SummerWorks Theatre Festival

Diego Speaks

Occasional improvisations of whatever...

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Saturday, February 26, 2005
 
"Just get on your horse and let it take you home...it knows the way and it can get through this storm"

Tuesday, February 15, 2005
 
saying yes feels good.

Sunday, July 25, 2004
 
I love beets, even though the first time I saw them they looked ridiculous to me, all purple and shiny, like they were fake, and I heard they turned your pee purple which kind of freaked me out…but one day someone convinced me to try them and now I love them, I eat them all the time, I even find them sexy.

Friday, July 09, 2004
 
I don't go to church regularly, but i go.
I don't go because God told me to.
I don't go because my parents made me or out of guilt.
i don't confess my sins there.
I don't go for the sermons.

I go when it's empty.
I go because it's clean and I like the smell of old wood.

The janitor used lemon oil once and I had to change churches for a week.

It's quiet in the morning.

An old dog limped in once and hobbled up to the pulpit.
It peed.





Wednesday, June 02, 2004
 
An email:

The bus is empty and jars are all over the sidewalk.

He thought it was a squirrel but it was a beaver who
got lost and didn't know streetcars were so fast.

Before he killed him he told him a secret and the man
smiled as the knife plunged into his heart.

What did it have to with Passover?

Yeah, I know it happens all the time, but make it stop
so the moon doesn't freak out.

He knelt down to help her pick up the broken glass
because he liked her. Later, as she helped him pick
the glass out of his bleeding knees, she leaned over
and kissed him on the cheek.

Always with the grain unless it's already ruined.
-
Baked Banana sounds good.

Call you later.

Telly Savalis swinging? I gotta hear that.

Thursday, April 08, 2004
 
The streetcar slowed as the driver saw her dashing across the boulevard
in slow motion through the downpour. She stopped on the sidewalk just short
of checking an old woman who held her cane up in defense. She glanced back
at the streetcar and saw that it was him. He just stared as the streetcar floated
through the red light and into the busy intersection.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004
 
He followed him once he knew.

As the moon peaked over the Williamsburg Bridge he moved in.

Before he killed him he kissed him on the forehead. It was quite easy to push him
over the rail...he floated down, lees human with every second.

He walked away calmly lighting a cigarette.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004
 
I had a request to repost this one.

Considering Happiness.

What is it? How important is it? Why do we try so hard to achieve it?
All stupid questions. It's pretty fucking obvious that we'd rather be happy
than sad or angry or distraught. Depression can be addictive, so maybe
being sad is happiness for you, or being angry is a thrill which
promotes happiness. Or maybe it's love, sex, children, strange weather, the moment
after sex, the second time having sex, the moment after the second time
having sex, a partner's gasp, a smile from a stranger, laughing, embracing, tripping,
a perfect night of socializing when you didn't say anything stupid, drool,
spill something, or spit out your scotch when a beautiful woman made you laugh.
A song that makes you want to rip your heart out and mail it to the person that sang it.
A movie or play that makes you rethink your perspective on life or want to break shit.
Walking alone in Central Park on a perfect day and feeling content, but not lonely.
The beauty of her sigh as you peel her underwear off when she thought you were
just going to fall asleep. The small of her back...her little toe...the back of her neck.

The sky at dusk with that magical pollution glow, catching a kid tripping and falling
on his ass as he tried to perform an impossible kung fu move while walking with his Mom.
Maybe it's as simple as a really satisfying brushing of the teeth after a day of really nasty,
teeth-catching food. Or perhaps it was snowing when you woke up, and you decided
to skip work and stay home with your lover, spending the day wearing nothing but towels,
robes, or t-shirts as you fed each other fruit, water and wine while scoffing at the bill collectors.
A great book, magazine article, email from an old friend, funny picture, funny person, funny
memory, the funny look on a funny friend's face as they did or said something funny.
The realization that though you may feel completely depressed, there's something funny
about the fact you feel that way considering where you could be at. Waking up...some
mornings waking up is a wonderful thing, as the sun sneaks in through your poorly blinded
windows, pulls back the covers and slaps you lightly on the cheek.

Maybe it's because today you might finally meet that person you want to grow old and crazy with.
Or just the realization that as you grow old it's okay to be crazy, in fact you can relish in it.
Perhaps it's that still drunk the next day buzz, and you know it's okay so long as you eat well.
Then, eating well is double cool because it's serving two purposes: sustenance and healing.
This leads you to realize once again that it's okay to get drunk often provided you complement
the drinking with substantial and rewarding meals.

