plans, somehow.

anne and i sat across from each other at a small table, one of many tables, outside a very loud bar on greenwich avenue. it had taken us a while to find it because she was certain it was greenwich street, not greenwich avenue and so we went very far west, near houston and walked, smoking cigarettes, feeling stupid for not being able to find a bar that i thought i’d been to before. somehow, we ended up finding it and i had been before, but it had been years and i had been there for lunch, not drinks. we sat across from each other and talked about our plans, our extended plans, even though we don’t really have any. she wants to go to california and i want to go to scotland, but somehow we’re talking about moving to arizona where her sister lives and invests in real-estate.
earlier, when we were walking and feeling stupid for not being able to find the bar, we came across the entrance to a courtyard on a very quiet street. we held hands and barely walked around, since it was so quiet. we were in awe. as we turned to make a quiet exit anne said “look, this is me leaving for work in the morning.” she took two steps and looked up at the rod iron archway above her, her hands slightly out to the side. it’s always been this way, even before we met. we were always planning, with no real plans. thinking, plotting the little things. we’d stumble upon moments, places. things that seemed exactly the way we’d have written about them if we had written more often.
later, on bank street, after we had left the too loud bar, it happened again. this time it was a brownstone. “imagine,” she said softly yet earnestly, “we’ll walk down the steps, ‘oh, I’m just going to run and get a cup of coffee,’ because there’s an amazing coffee shop right outside our fucking brownstone.” this time we’re planning even further ahead. we decided that we’d have kids, since we’d actually be married if sexual discrepancies had not obstructed the possibility of straight-life. she’d have an amazing someone of the female sort, possibly. and I’ve have someone of the male sort, possibly. and the four of us would have a brownstone right on bank street, which is really just an excuse for anne and i to be together, and still be free. “but what if you broke up with your someone,” she said in concern. “wouldn’t happen,” i said, taking a pull from my cigarette, “we’d love each other too much to break up.” “hmm,” she thought. because if we’re planning the future, we might as well make plans for it to be perfect. and so the night went on, and we found ourselves at different bars, with different people we had meant to meet up with, but didn’t right away on account of our stumbling upon our hypothetical lives. somehow though, these stumbling always bring us together, both past and present, hypothetical and actual. she is, somehow, the only plans that i ever keep.

missed connections

nicolette wrote me a few nights ago to inform me that someone had miss-connected with me. and a few days later, another person stepped forward into the light and confessed that they too had miss-connected. and while it seems like this is something i might have been very excited about in the past, for some reason it did very little for me. it was a party, and i was among friends, and it is unsettling to me why two people might feel a connection of sorts and not say anything in person. moments like those, where someone unexpectedly and boldly reveals themselve is far better than a distant message written to no one but space. and so i didn't reply. not because i was offended or creeped out. but because i'd rather them just tap me on the back and introduce themselves, and if it was any sort of connection, that would be enough.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Work in Progress, Series

movies end because the spool can only hold so much; it's our misconception that things can fade out, happen in slow motion. the only music that will ever play as you gently caress my cheek is the stuff you put on your itunes. it's the beginning that feels so intrinsically comfortable, so unsentimentally sentimental as it is happening. it feels like slow motion; it's the closest thing you'll ever get. the only real ending is this.

you and i will die. you and i will die. you and i will die.

now. think about that beginning.

Flashbulb of a Thought

i found this yesterday in an old journal from highschool. i thought it was interesting and was worthy of transciption. i still fucking hate those moms that used to sit in their minivans and shoot the shit from car window to car window while waiting to pick up their brat from varsity soccer practice. but i forgot about them, so that's something.

And oh what will they say?
Eyes wide like guppies
As I stroll on down past their picket fences,
Past their green grass a-growing.

And oh it felt good today
As my thighs swayed like ocean tides
While I strutted my cat like pride
To the soccer moms with station wagons a-shining.

Say now 'what’s your story? oh we know.'
They say in a much less friendly way
Inside their shallow minds twirling.
Wouldn’t they love to know the secrets I’m not sharring.

