Personal Architecture (While Eating in a Restaurant)

my cousin said long ago
what a horrible experience it was
to eat lunch in a restaurant alone
I used to be self-conscious about it
when I did
but dared myself to walk in and sit down anyway
now, in this crowded restaurant
in Chinatown
I realize it doesn't bother me at all
the noise and conversations fall like rain
while I remain comfortably dry
maybe I've had enough years
and reminders
to accept my place in the world

(TO ALL: May the new year bring you seen and unforeseen changes for the better. Happy 2011!!)

When It's Love

You look at every face in a crowd
Some shine and some keep you guessing
Waiting for someone to come into focus
Teach you your final love lesson
     --Van Halen, When It's Love

(Generation X in the 80’s)

He drove by her house.

A quiet, residential street. A non-descript collection of white siding and windows. Rose bushes. A closed front door.

As the car went on, he turned to look over his shoulder in order to catch every angle, every permutation of the pass.

Summer vacation had started last week, and he wouldn’t see her for three months. If he only talked to her, he wouldn’t be on this street, in this neighborhood, and craning his neck like a fool as the sun deepened to orange.

But he didn’t talk to her. Like a loser.

Despite the way she looked at him.

Once.

Okay, it was clearly twice. Other times too, but not so clearly.

So he turned at the stoplight and vowed he wouldn’t circle around for another go.

But September was very far away.

And she might not look at him like that ever again.

Beer Philosophers #10 - My True Love Gave to Me

“You know, I never really understood the 12 days of Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“Was it like, 12 actual days?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Before or after Christmas?”

“I think both.”

“Okay. And Christmas was still Christmas? Just one of the 12 days?”

“I think so.”

“Huh….”

“Look. Don’t forget. All this started as a solstice celebration. The shortest day of the year. What better way to cheer yourself up in the dark than to light lights, give gifts, and get totally plastered? Christmas used to be rowdy, man.”

“Well, drinking always cheers me up.”

“Then why get drunk one measly day? You might as well add 11 more.”

“I see. I think I get it. So it wasn’t some religious reason. Like the 12 wise men, or something like that.”

“You mean the three wise men.”

“Or the 12 hours of the day.”

“Are you serious? There are 24 hours in the day. The twelve happen twice.”

“Right. Right.”

“Man, you should lay off the wassail. Seriously.”

“Don’t want me dozen off?”

“You mean dozing?”

“No, I’m mean dozen. Like twelve. Get it?? Ha!”

“Give me the freaking cup! “

“Back off. Or I’m gonna call Adam 12. Put The Man on you.”

“Now!”

“Dude! Get off me! You’re gonna-- Awww nice, you frigging spilled it all over me.”

“Here’s 12 bucks. Take it to the dry cleaner.”

Merry Christmas

May you have a sprig of greenery in your heart and candlelight in your eyes this night.

Merry Christmas! (And every other holiday or solstice you might celebrate.)

E=mc2

I dreamt of Einstein on the winter solstice
chin cradled in hand
his general relativity refused to apply
to all the tiny spots where he could stand
so he confirmed the law of gravity
Sir Isaac Newton tucked him into bed
as the moon spun volumes of theories
and eclipsed to brooding red

The Turning

With this year dimming to yet another close, do you know what direction you're traveling? Do you know what you stand for?

Getting a Handel on Winter

Certain kinds of music are linked to certain seasons for me. To the point where I really don't listen to music in the "wrong" season.

Winter is a time when I really can get a craving for classical. Maybe it's something about indoors and candles and chamber music and old city streets and balls and "high society." I just can't imagine the sound of a harpsichord in sweltering heat with a round of umbrella drinks in hand.

Even though I'm not religious, I'm especially drawn to Handel's Messiah this time of year. (Being a purist, I stick to the Christmassy, rather than Easterish parts.)

Here's an amazing soloist, if you're interested. Her name is Sara Macliver, a celebrated singer in Australia. Her tone and control really are incredible. Not to mention an outright pretty voice.

You rock, Sara!!! (In a hardcore classical sorta way.)

Wrong Side of the Bed

He stopped halfway down the stairs to yawn and stretch.

Down in the kitchen, his wife was already sitting at the table. Her hands were folded in front of a mug of tea.

"Hey," he said, scratching the back of his head. "You're up early."

"I didn't feel well," she said quietly.

She seemed very far away.

"Still now?" he said.

Her attention snapped to him. Something wild was in her eyes. It startled him.

"Does anything seem strange to you?" she said.

"Strange?" He glanced around the room. "Um, no.... Not especially."

Did he forgot to put the dishes in the dishwater?

Her hand flashed toward the window. It was shaking.

"The sun!"

He nodded. "Looks like is going to be a beautiful day."

"THE SUN!"

He backed away. "Jesus. Okay. Calm down. What's wrong?"

Now her voice trembled too. "At first, I doubted myself," she said, "but no, it's true. It's obvious. Everything is wrong. The light is wrong. The sun is in my face. It's glaring in my eyes when I'm making breakfast."

"I'm sorry," he said, now really worried. "I don't understand."

"Don't you SEE IT? For fuck's sake! The sun is rising in the WEST!"

