could get your hands on them all, they change from year to year. Number two. It's ok to lose sight of the shore. Number three. The food pairings are not mandatory.
Wow, was I plastered over the weekend. I don't remember doing anything I regret. I hope I don't not remember doing something I would regret if I remembered it. I don't think I did though.
Lady, look at this beautiful haddock. Have you ever seen a haddock like this? Never, I bet. That slimy guy is monkfish. I know. He looks terrible, but cook him up just right, your husband will swear he's eating lobster. Don't blow another dinner on pizza and skittles. Buy some fish!
Number four. Although the sense of light headed euphoria is an integral part of the experience, it is not the primary focus of differentiation among options. The world is full of things to make you light headed, and most of them have far less variety.
When the right balance of chemicals is the only thing holding you up, it's time to take stock. It's time to take stock right now. It's always time to take stock. I want to dry out in the sun but it won't stop raining. The rain is indistinguishable from drunkenness. Everything is obliterative.
But some fish! Cook it up in a pan. Grill it on the grill. Braise it in the braisier. Smoke it in the smoker. Roast it whole and eat around the bones and the worms. Covering it in a huge pile of salt will make it sweet, not salty. The omega-3 fatty acids will be there for you when you need them. We're not just selling fish here, people. We're selling a lifestyle. We're selling inner clean. We're selling change.
I'm not drinking this week. Gotta dry out after the weekend.
Fresh fish! We catch them you buy them!
Number one. It is not possible to get to know every bottle of wine that's ever been produced. Even if you could get your hands on them all, they change from year to year. Number two. It's ok to lose sight of the shore. Number three. The food pairings are not mandatory.
Wow, was I plastered over the weekend. I don't remember doing anything I regret. I hope I don't not remember doing something I would regret if I remembered it. I don't think I did though.
Lady, look at this beautiful haddock. Have you ever seen a haddock like this? Never, I bet. That slimy guy is monkfish. I know. He looks terrible, but cook him up just right, your husband will swear he's eating lobster. Don't blow another dinner on pizza and skittles. Buy some fish!
Number four. Although the sense of light headed euphoria is an integral part of the experience, it is not the primary focus of differentiation among options. The world is full of things to make you light headed, and most of them have far less variety.
When the right balance of chemicals is the only thing holding you up, it's time to take stock. It's time to take stock right now. It's always time to take stock. I want to dry out in the sun but it won't stop raining. The rain is indistinguishable from drunkenness. Everything is obliterative.
But some fish! Cook it up in a pan. Grill it on the grill. Braise it in the braisier. Smoke it in the smoker. Roast it whole and eat around the bones and the worms. Covering it in a huge pile of salt will make it sweet, not salty. The omega-3 fatty acids will be there for you when you need them. We're not just selling fish here, people. We're selling a lifestyle. We're selling inner clean. We're selling change.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Wine Harold Bin 000004
There's a shortage of honesty in the room. Really hot backless dresses though. Also booze.
There can be no protest without the proper permit.
There! Look! Something moved. Beyond the tree line. You don't see it? Look!
Truth Serum, they call it but it's not doing it's job. Other than getting pairs to slip out quietly, ditch their lying friends, couple up on the sidewalk and behind minivans. Not lying, really, that's not fair, but silent in the moments where truth is what's called for. Some version of it. It, as seen by the speaker at least, the friend getting into trouble over by the bar, one of the bars.
To march today, you would have needed to get the right papers signed six months ago and requested Burgundy level clearance one year before that. You would have been denied of course, because of what you want to say, where you want to march, how you want to rhyme it, the megaphones made in china, the sneakers made in sweat shops, the bag lunch made in the Park Slope vegan restaurant. You would have needed White clearance to appeal, which doesn't exist.
Let's keep moving. At least there are raccoons in these woods. Bears. Escaped mental patients. Smoke monsters. Philosophers with guns. It's dark here. I'm not a hippy. Let's not camp. I've changed my mind. I'm allowed to change my mind right? I want to change my mind.
A few deep brown glasses and a few more are supposed to get us to the point of openness but it's easy to swing too far, past the bawdy singing, and end up passing out. There is no serum. There is no truth.
You call it speaking truth to power but your truth is lousy with holes and your power doesn't live in a big brass building. You want to shout. You want to count. You want to fix things. You want to count. Yes, you could march. Yes, you could chant. Fifth Avenue is just an echo chamber. There is no building. There is no power.
