reading #143

A.T.E.

typewriter. two

We rented a small house on the Gulf of Mexico
for 800 bucks a month
me and my friend
we got lucky

I must have typed 500 pages that year
on my little drab postbellum s.corona
to the rhythms of tide
and jazz…

journal

Journal # 01.02.17

I started my day with a cadillac. Home-roasted Sumatra pour over combined with Swiss Miss dark hot chocolate. Some good music in Tycho’s latest album ‘Epoch’. Now seated at my desk and writing. This is where I love to be, what I love to do. I figure the more I can give myself this chance, the better off I am for you, too. I will give it my all today. Lucky #2017

finish line CIM. 2016

corn syrup. posing as black licorice

high fructose corn syrup dyed, twisted and wrapped tight in plastic, posing as black licorice

We were at Lucky’s having breakfast. The booth was luxurious under our asses. You said you wanted to be helpful and we got close because I reached out for help and you appeared. Then you acted in a way I thought was unhelpful and I reacted in a way that upset you and then you distanced yourself presuming I was ungrateful or shocked because you thought you were being helpful and should not experience other people’s reactions. I think I was about to walk away and out the glass door framed in the glass wall, the storefront where the specials had been frosted on: Ninety-nine cents for a cup of coffee. 2 fried eggs for five bucks. I did not wanna trust you were being helpful when every cell in my body was on edge by some things you were saying. You saw me getting ready to get up and pre-empted me. You laid down cash quickly on the flat plastic tray, and walked away. How could getting me worked up this way be helpful to me? How could you be so upset at me for feeling defensive? I thought you were working me up this way, but it was really me. You thought I was hurting you but it was really you.

Suddenly we were no longer close. Everything changes, the whole world gets blocked out. All I could hold on to as I picked myself up to follow you out there, was the smile I saw on the old man’s face, the proprietor, with an apron tied around his belly. I passed him by as he was wiping down a booth closer to the door with his rag. Someone wasn’t so offended by me. Still you and I were miles apart. This did not mean anything, for we both had an underlying connection, call it friendship. This connection caused us not to feel abandoned, just hurt temporarily. Call it a misunderstanding between friends. I approached and listened. You told me I was acting entitled, when all you were doing was trying to help. I told you how you said stuff that hurt me, which caused me to react. You demanded an apology. I thought about it. While waiting for an apology, you preached. You were a bit older so I let you. On the side I was contemplating an apology as a gesture of good will. I do not typically give in to demands, but maybe for someone I care about who cares about me.

I admit I tuned you out until several seconds later when I apologized. You didn’t hear it because you were worked up, so the next time you told me how I oughta apologize I reminded you I just did. We were on the sidewalk in front of Lucky’s. The cars were passing by. The atmosphere was white without shadows or fog. The sun just could not be refined. The street had noise which kindly muted our argument. My feelings were laid out for you. I think you saw me the second I reminded you I had apologized. Because that’s when it changed. You saw I was quiet and quieter than you and putting up with you there. You saw that I was your friend. You relaxed a little bit and changed your tune. You acted like an older woman telling a younger woman how you were trying to help me, how your support would look, but not feel, like support. I nodded my head because I honestly remembered you were wanting to help me, you were trying to. Maybe I just wanted your help a certain special way, like I am programmed to receive only certain kinds of shapes, like Tetris falling. Everything was okay again. We were friends again, with only a residual, a bad memory; like high fructose corn syrup dyed, twisted and wrapped tight in plastic, posing as black licorice. You finished describing how you are. You didn’t have to say anything, I guess, I already figured it out on my own.

lucky kid #2 (companion piece)

Quiet life on softened streets, all the bad news backed away. You lucky kid. I washed my hair with 100,000 molecules. Each one like the full moon tonight, lighting up life in all the right ways. I made it to the site. I could peacefully fold my legs up under me on the couch facing the east,  the house where nobody’s home, facing, pinching my slip as I picked it up and let it go hang around freely, pinching myself. You lucky kid you. All the pages were viewed, in a free sweep of eyes (not mine). To be sure they really existed, outside of myself. Not so easily destroyed by water, heat, air, time. Thumbs rubbing the ink to a fade I can no longer describe. Each curve of every letter like the full moon tonight, lighting up life in all the spectacular finishes. Flourishes. You lucky kid. Thinking of a friend, one I haven’t even heard of in years, a keystroke away, a daydream, attacking a search engine with a heart on a saturday in America, one truffle at a time, pulling lightly on the ends of twisted plastic until the whole thing rolls over and out, examining the condition of my condition, remembering the ionic bond even if it hurts. Life I love you.