Neuro Night @ Starbuck’s on 15th
The boy making robotic movements with his arms, the two buggers crooning theatrically— a problem for the rest of us, these histrions. We didn’t buy tickets, we are not the audience. Yes, all the world’s a stage: the Bard didn’t say anything about the pit, the boxes, the loges. It’s all stage, there is no audience. Unless you believe in god(s). (oh, up in the balcony.)
Trying for images. (Enid Blyton did it.) A sheet hung on the wall. Or that pebbled-pearly screen that unfolded, where we watched the home movies.
Summer lake. With vegetables. I mean lakeside vegetation. Green grass & yellow flowers. (not like
Borne aloft on slow-beating wings
That’s my line of poetry, and I probably stole it.
Still, it would fit somewhere in Flight. Hmm. Maybe, She is tired of shunning me. (You know how long supernatural arrangements can take. They’re worse than Public Works)
Maybe, maybe.
I want that fizz.
What I Get Instead is a Scum on the Surface
That’s like flat, but a little more so. At best we could hope that eventually tadpoles will hatch…
No? Mosquito larvae only?
It’s not just me? It’s the vast(ation) majority?
That I don’t even get an individual rout (smash, drubbing, ruin), but only the common one does not console. I (Catwoman) am not to be herded. (Jesus, even the sheep don’t want to be herded.)
Too many. Too many. It beats in my head like a migraine. I can’t make everybody else leave (tho leave they will—in time) (event-ually). I could leave myself (& I will) but I want to see how this is going to work out, you know. I’m curious. Like a cat.
Bway «Bux
Two Headed Woman
Dreamed about a woman knitting a big black mohair something. But that was the night before. Last night I dreamed I was going to marry Reny Brown. We were getting married in a bar (it’s the latest thing). And I asked him was he still selling records & he said no, he was a banker now (that would explain the nice wool topcoat), and would I be covered by his insurance. Yes, for $7 a month. Then we were going to meet someone—& crossing spongy ground—this was some dreamscape
It was a very busy night. I wish I had some of the rest. (Reny looked just as he did when I last saw him in 1984. I was old, but he didn’t care. He was Reny at his good-humored best.)
*
I saw a star & wished. Such a firm glow, such a steady beam. I think it was a planet. Planets work. I held the wish steady like the planet’s beam. Still there.
Bway «B’s
If I’m Different, It’s Different
I dreamed I was looking up something about medieval women (or women of the middle ages—i.e., me) & Fred came up (or down, because the card catalogue was down in the rotunda) & wanted to go talk. I knew he’d had a fight (spat) w/ his wife & I put him off. Then I woke up & felt a tiny bit smug.
The next night I dreamed the couple across the street (the dark haired guy & his blonde dancer wife whose birthday is August 17, you know the ones) wanted to have a ménage à trois only without sex (?) – or maybe they wanted my advice or housekeeping skill.
Ah…
There was more but I let it go. So much more fun than Reality.
Then I find out that Alma Potter died in January. Surviving son Fredric of Portland (!?!?) & daughter Charlotte Cox of
I got a 7 month rejection from Esquire & it made me mad. Silly old me. I sent stories & essays out.
I win a few $ gambling, re-invest & lose it all & feel like Dostoevsky.
I think I may have to publish my own writing.
I worked & it was sunny. It all seemed not quite equal to the beauty of the day. Half moon up in the west as I walked to work & I realized that the only time I feel really good is when I’m moving. Not quite true, but if motionless, I must be: drinking coffee/tea & eating (pref. sugar) or smoking and/or reading a/o writing.
Ion
On a rainy holiday, there are no seats at the café. I end up (always knew I’d end up) at the Olive Way Starbuck’s once again, at a corner of the counter where I have no place to put my knees. But I can keep an eye on (ion) Pablo. He was polishing….no, not stones…short stories & then it’s back to the play. Cheery too, our Pablo.
Speaking of cheery, I saw Librarian DW on the bus platform at Convention place…and I snubbed him. He may have thought I didn’t see him. As I rode/strode up the escalador, I smiled: That’s what you get.
*
Spots on the window, silver when the headlights shine through. Just as dark outside as in: nice effect: you can see the brighter inside bits & the brighter outside bits & all the rest (of us) is moving shadows. The spotlighted shelves seem to be sitting out in the parking lot & the cars on
In short, a species of magic.
That’s what it is, you see. Perceptual play. You don’t know where the illusion ends & your delusion begins. I blinked & Pablo disappeared.
O.W. «Bucks
Cup Runs Over
The coffee that sloshes in my full cup is bitter. The young lout on my left yells into his cell phone. My shoulder hurts. Someone won the lottery & it wasn’t me.
Is that enough? It is enough that the daffodils flaunting themselves on (just off)
Yes, I am bathed at times in felicity but I am meanwhile wrapped in cellophane. The phone yeller was picking his nose when I came in (what is it about the café anyhow?) & then cracking his overlarge knuckles. In short, a moron. Another moron.
Oh & I burned my mouth on a low-cal pizza & it wasn’t even good.
I have 4 days off, end of Feb. but I just worked 4 days on & I never want to talk to a citation person ever again. The guys in the office are on the verge of turning against me for refusing to stay & I don’t think they realize how tired of them I am either.
There’s a dappled or mottled sky over in the west which may herald coming rain. Today was sunny after a foggy & noisy night. Awakened by drunks breaking things & yelling at
More, Like It
A perfect Sunday outside (really—60º I’m sure, Cap. Hill full of amblers on the sidewalks & gardeners in the yards—and cats galore) & inside the café, it’s too warm already w/ the sun streaming in & everybody studying. The woman across from me (frowning, coarse but almost attractive, anyway interesting, face) reading a book called Pain: (can’t read the subtitle). Man on my left looks just like the whiny guy (now officially the whiny guy who died: his name was Lee) reading a big book. Young couple to my right at the window studying with books & notebooks & folders & the Sunday paper piled up on the next table & bright blue water bottles. I see girls & women, improbable red hair, the deadhead guy I hate, sporting a short reddish beard. Ooh, there’s an improbable bleach job on bed-hair.
The sun falls into coalescing blue & white clouds & there’s a rainbow spot like I saw yesterday from
I want a hair cut. But damn, there’s no end to that.
Animacules or something(s) float around in my vis. (viz.) field. As usual I ignore them.
My Wood? My Word.
Wood for Word. It would (pun/pen) rather be my wooden house: I had an acute cramp of longing for a house with a yard. It was the little tower all windowed on a house on
I wonder if I’ll ever have a house. Worst case scenario would be:
Ha—more of the same.
Yeah, ha.
Last night I dreamed (& dreamed):
I was making my way back home (as a refugee, after a war? In S.F.?—in some European city. I think) with Tomas. I had been carrying him a long time & it wasn’t satisfactory (? He was getting rumpled, or restive), so I decided to put him down & darned if he didn’t keep up, tho I might have to call him (pss pss pss) – sometimes he’d even frolic ahead — my god, he’s so cute…but then there was a dog—oh no, anxiety: I woke up.
There was also some dream where I was reading something—a brochure? So why didn’t I find my hands? At least after I put Tomas down—but I didn’t need lucidity—I still had Tomas.
*
Didn’t write. Unfinished essay…strikes me…as…stupid.
I’m not so much sad & hopeless, as disgusted. Of course, they are not mutually exclusive.
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