Harness and Energy

Walking around this city and seeing so many moving shapes, all human, all warm, all thinking, all cognizant, all hearts beating, all blood flowing, all minds on (well, most for that matter). What if someone was able to harness all of this energy, to capture it and make use of it? Imagine the limitless possibilities. I see a waste of energy everyday. There is so much potential here and nobody is taking advantage of it. I bet this city could run on pure people power alone, not from them actually working but from them working and not even knowing it. Wire all these fuckers up and let's see what they can do for us. I think old Bull Lee would be into it, and the Mugwumps as well.

Proustian Slumber

My dreams as of late have smelled of this past:

3rd grade meals in the cafeteria--smells of creamy corn and chocolate milk

Perfume my grandmother wore--floral and powdery

The old garage--smells of dust and wood and benign chemistry set liquids

My sister's room--hairspray and saccharine perfumes

Ancient Christmas ornament box--dusty with old plastic and pine scents

My cousin's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon--the post roast simmers slowly, fills room

Buttermints on the table--in a glass vase, smells sweet and comforting

The hatchery--sulfuric eggs that have not hatched, but rather exploded during incubation

The plant--visiting with my father, smells of death and wash, ammonia and hot flesh

Home after a long summer vacation--a smell that can't be put into words

Tile bag in the Scrabble game--smells like old cupboards in a clean house

Patrick's Underwear

My friend Patrick sent me his boxer shorts. They were "too tight" he said. Patrick lives in Berkeley and suffers from Asperger's syndrome, which is essentially a form of Autism. Patrick is a good guy, he lives independently and tries his best to fit into this demanding world. Hell, I don't suffer from Autism, and I have a hard enough time adapting to these confusing modern times.

So, Pat emailed me and said asked if I wanted his new boxer shorts. For a long time now Pat has been obsessed with underwear, T-shirts, shaving cream, after shave lotion, deodorant and Dr. Pepper. Pat can consume a 20 oz. DP in under 1 minute. I've seen him do this and it is insane. He does not drink water, ever, and never eats fruit. He hates onions as well. I do know that autistic people have very specific needs and preferences. Pat is no stranger to this. He has been known to randomly appear at our door (when we lived in CA) and thrust small samples packets of after shave lotion into our hands. It is such an odd offering, made even stranger by Pat's inability to properly greet someone. There is not so much a formal, "Hello, how are you guys?" as there is, "Hey, I have these things here, do you want them?" We might not see Pat for weeks, and he'll appear or call randomly, launching right into a speedily spat conversation about whatever new situation he's gotten himself into. I usually listen, but sometimes have to cut him off because it is very difficult to hear him talk only about shaving cream for ten minutes straight.


Anyway, yeah, in the above picture I am wearing Pat's underwear. They were clean and freshly laundered upon receipt. I think Pat would be proud of this, though I don't think he would approve of the photo of me in his chonies. Pat, if you're reading this, the boxers fit fine. Thanks. I think I'll keep 'em.

The Unmagic Magician

Half asleep and drifting in and out at every shaky stop, I sit weary and hungry on the E train heading back to Forest Hills. In my intermittent slumber voices ebb and flow throughout the metal vessel. After yet another stop I slowly open my eyes to see the outline of some skinny character standing directly in front of me. He suddenly yells out, "Ok folks, it's showtime!" I'm instantly sucked out of some cozy inner world and placed right into the hands of the Unmagic Magician.

He launches right into some absurd shtick, I happen to be the unlucky fellow that he has randomly picked. I'd rather not have to deal with this fool, but what could I do? I'm not going to move because the train is too crowded, and make him believe that he got the best of me. I was here first and I'm not in the mood for buskers at the moment. No. I will stand my ground and sit here, with a sarcastic grin on my face, as if to say, "I don't give a shit about you and I will not give you any money". This guy, with his suspenders, white shirt, and little top hat does not care; I'm just another white face to him, another visage in the city of 8 million.

He pulls out a string and performs some sort of quick knot trick that becomes tiresome after a few minutes. He's looking at me the entire time while addressing the rest of the car. Why is he picking on me? Fuck this guy; I just want to get home. People are looking at me expecting some sort of reaction--fuck all of them too. The magician takes out a balloon and blows it up; he's talking about making animal shapes or something. I'm trying not to pay attention, but his skinny crotch is practically right in my face. I contemplate getting up and moving, but I want to stand my ground. I was here first. He blows up his pink balloon to the shape of a 3ft tube. He puts the damn thing in his mouth and swallows it whole--like the sword swallowers at Coney Island. This was slightly amusing, yet I let a blank expression come across my face. "Big deal" I think.

