Foreboding

Saturday, May 30th, 2009 4:52 pm — PassagesComments (0)

A breeze off the lake–petal-shaped
Luna-park effects avoid the teasing outline
Of where we would be if we were here.
Bombed out of our minds, I think
The way here is too close, too packed
With surges of feeling. It can’t be.
The wipeout occurs first at the center,
now around the edges. A big ugly one
With braces kicking the shit out of a smaller one
Who reaches for a platinum axe stamped excalibur:
Just jungles really. The daytime bars are
Packed but night has more meaning
In the pockets and side vents. I feel as though
Somebody had just brought me an equation.
I say, "I can’t answer this–I know
That it’s true, please, believe me,
I can see the proof, lofty, invisible
In the sky far above the striped awnings. I just see
That I want it to go on, without
Anybody’s getting hurt, and for the shuffling
To resume between me and my side of the night."


John Ashbery

 

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A Sister in Maine?

Thursday, May 21st, 2009 1:51 am — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (1)

OK. Today was nothing. A big, wobbly, quivering 0.
I am thinking about a poem, a poem about the smells from 1B.
First came the dead body smell. Then came the ludicrous flowerly poof poof that filled the building with roses and lilacs (and invisible butterflies and birdies and twinkling horsies) but that failed to strangle the dead body smell.
The dead body stink stayed for 2 weeks until the police removed the green sticker from the apartment and The Service was called. The Service delivered days of arch bleach scent, more days of bleach and then more days of who-knows-what. There is a reason you call The Service and you can have no idea but to appreciate what they did to get the rotted stink of human carcass out of that tiny apartment.
I remember how the landlord held court the day J. died last month. He preached arbitrary gospel from the front step of this building as the police called in the incident. The landlord seemed to own the moment, reminding me as I exited and entered this building that “LIFE IS A PENANCE, MARK. ENJOY IT WHILE YOU ARE YOUNG. RUN.”
Then I heard the police, referring to the dead man, tell their radio “We think he has a sister in Maine.”
They never found a sister or a brother or a friend.
After The Service did its work the place came to smell of caulk, clay, and craftsman’s material. As with all those smells the odors filled my kitchen. I shut the window.
Today the smell was of paint, the final coat of forget that seals in the memory.
This is the poem I am thinking about, but what if I never write it? Would that not make it the perfect poem? Unuttered? Unrecorded? A stuff not of critical complaint or paperwork but of braggadocio and mental adrenaline?
Yes. That poem.
Oh fuck you Jack Spicer, fuck you with your poetry about poets thinking about poems about other poets’ remarks about their own poetry. Yes. Fuck you, Jack Spicer.

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All About Me

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009 11:58 am — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (1)

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Employment Termination Notice

Monday, May 18th, 2009 2:09 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

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While continuing to rummage through old file cabinets and boxes I found this card. This card is a relic from one of the oddest encounters I have yet had while managing public web sites.

This EMPLOYMENT TERMINATION NOTICE arrived at my P.O. Box many years ago, along with a set of papers from the Division of Child Support (DCS) at the State of Washington’s Department of Social and Health Services. The DCS in Washington wanted me to verify the employment and/or termination dates of an individual whose name I did not immediately recognize. This type of paperwork, unfamiliar to me, was part of a child custody or child support suit involving people I did not know. I myself had never employed anyone directly so this paperwork puzzled me. Its connection to a child support suit made it all the more unnerving.

I called the DCS in Washington and explained my confusion. I explained that I had nothing to do with this matter, that I did not know the people whose names appeared in this paperwork, and that I knew nothing about a child support or custody battle between any of my even remotest acquaintances.

The DCS person I talked to did not quiz me too much about this matter, suggesting there had simply been a mix-up in the paperwork. He suggested I return the paperwork to him with a note explaining that I knew nothing about this matter. I did as much, though I took my remove from the situation a step further by writing my comments on a Post-It note which I stuck to the papers. Imagining that my signature on the papers could somehow be interpreted as meaning I had real involvement in this case I issued my comments on separate papers. I might have been a little over-zealous about it but to illustrate my distance from the situation I did not want my name and signature to appear on the actual paperwork from this case.

This happened about 13 years ago. My memory of the details of what had actually happened is somewhat fuzzy but the substance is clear.

I mailed the paperwork back to the DCS but this strange encounter lingered in my mind. "What was that?" I kept asking myself. As with most things in my life it took me some time to understand. I can not remember now if it came to me gradually or all at once but I eventually reached a credible — if no less puzzling — conclusion.

About a year earlier — before I got the paperwork from DCS — I had exchanged a few e-mails with someone who introduced himself to me as a database programmer/administrator of some skill. He wanted to help turn my Payphone Project into a searchable resource. At the time the site listed payphone numbers and locations as free text, a format that I liked and which I could have taken farther. Pages like this list of Manhattan payphone locations included not just listings of public phones but freeform descriptions and occasional stories from site visitors who had some knowledge or experience with those phones.  That element of randomness, in which a telephone book comes alive with annotations and stories behind the arbitrary-seeming data, was great fun for a while.

The person who contacted me wanted to clean up that data by formatting it and stuffing it into a database. I could understand the thinking behind this though I was basically apathetic about it. We had a brief e-mail correspondence and I think just one phone call before I let it go. I was not interested — in fact I have never had much interest in working with other people on these personal web projects of mine, at least where the actual production of the content is concerned. Others have certainly influenced things that have happened here but I’ve never entered into a full working relationship with anyone — believe it or not I’ve had several offers from business development and marketing types.

At any rate, this correspondence lasted maybe 3 or 4 days and I soon forgot about it.