The truth is camping never sounded good to me. I don't even like to leave Manhattan. I'm not interested in your interests, I'm interested in you. And if I'm gonna be in the woods, alone with you could make it doable. Maybe I lied, but you saw what you wanted to see. Anyway, there's something wrong behind those trees there. There is. There is.
There can be no protest without the proper permit.
There! Look! Something moved. Beyond the tree line. You don't see it? Look!
Truth Serum, they call it but it's not doing it's job. Other than getting pairs to slip out quietly, ditch their lying friends, couple up on the sidewalk and behind minivans. Not lying, really, that's not fair, but silent in the moments where truth is what's called for. Some version of it. It, as seen by the speaker at least, the friend getting into trouble over by the bar, one of the bars.
To march today, you would have needed to get the right papers signed six months ago and requested Burgundy level clearance one year before that. You would have been denied of course, because of what you want to say, where you want to march, how you want to rhyme it, the megaphones made in china, the sneakers made in sweat shops, the bag lunch made in the Park Slope vegan restaurant. You would have needed White clearance to appeal, which doesn't exist.
Let's keep moving. At least there are raccoons in these woods. Bears. Escaped mental patients. Smoke monsters. Philosophers with guns. It's dark here. I'm not a hippy. Let's not camp. I've changed my mind. I'm allowed to change my mind right? I want to change my mind.
A few deep brown glasses and a few more are supposed to get us to the point of openness but it's easy to swing too far, past the bawdy singing, and end up passing out. There is no serum. There is no truth.
You call it speaking truth to power but your truth is lousy with holes and your power doesn't live in a big brass building. You want to shout. You want to count. You want to fix things. You want to count. Yes, you could march. Yes, you could chant. Fifth Avenue is just an echo chamber. There is no building. There is no power.
The truth is camping never sounded good to me. I don't even like to leave Manhattan. I'm not interested in your interests, I'm interested in you. And if I'm gonna be in the woods, alone with you could make it doable. Maybe I lied, but you saw what you wanted to see. Anyway, there's something wrong behind those trees there. There is. There is.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Wine Harold Bin 0000003
You know when you purr it turns me on.
You made your eyes extra wide tonight and I'm not sure what that means.
You left your wallet on the street and I found it.
I always like it when you take advantage of my weaknesses. I pretend to guard them carefully, but really I just want to serve them all up in a silver bowl and let you pick through them until you find the ripest ones.
I know we're talking about a cheap theatrical trick but there was some kind of depth to the gesture. Nothing is by accident and I feel like your eyes are already a source of friction between me and the things I had going before I met you.
I rifled through it to find your license. I assume you don't mind because now you'll be able to get your wallet back and you won't have to cancel your library card. I hope you answer your phone though, despite the unknown number I will be.
It's not fair, you tell me, I know all your spots now, and I laugh like the bad guy in a movie, but secretly I'm glad you felt like you could show me where to touch you because now I know.
It's not fair to be more attentive to your needs than everyone else here, but your tricky eyes trick me.
It's not fair to get mad at me for tracking you down. Look at this great excuse I had, returning your lost property. If I ask you to get a drink with me, what's the big deal? What's the big deal if you tell your husband you're going out to get your wallet returned. It'll be the truth won't it? Just not the whole truth.
You made your eyes extra wide tonight and I'm not sure what that means.
You left your wallet on the street and I found it.
I always like it when you take advantage of my weaknesses. I pretend to guard them carefully, but really I just want to serve them all up in a silver bowl and let you pick through them until you find the ripest ones.
I know we're talking about a cheap theatrical trick but there was some kind of depth to the gesture. Nothing is by accident and I feel like your eyes are already a source of friction between me and the things I had going before I met you.
I rifled through it to find your license. I assume you don't mind because now you'll be able to get your wallet back and you won't have to cancel your library card. I hope you answer your phone though, despite the unknown number I will be.
It's not fair, you tell me, I know all your spots now, and I laugh like the bad guy in a movie, but secretly I'm glad you felt like you could show me where to touch you because now I know.
It's not fair to be more attentive to your needs than everyone else here, but your tricky eyes trick me.
It's not fair to get mad at me for tracking you down. Look at this great excuse I had, returning your lost property. If I ask you to get a drink with me, what's the big deal? What's the big deal if you tell your husband you're going out to get your wallet returned. It'll be the truth won't it? Just not the whole truth.
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