The busker then starts directly addressing me, asking me questions, wanting me to partake in his little act. I look around and ignore him with a half smile on my face. He's making jokes about me; he actually flips me off at one point, discreetly while describing his next trick. I can't believe he did that to me. Now I'm quite angry because I never asked for any of this. I should just stand up right now and punch him in his ugly little face. No. I can't be reduced to what he wants/needs. I'll just completely ignore him when he's finished and invariably asks for money.

The train is rumbling along and I know this can't last much longer. My stop is less than 3 minutes away. The Unmagic Magician is getting tired; I can see it in his eyes. He's getting no love from anyone on the train. Is there any wonder at all? This dude's a total asshole. How do you expect to earn someone's respect when you do shitty magic tricks and then flip people off? This city is all fucked up.

He pulls out a little bottle of bubble liquid. He announces something about his "final trick". Thank god. He whips out a little bubble wand and dips it into the liquid. He blows one small bubble and it gently floats to the top of the car. In an instant he snatches the bubble out of the air and reveals that instead of a bubble he now has a solid, clear, acrylic sphere in his hand. Okay, that was kind of a cool trick, I suppose. He then takes the small, hard ball and, to demonstrate its solidness, he violently tosses it up and it slams into the ceiling of the car, leaving a small but very noticeable dent. His show is over. My stop is here. I look down to grab my bag and when I get up the Unmagic Magician is gone, almost as quickly as he had appeared.

Riding on the E train, almost everyday, I sit and read or listen to music. There has since been no sign of the Unmagic Magician. But his presence remains. I occasionally look up and see several small dents on the ceiling. About the size of a small, clear hard ball. I look at those little dents, chuckle to myself, and think "What a fucking asshole". This magician--his magic, so very unmagical.

Down E. 42nd St.

naked manikins

dirty handprints on the window

an oozing bum

hand on crotch mind in gutter

*****

porky pig like man

on his porky throne

ruddy faced and indignant

sitting high above the rest

getting his wingtips polished

*****

cigarette smoking bitch

too early in the morning

smokestack mouth

a blind 'flick'

a butt on my shoe

a curse to her being

*****

don't shove that

shit in my face

I'll take it if I want it

but never will

*****

a river of beige and brown

flows so awkward

my vessel unstable

but will make haste

to nowhere in particular

Short Takes on a Strange Place--Part 5

Why you stop?

This question was asked one Sunday afternoon. Driving around Forest Hells (Hills), a place I have absolutely no connection to. A place so far removed from my life that I cannot possibly care what has happened here, or what may happen here in the future (1 year only and we are out the fucking door, or so we say now). The Ramones are from here, but big deal; they moved away before they became famous. It takes so long for a place to finally weave into your life. To settle into your bones, to become a part of you, and end up in your memories, your dreams. I see none of that happening here. This is just a temporary stop along a uncertain road being navigated by a half blind man.

So, yeah, I was driving my car around Forest Hills looking for this stupid mall where I was going to buy some "proper" clothing for my new job. I was about to cross an intersection when the light turned green. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, these two black kids on little scooters came flying out in front of me. I came to an abrupt stop, and both kids sort of stopped, not fully committing to the street, but still lurching out a bit. I panicked a little and thought, "What the fuck!?" I could have easily ran those kids over. But would it have been my fault? The light was green for me, and these kids were not supposed to cross yet. So my window was down, 'cause it's so damn hot here, and one of the kids bellows out, "Why you stop!?" What the hell? Was I supposed to keep moving and run them over? They surely didn't seem like they were going to stop. Somebody has to stop, right?

I finally got going again and took off slowly down the street. The lingering effects of a near accident floating around in my head. These kids may have had some sort of death wish. But then I thought about how most of the people living in New York City are conditioned to tolerate shitty driving. I was not driving shittily, on the contrary I was being careful and aware of everything around me. I think these kids were shocked that somebody actually stopped for them. These kids are used to almost being ran over daily by inconsiderate, selfish drivers, and here I am trying to be cautious and patient, and all I get is a bunch of lip from some little punks.

So when the kid said, "Why you stop?" In retrospect I really do have to stop and wonder why am I trying to be so careful when everyone around me is loosing control everyday? Perhaps it is just a matter of time before I'm running out into traffic and yelling at people for not hitting me. It doesn't make any sense, then again, a lot of things don't make sense here.