Fast-forward just over a year: About a week after I mailed that paperwork back to DCS in Washington it all came back to me. I looked back at my e-mails from over a year earlier and found his name and those few e-mails we had sent back and forth. I did not remember him as being from Washington but I saw in his e-mail .sig lines that that was where he lived.

We never entered into any kind of working relationship but that person told DCS that we had and that he was currently employed by me. The DCS person I talked to suggested that I had hired this person to work for my company (hah!) and that perhaps I simply did not remember him. I told DCS I have no "company" and that I had never hired anyone.

As we spoke I leafed through the papers, seeing the names of the young child and the mother who appeared to be demanding money from this person. As part of the proceedings DCS inquired with me — his supposed employer — about garnishing his wages to help pay the child support.

The EMPLOYMENT TERMINATION NOTICE above is only one of the papers I received, and it was included as a "just in case" fallback. DCS assumed that this person was still employed by me but included that card in case I had recently fired him.

I do not know why I got involved in this. Was this person so irritated with me for not wanting to enter into a working relationship with him that he disdainfully listed me as his employer to let me know he remembered? Or did this person simply do so much freelance work that he honestly got my name mixed up with that of someone else who did hire him? The paperwork from DCS suggested this person worked for me at the time — over a year since the time of our correspondences — so this person had evidently supplied the information about me quite recently.

It was all very strange, the unease I felt further exacerbated by the fact that an obviously ugly child custody case had somehow lurched out of its confines to try and involve someone only remotely connected to one of the parties.

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High

Sunday, May 17th, 2009 1:41 am — DreamlandComments (0)

I dreamed last night I was sleeping in a bed on an airplane that rose to 165,000 feet so as to avoid bad weather at 30,000 feet. I was in First Class (obviously) and was presented with a line graph illustrating how the plane’s ascent moved us close to the firmament and to God. Cabin crew and staff assured us that First Class did not get us access to God or to Heaven. I comfortably chose sleep over worries about scraping against a thin sheet of phlegm that lies between between commercial aviation and the icy stratosphere.

I have not remembered very many dreams lately. I connect this one to a Ronnie Hawkins line I’ve been thinking about lately: "I turned 41, I don’t mind dyin’!"

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Bathroom Sink

Wednesday, May 13th, 2009 10:20 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (4)

This is just something I felt like doing. Rummaging through my file cabinets in a bottomless attempt to get my paperwork in order I found this 1995 picture of the bathroom sink from my upper east side apartment. Every object, it seemed, had a story underneath it. I set this picture up so you could point your mouse at some of the objects and see the story. This was fun but my arms are weak from typing. I may circle back on this image and fill in the stories behind the rest of the objects.

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Wake Up

Monday, May 11th, 2009 1:19 am — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

I just spilled a pot full of pennies from a top shelf down onto the floor. It made a terrific racket.

I heard the upstairs neighbors, probably fast fast asleep the instant before, suddenly scurrying around, madly woken up from peacable slumbers, or maybe peacably woken up from mosquito-infested torpor.

This business, as I know, of paying rent on a pod in a community mausoleum for the living comes with the echos of notice that my 1:30am noises reverberate less predictably but no less reliably than those damn car alarms that used to blast off all through the night.

I woke up feeling motivated and distracted but as the day wore on I felt weathered and confused.

Here is a poem I wrote at the bar tonight while the single alcoholic girls looked at me with a mix of curiosity and selfish disdain (which was mutual):

 

Mothers Day.
I walked toward
the window and
felt that dark
little opening
look at me. Like
a wedge, a
familiar crutch.
A feeble crutch.
No crutch at all.
I heard a radio
say that a mom
is the backbone
of a good man.
I laughed:
Of what is my
backbone made?

 

 

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I’ve Been Scanning Family Slides

Friday, May 8th, 2009 2:02 am — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (3)

Just not my family slides.

For the last few weeks I have been painstakingly scanning hundreds of slides like this one, slides of a random Brooklyn family whose 22+ years of slides turned up  at an Astoria thrift shop.

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What have you been doing?

 

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Cardboard Telephone

Friday, May 1st, 2009 11:12 am — DreamlandComments (0)

I just woke from a dream and I want to write it down before I forget it.

My father called to complain about some mundane matter regarding his apartment.

I studied his voice, authenticated it, made sure it was real. I listened for his unique southern drawls and hillbilly flourishes.

I said little as he submitted to what he felt was the unique privilige of family that lets the dead call to chat with their living.

My mood on hearing his voice was not unlike those times he called toward the end of his life, drunk as a cowboy, hollering down the line at me about the good times.

I interrupted him to say "I can’t understand anything you’re saying." His phone was a 50¢ piece of cardboard through which his voice sounded like a stiff wind trying to ram itself through a tiny hole.

I told him I would stop by to see him. Before ending the call I announced "I just gotta say, this is a little weird that you’re calling me." He understood. He knew his disadvantage.

When I saw him my mind returned to the circumstances of his death, and to the funeral. Closed casket. The funeral home swore they could dress him up so he’d look good for open casket but we said no. Only in the dream did I regret that decision.

We spoke in his kitchen and I tried to find where, where in your head did you shoot yourself? I couldn’t find it. I looked at the back of his head and I studied his face, looking for the bullet holes. The coffin was on his porch but I did not look at it.

At the funeral (the real funeral, not anything in this dream) I felt like that coffin was smiling, smiling in that flat way a container grins when it is completely, soundly shut.

Talk revolved around everyday concerns. He knew most of his things were gone but specifically wanted to know what I did with his phone and answering machine.

He had been away for a while and wanted to get back on track with his apartment and the life he took away.

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