Sinkers

Sinkers

The year collapses in on itself: December, the black hole month. I have little lead sinkers sewn into my sinews & my thoughts. Dark around the edges. Dark in the center. Dark all day & Dark all night.

*

I dreamed I was visiting someone who didn’t want me there. And I needed to wash my clothes. I didn’t belong. I was imposing. It was uncomfortable—so waking up was a relief. I don’t actually mind dreams like that.

*

It’s my last day off. I wasted my computer time writing a reply to JHY’s based-on-false-premises questions. Instead of…

I wonder if I’ll ever feel like writing. I’ve had the speedies, but that has been mostly like having an upset stomach.

I think I’m ready to be normal. I have to write to Fritz (whose responses seem oddly beside the point). Gee, my last remaining “boy friends” – I am become what I am.

But really I’d like to sleep until January 13. I also wouldn’t mind smoking a little more. Just a little.

15^th Ave «B’s 12/1/03

Off My Chest

Got it in, not on. Four days later & I still haven’t gotten a runny nose—what is this?

A mutation. Either my immune system is holding the bug in place, or it is one with a new plan.

Morrie had a very bad cold, Mom said, almost pneumonia, so maybe I got some of the scouts. I don’t feel too bad, I just don’t feel too good.

And little children are succumbing to the flu. We’ll see where that will go.

*

Talked to Mom today. She’s fine. Not even lonesome. She says. I’ll be interested to see what she gets up to once spring comes. She’s having Carl go pick up Dad’s ashes with her—she seemed to think they’d be too heavy to lift.

Now, I’m wondering— what about her hip prosthesis when it’s her turn to be cremated. But I don’t want to ask, it seems…tactless.

B’way «Bux 12/7/03

Now it’s in my head

It has applied for permanent resident status in my head, my alien. Four or five days later, still there. Burbling musically in my sinuses. (I think the anti-histamines were a bad idea.)

Dark & often rainy December & I have been following Mark Twain around. (His life isn’t as interesting as his letters—not his life as written by Fred Kaplan anyway—but it’s more interesting than my life or letters.)

*

Last night I dreamed Fred’s wife (though it may have been Livy Clemens) was categorically refusing to move. And then something….bright & crisp & happily noted—& promptly gone.

Then the woman in the Starbucks (skinny, unprosperous, but not quite derelict) asks me the time & suggests that we should spend the winter in Tahiti (not “we”—she and I, but that it would be wise). I ask her to get me a ticket & she goes out into the darkness.

I wasted all my computer time emailing Fritz & Sonja, and neglecting my neglected projects. (I’m back to Eileen & Dana!) Mark Twain said writing was wonderful but I think he meant compared to earning an honest living.

I had a hiccup of fatuous hope that made me happy for the span of a short walk (& besides it didn’t rain), but now I’m back. Not to stay, I trust.

Bway «bucks 12/12?/03

Affect & Faith

When I am happy, I believe that all manner of miracle may be possible. If I am really happy, almost off the edge of the gauge, then I know all things are possible & that all manner of thing shall be well.

I don’t get happy like that much any more. One of my “reasons” went south (estrus). When I am not happy, I know. I know how it’s going to be & I know what it’s worth. And, worse, I know how it isn’t going to be & what is likely to come of all my hopes.

Now, that’s no way to live.

Though you can still sing. You can still behave well. You can adjust your expectations. And rejoice in the Lamb. That’s a figurative lamb. Real lambs are… well, what are they? Harmless. Dinner.

I suppose I should say: rejoice in the cat. The stroll. The breeze. The sun.

The good night’s sleep.

The dream.

The good dream.

Last night I had dreams of evil. Next door people up to no good. TV movie dreams.

… and speaking of evil, here comes Hilda.

15^th Ave «Bux 12/13/03

Stilly

The night. My brain. The skein is wound tight. The seine is knit tight. But enough about my scalp problems. There is a little boy down by the windows who talks rather loud & mostly gets ignored by the guy, until he starts talking about Chuck E. Cheese and chanting. Then he gets hushed by the big guy (dad?). Oh, we hate being hushed. Orange cat missing? Visible shirts? Police car went by? [Oh, he called him “Papa”]

Hilda walks in (well, it is 5:20.)

I’m off work until a week from Monday.

I got my cards mailed & a letter to Fritz all about Dad (& if it’s a bore—serves him right). Now I’m reading uninteresting books & wondering what I should write: the librarian or the 70’s. Or try to fix Dave-Meta-Julia. The 70’s would be about idealistic foolishness but the others would all be about loss & hedges against loss (art/magic). And how we carry on.