He peered out.

"And when I looked outside, I saw the neighbors. It's trash day. And...." She was sobbing. "They're not right either. When they turned I saw they had, almost like they were, one kind of person in the front and another in the back."

Still curious about the sun, he spun around to get a better look with his sharper set of set of eyes. His male side was more of a morning person, but now his female half was finally chasing away the cobwebs. He cleared his female throat to continue the conversation.

She screamed.

Plastic Grasshopper

i hopped with polyethylene legs
tight-roped on tassels of polystyrene grass
as the sun spilled its propane-fired rays
your factories wheeze organic chemistry
puffing clouds heavy with hydrocarbon chains
until the rain glops hard
sheeting my carapace glistening and sealed
a plastic grasshopper
prepackaged for summer
undying
smiling

Game Friday: Rated G Romance

Okay, I'll admit it.

When I was young, I would sigh for Clarice.

She had a great head on her shoulders (do deer have shoulders, per se?). She was one perceptive, bright, and kind girl. More than a little cute too! Rudolph would be roasted venison not to jump at that one.

The game today is cartoon/animated crushes. Care to give us any confessions from your Disney days?? I know you've got them.

Night

It’s getting late
It’s getting dark
In the end of the night
I can feel your warmth
Come up close
Close to me
'Cause in the end of the night
I can feel you breathe
     --Zola Jesus, Night

His hands peeled the foil from the wine bottle and brushed dust from the old label.

His wrists turned and turned.

Digging metal into cork.

His fingers trembled just a touch when they set the corkscrew back on the counter.

He stopped, leaning the counter, eyes closed for a moment. He drew a breath. Just a hint of perfume threaded into the kitchen from the other room.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Then remembered the towel. Two special glasses came down from their high place in the cabinet.

The rich wine swirled. Such a deep aroma. It made him think of what it was like to look into her eyes. How can you be so uneasy around a person and drawn to them at the same time?

The wine, and he, moved for the door.

His feet were the stronger part. Not indulging even a stride of nerves or hesitation.


COMMENTS LINK

Last Twinklings of Night Before Dawn

Starcrystals tiny reflect the moon
Lit silvery and small in frozen leaves
Air settles still from the frigid night
As I leave behind fire and flannel sheets



Fog hangs like frozen breath
As salmon dawn swims into eastern sky
Trees, black, remembering dreams
The forest waits for a spark to catch

(I'm always wishing to write more "on location." These two were written that way. In the last hour before dawn.)

Beer Philosophers #9 - Wiggle Me This

(A Thursday evening at the micro-brewery. A conversation just concluded concerning where hotdogs come from.)


"You know what you never see as the main character of a book?"

"So now we're going from hotdogs to books?"

"A worm."

"Look. They do NOT put worm meat in hotdogs. Get real. That would have to be illegal."

"I'm serious."

"A worm?"

"Yes."

"What kind of worm?"

"An earthworm. You know, a normal worm. Or maybe a night crawler."

"Interesting...."

"I think so."

"Don't you think there's already a children's book about a worm?"

"Could be. But I mean serious fiction. Literature."

"That's a tall order, isn't it?"

"Not at all."

"Look, earthworms don't talk. They don't have language. How are they even going to tell a story? The very notion of how we portray drama does not apply to worms."

"My friend, the mind of a worm is a mysterious thing. Who knows what kind of thoughts worms noodle on."

"Can we not use 'worms' and 'noodles' in the same sentence?"

"You want drama? Just look outside there. See how cold it is? Those are snowflakes. The ground must be getting hard and frozen. The worm world is changing. You have to go deep. You have to get away from the cold. No more sun to keep you warm."

"Um, worms shrivel up and die in the sun. My dog used eat them off the pavement. Like crunchy little snacks."

"Think of the trials and tribulations! Think of the epic struggles!"

"I'm pretty sure that if you use the phrase 'trials and tribulations' with any book, it has to be bad."

"...a whole new angle on the human experience. Exploring our inner worm."

"That's just gross."

"I think I'm going to jot down some ideas before I forget them. Do you have a notepad or something?"

"Do you remember when you tried to write that poem in high school? You had such a hard time with it, you actually had some sort of nervous breakdown and cried. Mr. Smith finally asked you if he should call your mom."

"A pen?"

"You were eighteen years old."

"QUICK, BEFORE I LOSE IT!!"

"Yeah. That's how you looked when it started to happen. Better give me your mom's number just in case I'm going to need it."

The Radio

The radio played by the old, lone lamp.

Her eyes were closed. The song moved. Images wove with a mind of their own.

She liked to be surprised by the music. Much more alive than if she chose records to play. She liked the conversations in between. The commercials. The contests and jokes. She liked having company in the small world of lamplight.

The next song danced her to the boy with dark eyes.

Her heart filled, and she missed him.

The next baked summer sun into her skin and vacation daydreams. In another, it was the weeks after her father died.

Her son was born. A husband came and went. The years layered on many years.

The night began to weigh, but she would not turn off the radio to sleep.

Not anymore.

She embraced a more fluid math, because in the silence, she was nothing but the sum of the things she could no longer be.


(Photo taken at the Philadelphia Museum of Art)