A Random Image

Archive for February, 2007

 
|| February 6, 2007 || 7:11 pm || Comments (3) ||

Someone (In the style of Jonathan Richman)

She

wasn’t even my type

It was

the wrong place the wrong time

But

she

reminded me of someone

and I

could not help myself

I

led her on

and I

led her out

and I

laid her down

and it was

wonderful

and it was

terrible

and I

sat there empty

as she

said her goodbyes

fumbling for her keys

staring at the floor

her warmth evaporating

from my rented little world.

 
|| February 5, 2007 || 1:34 pm || Comments (0) ||

Ciao, babies!

Starting at one pee emm tomorrow, I have the rest of the week off work. With pay!

(say it with me boys and girls: ‘yaaaaay, bosses having out-of-town conferences!’)

Starting today at one forty-five pee emm, I’m keeping my head out of Cyberia altogether for a few days. If you’ve got the means to contact me, by all means do so. Otherwise, try to not maim one another in my absence; I won’t be here to cheer you on/laaaaaugh.

pee ess….if you’ve got the keys to the place still and wanna take her for a spin, feel free to do the damn thing.

 
|| February 4, 2007 || 3:33 pm || Comments (4) ||

Who ya rootin’ for?

SUUUUUUU
PERRR
BOWWWWWWL!

 

Fuck this shit, I’m going back to Set Point Angry.

He compliments my vest. It is ridiculous and poofy and gold -shiny, shiiiiny gold– and has a hood. But it’s warm. And it’s gold. It’s being shadowed by a ribbed turtleneck that sort of feels like a happy hug: Stretchy and with sleeves that cover my hands up to my knuckles.

I am one of those shmucks that likes –nay, loves– the too-long sleeves that the clothing industry is busy foisting on us; I like the way they feel, my hands, half-cocooned in random textiles, warm and just barely peeking out like comfortable, tentative animals.

He likes my vest. It’s strange how most of my best friends are men yet I sometimes manage to forget how to talk when it involves the random male. Innocuous, non-threatening and self-affacing random males. What the hell?

“Okay. Um, thanks.”

“You have an uncanny knack for telling people ‘You are very, very stupid.‘ without saying those words. You know exactly how to cut swift and deep.” This is earlier in the day. Tess is matter-of-factly dissecting my behavior after a phone call from my bank. The woman on the phone sounded very imperious, and rather than be patient with her, I saw her imperiousness and raised it with scalding. She folded, I win.

“It’s brilliant to watch sometimes and painful to watch mostimes.”

“I don’t always mean to, you know.”

She is tender now, “I know.

“I’ve never really seen you do it to someone who didn’t deserve it. But I have seen you do it too quickly.”

“I try to rein myself in.”

“Yeah, I know that too. You stay exhausted from it.”

once I got home there was no one around to help me figure out the tabs on the brand new bottle of NyQuil I bought, so I just sailed right on past my frustration by popping a couple of those fancy-dancy Mucinex tabs and continuing to drink

There is this someone I know who had a job painting backdrops for haunted houses (yes! really!) by day and stood for hours getting the curve of Julie Delpy’s elbow juuuuust right by night. He had these juicy, full lips and a sweet-stupid innocence and my God, how we laughed. Everything, all the time, there was laughter and laughter and laughter. Even when the air conditioning broke.

That’s the measure of true friendship: When the air conditioning breaks in the fourth-floor walkup with a closet of a kitchen and you cook spaghetti while sweating profusely but still manage to make a game of it all, then you know that you’re solidlikethat. Solid, but still with toothbrushes in separate cups.

He never knew his father, not one single thing about him; his mother was hard in certain, specific ways. I wished I had never wanted to know my father for so desperately and so long; life was hard on me in certain and specific ways.

This painter, some years after we had parted ways and the scabs of relational breakage fell off to leave bright pink baby skin of quiet remembrance below, he called me up.

Oh, did I remember to say that there was money? It was money that had to be waited on for a long, long time. The whole process was merciless, really, when I know how many days that kid had to spend eating peanut butter on saltines. I used to joke about going down to the market at three ay emm for not-carefully selected jars of Jif he could flat-out mainline because his peanut butter use was no longer want to, but haaaave to. Joking usually helps when you don’t have so much as two pennies clinking around illicitly under the couch cushions. Usually it helps. Usually it does. Usually.

So I heard from him one day, picked up the phone to hear a ghost murmuring my name: “Ahh, is this Elizabeth?” I started crying. He wanted to panic, because I am not the girl who cries. More specifically, I am That Girl Who Could Not Possibly Have Had Tear Ducts. But he didn’t panic, and I was caught up in the rhythms and timbre of his voice before I knew it. Then our brains were falling out again and we laughed to the point of lunacy.

“I got the money. Want to know what I’m going to do with it?”

He got the money.

Of course I want to know what you’re gonna do with it.”

“I am buying this old opera house right outside of Boston. It’s a gorgeous shitheap and I’m gonna fix it up.” That’s how he planned on spending days upon days: Putting feet to floor and hands to task until there was nothing left to be done.

“Will you paint, Cristian?”

“This will be my biggest piece ever.”

I wanted to go out and look, promised him I would. I actually wanted to go out and spend a week, wanted to get my hands in the mix and work –slave- and savant-like– from sunup to sundown. I wanted a hand in the process, wanted to gift him, wanted him to be able to point and say, “My Eli, she stood there and did that.” I like active, tangible testaments of my loyalty to my pocket people.

I didn’t get to. His mother got very, very sick and he had to speed back across to the other side of the country, to the part I stubbornly and passionately hate, to take care of her. They only had each other, after all.

He called me to say how it is just him now, he is all alone in this world. I want to be his comfort, but how do you get around a whole universe just to pull someone’s head into your lap and stroke their jaw while they sorrow?

 
|| February 1, 2007 || 11:27 pm || Comments (2) ||

Automatic

Shoulders should do without want

& lips should proffer delight

& arms should be at the ready

Sex should be filthy

& prayers should sing honest

& screams should be from the bottoms of your feet

Strength should come in increments

& knowing should come from the middle

& seeing should be done with your heart