I sip a too large latte and listen. I don't understand a word... The
traffic, vehicular and pedestrian passes by the two arched windows
bordered in Avocado. White walls between break their stride, the drive
into frames, slipping horizontal cinematic... A Number-One bus passes
by, a Mini parks, headlights and streetlights switching on or off.
The couple in the corner tries to make one another laugh in Swedish so
I didn't get the joke... The homely redheaded kid seated down the
bench plays with the straw in her Coke, while his sister lectures her
on something unknown, foreign. Not foreign, that is me, the alien...
seated here as I sip my too large latte, watching silently. From here
I can read swedcowayne'scoffeekinobarmat... Compiled here as I pass my
eye from one frame to the next... There is other signage I can't quite
read, outside... something in blue, and the number 495 in white, in a
field of lavender.
These are the problems of the moment: at this moment, these are the
problems of all matter, all matters, what matters, everything material
and immaterial -- these are the problems. This impermanence, this
temporality -- thinking time, too much thinking, time to think.
Thinking ahead ... to ... thinging the thinking.
What is not yet remains the promise. Is filled and willed by the
promise. The premonition before knowing. Before. The melancholy that
is the foundation of all pre-tended joy. Falling. Falling down. The
willing. Willing movement toward the willing. Sweet. Sweetness. Now a
thing. Someone, somebody.
We didn't do this because you are drunk, I am.
I didn't want this because we are drunk, I am.
We, we, we, we, we.
Us, us, us, us, us.
You, me, me, me, me.
Did we?
She is a model-waitress, too serious for service but beautiful and
dark. I've never seen her smile but I've seen her pout and glare. Her
long brown hair sometimes tied up, sometime hanging, made bigger,
longer than it really is... A woman passes looking very British, a
school marm maybe... to thin... She looks cold, and her arms seem to
weak to carry her hands.
... been writing all-day, all-day ... I got nothing done, wrote
nothing down ... thinking ... thinking about writing all-day ... an
allegory of writing, then ... been writing all-day the allegories of
writing all-day ... all-day I got nothing done ... I thought about
nothing ... there was nothing to think about, write about ... it all
seemed so obvious ... too obvious to write so I thought all-day about
what I wasn't writing ... couldn't, shouldn't ... I got nothing done
... nothing at all, all-day ... everything seemed so obvious ...
brighter than usual ... making my thoughts dimmer in comparison ...
couldn't, shouldn't ... write the allegories without thinking ahead
... they must be encoded ahead of time, before being committed to
words, images, sounds ... silence, I couldn't hear a thing ... I could
hear myself thinking ... alone, that alone, all-day ... today ... I
didn't write this ... couldn't ... I couldn't think, too distracted
... lost in something that might happen but assuredly will not ...
the problem of this permanence, of moments forgotten before they can
be willed ... couldn't shouldn't ... so vague still, blurred and
floating before dark eyes, swimming ... I got nothing done ... now it
is tomorrow.
Now, again the school marm passes and is much younger than before. The
pink sweater was the problem... and, the left side of her face seems
much younger than the right. My profile of the original profile
(right) was wrong and the left leaves me with a different impression.
she is probably a student. reserved, like a library book.
The couple in the corner laughs and the date seems a success... they
shift from full-blown Swedish to American idioms... to American slag,
to MTV exclamations like it means nothing to be fluent this way....
the redheaded kid, still playing with her straw switches to English to
explain a computer game... the sister, older, responds in Swedish.
They laugh loudly and the daters frown. Redhead kid and her sister,
his sister decide to leave.
++++
The eye
Blue beyond sky
or slate
or steel
not quite the sea reflected
and otherworldly.
That close. When there is only one, a singular monstrosity.
Its color is precise, hypnotic. From a dream,
or what I can remember.
Glance over shoulder, over new moon, chin down.
The new moon --
begins the next night
we left for St. Petersburg on a bus or train or ferry
traveling through the night for days
Hands explore hands in darkened silence
what I can remember of the dream
sounds of others chewing, cheering
glasses clinking
dishes falling to the floor
I remember feeling
the flip of new moon coupled with a devious smile
not meant for me but captured
explaining silence now:
"I know what it's like the first time."
"Coming all this way."
"It's scary but it's just begun."
"It gets worse before it gets better."
"It will get ugly before there can be beauty."
We disembark. The bus, the ferry or flight.
landing in St. Petersburg
arriving in Pittsburg after dark
greeted by the border-guard
the plainclothesed Albanian checking passport papers.
Two lines form the forking path.
++++
Lifted. Feeling lighter than before thinging the thought of the
willing. Outside. Other. Longing becomes belonging, now, at this
moment -- this is the problem. All that matters. Now. There are no
problems at the moment. Everythinkingthing is bliss. This will pass
without a doubt. Doubtlessly the moment will pass, fade, evaporate.
But for now -- lifted, detached from underworld worries. Looking up.
Forward. Abandoning the problems of the moment -- the impermanence.
I, I, I, I, I. I, I, I, I, I. I, I, I, I, I. Did we?
Evaporation: dethinging of the thing. That is to say, predicting the
future.
feeling edgy, ludicrous... haunted by options unattainable ... mardröm
... dull and quiet, chilled ...
I smoked her last cigarette and thought I should drink more; that my
head wasn't spinning and I could take more. everything kaleidoscopic,
unspoken visions whisper, shift, thinking that at least a proper head
spin would offer something different. The cigarette feels good but is
not enough of a reminder. The cigarette is good but is not enough to
penetrate the Bourbon. The cigarette is good but is not potent enough
to feel like I am really smoking...
I smoked her last cigarette -- I'll but her a pack -- and thought of
her, missing... That my head was spinning and I was too drunk to
write this. Everything kaleidoscopic... I call old American friends
-- to me near midnight -- to them mid-afternoon... Just to hear a
voice. This moment lacks the human, truly, and is at the root of my
current frustration. I wish I had another smoke, even her cigarettes
are better than none. Not to be a snob...
Finished, snuffed out in the pack snow that populates the balcony ...
the cigarette is not enough of a reminder. Too much of a reminder --
of recent silent days... "Too much Bourbon," I think to myself as I
waddle stagger to discard the butt -- open door and waddle, stagger
toward the tiny kitchen. I'll have another bourbon now as I type this,
stopping now to pour.
...
...
...
American TV with Swedish subtitles, burnt cheese in a sautee pan,
flourescent lights above ... the fridge filled with coffee, frozen
pizza scraps, French and Danish cheese, Mellan Mjolk, mustard and
citron mayonnaise...
...
...
...
I pour myself another and continue typing. Is typing the same as
writing? Is typing a taxonomic rather than syntactic method? I
continue thinking and typing without thinking about this question, and
where I am, why I am what I am, what I am here ... alone ... I am
NOT.
It comes back to the photographed eye ... the secondary, though
original attraction, I thought, that singularity, converged, its
color, its shape, it precision... and, what it meant to me at any
given moment. I can't believe I am out of cigarettes. Why? I could
use one now, of mine or her own ... either way a reminder.
S. would say I am trashed right now, and she would be right... though
the various ellipisis of this document would not show it there have
been two trips to the fridge, to pour more Bourbon for the sake of
continuing, continuing to write... the truth... and still not there,
really. I can't remember a time being so drunk alone, and out of
cigarettes, without a butt to smoke, which inflates the melancholy
phenomenologically-- though, I know I "might", I will survive...