Maybe today is the day you'll finally paint that painting you've been picturing in your mind for
twelve years now even though you haven't touched brush to canvas since you were nine
years old, and then it was yet another house with a ridiculously big sun behind it and your
brother and sister half the height of the house holding hands on the front lawn. Then, you
keel over laughing as you realize the brilliant work of art you've been picturing all those years
is a portrait of your brother and sister in front of your old house with a gigantic sun rising behind
it as the dog digs a hole in the yard in the background. Of course the dog is bigger than your sister
and the second floor window is at your brother's eye-level..but it's still art! Though safe art, since the
painting doesn't include the child-molesting boy-scout leader who lived across the street, or the
uncontrollably violent kid who lived in the cul-de-sac around the corner, not to mention the anal retentive,
border-line psycho neighbour who horded all the baseballs, soccer balls, footballs, and frisbees that
ever landed on his precious fucking lawn that he forced his kids to manicure by hand every day.

Happiness might just be a warm gun, so long as you're the one holding it.

Happiness might also be being one of the gang, so long as you are one of the gang.

It might also be a teenager moving from the back seat to the bedroom with his girlfriend, or reaching third
base with a gasp as you feel the warmth between her legs, and she feels the hardness between
yours. It could be the simple pleasure of french kissing for hours by the train tracks.

Or maybe it's being high on the drug of your choice. Or being whipped and chided while sucking on leather.

Happiness. Whatever suits your fancy.

Happy Wednesday.






Monday, January 05, 2004
 
CONSIDERING RED

He went to a RED party at a dyke bar in Manhattan in December after he'd split up with Nicole.
This would be one of many surreal nights seeing the world through bloodshot eyes.
New York had become such a cold and foreign place without her and he was chasing shadows of
familiarity around every corner and down every street. Her eyes blue and wet floated in the window
of the subway until dickhead crushed with them his briefcase in missed train frustration. Fuck.
He went to the party with a woman he worked with, a photographer from a film shoot that was only tolerable
for her presence. He found her attractive which was ridiculous because she was absolutely
unobtainable. She was gay...like definitely. Anyway, after getting over seeing her in a short black skirt
and tight RED top with a necklace that hung in such a way as to remind everybody how beautiful
she was, he began drinking. The RED thing was for Christmas he guessed, or just because beautiful,
intelligent lesbians look mind-bendingly hot in RED. So, he ordered a vodka in the spirit of RED,
well, eighties RED. He didn’t have one piece of RED clothing in his closet, so he was wearing
GREEN: a/ because without him in the room, it wasn’t really Christmas. b/ because he thought it made
him look earthy and approachable, and it matched his eyes (his sister taught him that trick) which
nobody could see because it was dark. c/ it was the only clean shirt left in the closet.
An hour had passed by and all he'd done was watch a room full of beautiful and intelligent women in RED
as they danced, groped, hugged, laughed, made out, teased, made out, made out, made out...waitress!
He watched the waitress slide across and bend over to give someone their drink, revealing her tattoo...
He couldn’t make out what it was, but realized it didn’t matter. What mattered was where the tattoo was.
It was perched perfectly by her hip. It wasn’t on her ass, it wasn’t on her back, and it wasn’t on her hip.
It was in that perfect place between her hip and her back and just above her ass. It seemed like such
an obtainable place...like it wouldn’t be that hard to get there. He could navigate the landscape that lay
between him and it and maybe just maybe get the chance to place his lips gently on it to say good morning.

Two hours passed and all he'd done was watch. He'd watched more dancing and kissing, and grinding
and jumping, and gazing and screaming and kissing and kissing. He had not himself screamed yet. He sort of danced a little, in his own subtle, I don’t know anyone here and I’m not that drunk yet kind of way.
He'd talked to two women, the waitress who took his order for his first three drinks, and the
waitress who took his order for the last two. Both were very nice and very cute, but...busy.
His flirting skills were slow to come back after the break-up and clouded by drink no doubt.
Three hours now, and he'd lost track of drinks, but he'd moved into full dancing mode.
He was dancing for dancing’s sake. He was dancing it out...He danced with whoever would look at him, or deal with him. He realized he danced like he thought, kind of all over the fucking place but with a destination and,
he thought, rhythm. Maybe it was his rhythm alone, and it looked like he was being attacked by wasps,
but he quite enjoyed letting his funk out.

Four and a half hours now, and he'd actually made it home. He was seeing RED.
Five hours and he was passing out.

Ten hours and dreaming of subtle tattoos in sexy places...


Thursday, January 01, 2004
 
Happy New Year and all that. I think I got drunk enough last night to completely block out all the bad from 2003, almost. I still have certain images floating around and there's nothing short of a lobotomy to do about it. There are images of all sorts really, good bad and ugly:

Brown hair, almond eyes and not looking over her shoulder.

Grimacing through sweaty hair and seeing stars.