Tonight I wish I had something to do. At least something good to read. (I want to stretch my brain, to loosen the skein or seine.

Out upon it.

15^th Ave «Bux 12/20?/03)

As if or As is

I say to the Starbucks boys (two new ones) that it takes Leonard Cohen to make “Hallelujah” sound like a dirge. But they’ve never seen me before & aren’t about to be too friendly. (This is Seattle). I get my coffee & go sit down.

Hallelujah.

The unusual: I had a bowl of tomato soup for lunch & on the way out walking, got a painful stitch in my chest. Left chest. Heart area. Hmm I said to myself, letting the breath out, is that what a silent MI sounds like? And what’s with the twitch in my right eye?

I got no answers, and isn’t that just like life?

We want it to approximate our wishes & dreams & we get a take it or leave it deal. And if your chest pain calms down & the twitch quits (for a while), you notice the pain in your foot where the calcium spur has formed.

*

There was a tall man with a slightly (but only slightly) Freddish aura nursing his coffee in silence until he took his baby duffle & left. He also looked derelict (lonesome & down) (not like me, lonesome & lord-ly [Lord, Lee!]) which made me sad for him. Until I slapped it down. Another vile Sunday almost over.

Solstice?

15^th Ave «B’s 12/21?/03

Orbital Wall

Swinging around like a celestial bola, we hit the solstice wall & bounce back. Not that you could prove it by me, except just the tiniest bit where the sparkles come & go. I saw the evening star, so bright & beamy that I couldn’t believe my eyes. Good luck: so I wished for financial security—for always. (I didn’t mention writing…nor did I specify the cabin at the beach, but I think with stars, you need to wish & get out of the way.)

*

John called last night, just back from a family Hanukkah dinner. He lost his internet connection. His feet hurt too. I called him sweety but didn’t say “love.”

*

Then today Lee called. He couldn’t find his Vera picture & wanted me to make copies of mine—but then he found it—up on the wall. He was loud & insistent, just short of raving. Making me concerned about his state. Full of complaints. But also full of plans—that don’t ring with realism. Spoke of moving to Miami. Has a lad living with him , age 18 (uh, Lee…) who just lost his job. But Lee also told me that when he got the headaches, he had stopped taking his medicine. He said his case worker was cramping his style. Etc. But he’s taking a drawing class, so I think I’ll go buy him some pencils.

*

Then I found out there was an earthquake near San Luis Obispo. And I was jealous. Which is very stupid—a bad luck attractor—when the Windsor Arms creaks & pops the way it does. Silly I know, but I love earthquakes.

15^th Ave «Bux 12/22/03

Use Utilization Utility Used

What’s it for?

Chuck it. Fling it. Pound it. Grind it. Use it to chip off pieces from another one. Sharpen it. Remember when you went to the café with real enthusiasm & sat down to write in your book wanting nothing (much) more than what you had to do? At the MM mostly, remember?

Yes, but that was when I smoked.

If I had a cig to look forward to, I might dip the pen into the pot & splash it happily around. Instead of a copper haired girl with a suitcase on wheels, we’d have Mark Twain (still Sam) staking a claim on a Nevada mountainside. Rabid.

Two days till Xmas. New moon. Two women (one Gothy white, one heavyset black) had a screaming match on Broadway. From a fender scratch.

*

And look at Broadway—where did all those young folks come from. I remember Broadway as being half-deserted & faintly proletarian when I first moved here…does my memory play hide & seek? Maybe it was my eyes. I never went into the Dilly-Tant. I only had eyes for U/seless things (and didn’t stay long).

Bway «Bux 12/23/03

Come From

Where do they come from, those snatches of song (tonight: Chrissy sings, “You’ve changed, you’ve changed…”), or rather, since I know they come from our memory/brain, what brings them up to the front of the stage for what amounts to a solo, but only 8 bars endlessly repeated. And never a crook coming from the wings; the only way is for the current soloist to be supplanted by another, just as silly. Or for the curtain to close.

*

As when I walk into the Starbucks where Micah is hollering loud enough to be heard above the whine of the steam arm.

*

The world feels devoid of magic today. Despite the aquamarine glow of a clear sky & the diamond twinkle of Venus over in the southwest.

Because I have no luck.

Because instead of writing, I read Martin Amis’s wordy adolescent fiction (Yellow Dog, but it could be any of them). It’s annoying me—because I’m getting old and/or because Martin Amis is still stuck at age 17? (And can get away with it!)

Because my shoulders hurt.

And my dad died.

And I saw no cats.

And tomorrow I have to go back to work –and there you have it.

Bway «Bucks 12/28/03