But they just bide their time
As I pass on by
And turn to stare into my lurid eyes
Must forget my presence is their demise
My shadowed grin disturbing.

we haven't reall talked that much / i'm a fucking cliche

Genre: Lyric Essay, Memoir


i really hadn’t meant to love him. i like to think it actually crept up on me, like a menacing shadow in an already dark alley. there i was, alone in a city that i loved and that obviously loved me back, even when i littered it’s streets with cigarette butts and complained of it’s intolerable heat. i was capable for what felt like the first time in my life, although it wasn’t. I’ve been capable for a long time. the city had an astonishing ability to make everything feel like it was happening for the first time. perhaps that was it; perhaps i had felt this before and the city’s zeal had made it feel new-fangled.
nonetheless, i had fallen in love with him. i loved him for his ridiculously unkempt beard. for his strange collection of polyester pants. for the exaggerated inflection his voice took after an hour of smoking joints on his balcony. it seemed, however, that just as quickly and unexpectedly as it had started, he managed to end everything. and i felt naked. not naked in the sense that he had stripped me of anything. but more in the way one feels when one must jump from a situation of naked-ness into a place where one should be clothed. from the shower into the living room to answer a ringing telephone. from one’s bed to the window to flick a cigarette with a towering tip of ash.
and as if my sudden naked-ness was not uncomfortable enough, when he was through ending everything, i began to feel my naked body take on a deep pink. i was now naked and sunburned: in our favorite bar, seeing him dance with anyone within eyeshot (a steaming blister would rise on my subtle shoulder). in my room, listening to a song he had stupidly commented on after sex (my neck would burn, collecting tiny beads of sweat). now he hadn’t crept into my life like a shadow, he had invaded my mind with a fucking tank and built himself a desert fort of sandbags. i hated him and loved him at the same time and what is one to do in that situation but drink the entire contents of every bottle in one’s fridge and make the inevitable phone call - followed by an awkward invitation to meet up, maybe smoke a joint? it sounded like a friendly offering on my behalf, but free drugs were the only way i knew he’d come.
“we haven’t really talked that much,” i said, half accepting such as the truth and half hoping he’d disagree. but there isn’t much to disagree with when the obvious is stated, no matter how slanted i leaned inward. but we had talked much. i had talked to him in every word i spoke since i met him. when states, even oceans, were between us, my tongue spelled his name to a clerk at a train station, to louise, sitting across from me at a cafe table. i had said things. i had engaged in discourse. but he would not know of that. he would not know what i had built for us and only because it was not real. not real, in that it never actually occurred, but real to me because i devised it capable. his ignorance was entirely expected, but flickered like a knife turning.
however, to recognize guilt one must, at least at some point, have been guilty just the same. and i was guilty, maybe even more so than he; he who spoke so easily and taught me to do the same. his guilt laid in his convincing me with words enormously easy - i was guilty for being persuaded by them. and that was just the silky surface. i had committed worse. my expectations had always been conceited. i, who looks to my reflection from the corner of my eye and expects to see something more than what i know is there. i, who sways my belief, entertaining the idea that a person who is notoriously late might arrive early. i am as guilty as he; this i know.
“we haven’t really talked that much,” i said. and “i know,” his response. and i am unaware how situations provided for his speech, but nonetheless, a speech he delivered. he said he had been done with me for some time, that we had had our fun, that he expected more of me in vein of our ending, which i wanted to remind him in all respects was painfully easy. he said he had always considered my long-thought words to be sensationally cliché. “i am a cliché,” i thought. and for more than a fleeting moment, far after i walked down the street alone, even after i exhaled into my pillows — i agreed. but: i soon (soon being nearly a year later) came to understand that my mistake was not loving him, or believing his empty words. my mistake was my too long agreement that my love, my thoughts, my words, my nakedness, my sunburn- were cliché.

