Sunday, February 26, 2017

Prospect Park - Coming In For a Landing


When you're an insomniac every sentence out of your mouth can be like a dream.  It forms in your mouth and comes out and by the time you've heard the sound of your own voice, often startling, it's faded and there is little memory that it ever happened.  You know there was a sound, but you can't quite place it.  

Welcome to my world.  

I know I was in the park an hour ago.  My feet were moving.  It was cold.  I can still feel the ache in my knuckles and my face is windburned.  More than all that, there is photographic evidence.  Without that it might be difficult to tell if I were really ever out of bed.  Maybe I dreamed it.  

Perhaps I take photos as a record that something actually happened.  

My friend and I used to muse, stoned, that maybe the present in which we were sitting and smoking and talking wasn't really happening.  That we were dreaming it.  It seemed plausible, except for what I didn't want to tell him.  The sentence would form in my head and move toward my mouth but I would stop.

"Dude, may our dreams never be this tedious.  It's highly unlikely that two people could be having the same fucking boring dream simultaneously."  

But now I take pictures.

And right in this moment I am back in my bed, and unconnectedly feeling a sense of dread.  Something is about to happen.  Something unpleasant.  How can I be so certain that something is about to happen when I'm not 100% certain that something that only just happened actually did?  Fuck it.  Maybe it is connected after all.  Everything else seems to be.  

--  I walked about 13 miles in total yesterday and managed for a good part of it to sidestep feelings about recent news from across the Atlantic.  I came home and played with my dog and did laundry and organized some tax information.  Then I sat up a good part of the night occupied with photography websites and poetry and random stupid things.  I listened to music.  

This morning I came in for a landing, flapping awkwardly like a fat goose into the lake, back to earth to settle into reality.  The sun came up and feelings arose with it.  It seems awfully fucking bright out there.  It's bad enough in here with the curtains drawn and the lights off.  Maybe it's the glare from the laptop screen.  Or maybe it's just too many hours awake and feeling things.  

"You know what we do with feelings," The Crocodile asked me?

"Fucked if I know.  What?"

"We feel them."

"Oh."

Okay.  We feel them.  

Okay.  

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Prospect Park - DDATHTL


It's like glass tonight.  A dark mirror.  Standing looking at the reflection.  Looking at  my reflection.  Reflecting.

Reflecting on the word "metastasized."

Fuck you cancer.

Fuck you.  

How long then?

Six months.  A year.  Two years, mebbe if things go well.

I could come there.

No you cyant.  Ya stay weh ya are, Mister Biggs.  Do dat ting ya do.  Work.  Write.  Tell ya story, Bigga.  I'll read dem and it mek me feel good.  But ya cyant come here!  Seen?

Seen.  

I could feel that thing happening.  I could feel everything shutting down.  I could feel the drift to that place, off to the side of where feelings happen and words don't happen.  She reached in with her words and pulled me back.

How ya woman, den?  How da pickney?

Wonderful.

And it felt wonderful for a moment to say that and even remembering who I was talking to and the circumstances and what she had just told me, it felt okay to say the word wonderful and feel it.  Always honesty with Natalie.  Always, because it is how it has always been.  It's what we do and it's what we always did when we weren't doing that other thing, and then I thought about how few people there are that I've ever shared that kind of intimacy with.

Honesty = Intimacy.  

It does.  

Den ya cyan stay right dere, Bigga and do what you do best.  Use dem words and tell ya story.  

And I must've gone silent again.  I must've drifted off because before I knew it she was dragging me back.

What ya thinkin' den?

I'm thinking about feelings.

Ah, Mister Biggs, I know all 'bout ya great big feelins.

And you know this how, Miss Natalie?

Cuz I read what ya write down an' I know anyway.  Always I know.  An' besides, I'm the only one ya write 'bout den, aren't I?  

Ha!  Yah, sort of...

Den go an' tell ya story, Mister Biggs.  Don't worry tellin' mine.  Ya got ya own.  

And she's absolutely right.  We all have our own stories.  We tell the parts we can, and then the story tells itself and somewhere between it plays out.  

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

In a panic, they tried to pull the plug.



The Terminator: The Skynet Funding Bill is passed. The system goes on-line August 4th, 1997. Human decisions are removed from strategic defense. Skynet begins to learn at a geometric rate. It becomes self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they try to pull the plug.

Too late.  Skynet was already being a dick.

Monday, February 20, 2017

Church & Rogers, Brooklyn, NY

Round the way.

Our heads are round so our thoughts can change direction. ~ Francis Picabia