Century21

Genre: Lyric Essay

I’m shifting hangers of shirts I don’t need or want at Century21 when I look up and see her. She walks through the double doors and lifts sunglasses that veil her eyes and glances in either direction. Stepping up the stairs she carts a small handbag, its strap falling to her bent elbow, its mass swaying at her hip. In the other hand she holds an iced beverage with a green straw.
“Miss, food and drink is prohibited in the store,” the security man says. He is a black man, mid-thirties, standing to the left of the door wearing a navy uniform. His arms are crossed and his legs appear to be stiff and eternally grounded, as though his shift has lasted for months.
“Oh, sorry, that’s fine,” she says, dropping her nearly full beverage into a nearby garbage can as though she expected the exchange to occur. She moves onward.
Her head is tilted as she passed a mannequin dressed in a tight skirt and button-down shirt with the collar fiercely flipped upward. She tilts her head to the opposite side, as though to question how exactly she ended up in the store and what exactly she will find in its many crowded corners. Her feet scuff, wandering down the marble path as if to say “I’m waiting… where are all the sweaters.” She takes the sunglasses from her atop her head and lets the blonde masses fall over her ears. Still appearing perplexed, she puts the tip of the glasses to her lips and glances around.
Casually, she walks towards a rack of sweaters on the wall and touches them as if to keep herself busy. But then… then she sees something that actually peaks her interest, a table of neatly folded cashmere sweaters is just beyond and she extends her steps slightly and glides towards them. She feels them. Soft, she lifts a sweater that is a very light shade of pink and caresses with her thumbs as her fists gently hold it in its folded condition. She then pinches the shoulders and lets the sweat fall, unraveling to show its fitted design and low cut neck. She turns to the mirior and inspects the color against her neckline. Approvingly, but still not convinced, she stretches her neck and lowers her shoulders and tries to look swan-like. That’s enough. She, lays it across the folded sweaters on the table, rearranges the bag on her arm, and reaches to inspect the tag. She picks the item back up and throws it over her arm, as though to pretend she never questioned the purchase to begin with. She knew she wanted it all along.
She walks onward, this time walking as though she feels more assured. She glances back at the sweaters, should she have gotten it in blue, laved ender? No, pink is her color, it always has been.
She is wearing a mid-length skirt, tight, black, and simple. The toes of her heals are pointed, but not too pointy. Her polo, a more pungent pink than that of the cashmere sweater, has its collar popped and a string of pearls lay subtly across her collarbone. Her denim jacket becomes to warm and she removes it and holds it on the same arm as the sweater.
She walks past more mannequins, does not glance at them this time, and decides that she needs a new pair of jeans. Making a sharp right, she notices the lines of dark denim along the far wall and walks steadily in that direction. She reaches a rack, not quite at the wall, and slips her hand towards the first pair and inspects the tag. No, she’s never been fond of that brand. She looks up, plain-faced. Maybe she does not want to shop for jeans today. She’s not in the mood for the fitting rooms, and besides, she needs a friend to tell her, honestly, how they look. Jeans are too much for an impromptu shopping trip. Maybe another sweater?
She moves on, looking from rack to rack discerningly. A sales woman stands in the middle of the floor, her arms down. As she approaches her the woman asks, “can I help you with anything today?”
“Just browsing, thanks,” with a smile. She did intend on just browsing, but the cashmere is incredible. One more sweater can’t hurt, besides, she’s been so good with her credit card lately. She moves on.
The sweaters on these racks aren’t her at all. They’re rough and pilled and unshapely. The colors are too dull, too bright, or too weathered. These are all wrong. Her phone rings. She transfers her jacket and the sweater to her other arm and rifles through her bag. Finally, she finds it.
“Hello? Hi, I’m in Century… no, nothing major, I just need some new sweaters. Yeah, I know. I hate shopping by myself. Ok, yeah. Right. I’ll call you later. Bye, babe.” She closes the phone with a snap.
She’s frustrated now. She looks back towards the entrance. These sweaters won’t do and she can’t get another cashmere sweater, certainly not the same one in another color, that would be too… common. She puts her phone back in her handbag and turns to the entrance. Maybe she doesn’t want another sweater, certainly not one of these. But the pink one is perfect, she glances down at it. Yes, it is. She moves the sweater to her free arm and walks towards the register.
She waits behind a woman smelling too strongly of old perfume. She turns her toes inwards and glances around at nothing. “Next.”
“Hi,” she says with a half smile.
“Find everything okay today?” the clerk asks without really caring for an answer.
“Yes, thanks.” She passes her credit card between two fingers to the clerk. They wait for it to process. The machine spits out a receipt.
“Sign here?” the clerk says, as though it were a question.
She rests her bag and jacket on the counter and bends over to sign the small piece of paper.
“Thank you, have a great day.” The clerk hands her the yellow copy and looks behind her… “next.”
She gathers the bag and walks towards the door where the security guard still stands. She stops just before the steps and sets the shopping back at her feet. She puts her denim jacket back on and arranges the collar of her polo so the pink peaks just slightly over the dark denim. She lifts the bag, lowers her sunglasses and marches onward. She’s completed her mission. The guard half smiles as she passes. She pushed through the heavy doors and enters into the dull November air of the street.
I continue my shopping, there’s nothing that I want. Her hesitation made me aware of mine. If I were to slide my credit card across the counter, it would be returned and the exchange would be complete, but I would not feel accomplished. I would feel guilty. Nothing her appeals to me right now. I’m not in the mood for shopping and the buzzing of the music is becoming abrasive. I leave the racks, find the path that leads to the back of the store and walk down it in the opposite direction towards the exit. I pass the sales person empty handed, feeling as though I’ve rejected her. I look down, pass the security guard who gives me a sideways glance. My hands are empty and I leave. I hate shopping by myself.

I Agree

Genre: Lyric Essay

photo by bowen ames
model, dre davis

“i wish i could dance here,” she says (to no one in particular.) she’s sitting at a table of people she supposes she might call friends. in a new city it’s hard to tell if someone has earned the title or is a mere acquaintance. she wishes she could dance here, shake her hips. but not her hips - some other part of her body she’s not been taught to be ashamed of, whatever part of her body is deemed sexual, she supposes. the floor is filled with bodies, beads of sweat clinging to foreheads, and dampened strains of hair. she lights another cigarette. she looks up as the glow from her lighter slightly brightens her face, shows the carefully applied shadow around her eyes. her cigarette is lit and her lighter is now in her pocket and she wonders for just a second if someone saw her face in a brighter light and if they thought they might want to dance with her. but the song changes and the moment is gone. looking over her shoulder she notices a boy she think she might have known years ago. it’s not him. boys have become all so similar, she thinks. shaggy hair, tiny waists, studded belts. it might as well be him, he’s probably not all that different. “why aren’t we dancing?” says a female friend/acquaintance sitting beside her. “the music sucks,” that’s why, she says. but it isn’t really the music, she half-thinks. it’s probably the people, all the boys with the shaggy hair and the studded belts; it’s so generic. cut to the bar next door - same situation, same people, different song that sounds the same. how many other people, how many other bars, in how many other cities are being painted in the same light right now. probably more than she’d even guess. and they're all probably thinking the same. she puts her cigarette out and stands. “i am going,” she says, curling her lip, “i am not in the mood for this tonight,” gathers her coat and shuffles through crossed legs and breaks away from the table. “you’re sure?” the friend says desperately. “yeah, stay,” not looking back. “i can’t dance here, i don’t want to dance here.”

“which is it?” i think aloud. but she doesn’t answer. i am undeniably an acquaintance, not a friend. i have shaggy hair and am wearing a studded belt.

waking up with zander

i feel rootless from end to end in sheets of something like steam, but cooler. on Sunday morning (and i'm leaving today) but i'm someplace... someplace between sleep and slithering toawrds the road where the car is picking me up. i forget my jacket (it's cold for august) and i unzip the tent and see himfixed, twisted in duvets And dozing and his eyes barley open (like slits in soft melon.) I turn into him and the comforters (but the car should be here soon to take me back to new york) and i entwine, his arm in mine, flounce back his blonde, and with my all tender want to stay. kiss you. it's to leaving and the morning and to the summer. not a kiss goodbye, even. one that i had been storing up.and you turn at the sound the car honking.

all four winds hit us.
consequence as we part the moment and the month of august.