A mime bleeding from his marble white head as a couple of clowns in the background juggle shotguns and hand grenades.

Constantly tripping on ghost cracks in the sidewalk looking from a distance like a drunk wearing too big shoes and trying to remember where he was going.

A kid trying to pry his way through a fence after his ball with the gate open not three feet away.

A song so good it makes you want to rip your heart out and mail it to the person that wrote it.

Numerous shades of disappointment.

Numerous shades of happiness.

Sadness has just as many layers as you allow it to.

Pigeons fucking in Central Park.

Six years melting into the silhouetted trees in a Catskills dusk.

Big blue eyes with big wet tears.

Big blue eyes with a glint of friendship.

Big blue eyes with a forever wary twinkle.

Best friend's loveliness behind bars and borders and an abyss of unknowns.

That particular window.

Doors.

Frames.

Ducks...

Saturday, November 22, 2003
 
A man in these shoes,
these torn leather grandfather shoes,
could walk a thousand miles
to forget the look on her face
the last glance as she walked away
down the street slipping into crowds.

He could kiss a thousand other lips
and hug a thousand bodies
and hold a thousand hands
but in a thousand eyes
he still sees that particular
shade of disappointment.

A thousand mirrors can't tell him anything.


Meanwhile the drunk on the bench across
the street continues to laugh even as his
bladder empties into his pants.









Monday, November 03, 2003
 
I recently noticed that the drug store in my Brooklyn neighborhood stocks an extraordinary amount of de-lice products. this, of course leads me to believe that there are an extraordinary amount of kids with lice in my neighborhood. This, in turn leads me to believe that eating too many pierogis and bratwurst gives you lice. That, of course, makes me an idiot, or maybe just a clueless xenophobe. Neither of these is true, I just don't like Polish people...Truth is, every drugstore in New York carries a large number of de-licers because there are 8 million people living here and not everyone is taking a shower every day, or every week for that matter. That's a lot of lice. As a result of this shallow insight, I have vowed to never again steal the hat off the drunk guy after he passes out on the bench in the park. I guess I'll have to find a new game to entertain myself and his comrades. I might have to go back to getting pidgeons to eat bread out of his plumber butt. The comrades loved that one...



Saturday, October 04, 2003
 
BROTHERS

Two men, drunk in a park in Brooklyn.
One argument.
Does God exist?
Man one: "He fucking well better, because he's the only reason
I drink and don't fucking throw myslef in front of a truck on McGuiness Avenue.
Man two: "He must, otherwise I would have thrown myself in front of a truck
on McGuiness Avenue a long time ago."
Man one: "But that's the same thing."
Man two: No it's noit, I don't drink.
Man one: But you're here with me.
Man two: yes I am, but I'm not drunk.
Man one: You're not?
Man two: No, I'm not.
Man one: Then why are you here?
Man two: Because I'm your brother.
Man one: So, why aren't you drunk?
Man two: Because you are.
Man one: I don't get it.
Man two: you never did.
Man one: Do you have a cigarette?
Man two: No.
Man one: So you're useless...fuck.
Man two: whatever...

Wednesday, September 17, 2003


Friday, September 12, 2003
 
I don't know what to say.



Tuesday, September 09, 2003
 
PHOTOGRAPH

The picture was taken into the mirror, but the picture taker
doesn't appear. Only the cute, distracted young woman with
the straw hat on appears in the final picture. She is looking just
slightly past the focal point of the picture, just off to the side,
glancing past the lens. Like she's looking for the photographer,
or looking at the photographer, rather the photographer's
reflection. She is thinking something very particular, or so it
seems in the picture, she is not quite smirking, but not Mona Lisa.

It seems like maybe she was in love with the picture taker,
and might to this day have this picture framed on a wall,
and look at it with a sideways glance as she leaves the room,
hoping to catch the picture taker by surprise finding him
laughing behind the camera.



Tuesday, September 02, 2003
 
What a gray beginning to the end of a gray summer.
I feel like I should be out buying a back-pack, pencils, and a protractor...

From an old play:

Waiter: I think I’m going crazy. Not mad, but a little weird. Kind of like, in and out of things.
I wake up happy. I don’t wake up, or I wake up wishing I hadn’t. I dream about my day
happening exactly as it would, and in so doing, sleep in, and am late for work.
What freaks me out most, is the detail in the dreams. They are real. It's another existence.
Sometimes a better one, despite its limits.





Monday, August 11, 2003
 
Rain rain rain
coming down down down
every fucking day of August so far
New York seems moody this summer
and it's got me under it's spell.....

Feels like going away time
need to look out the other side of my eyes
and feel my heart beat under a different sky
move into new digs and find a new reason to cry.

Maybe the nomads were right
just keep moving through the world
under different but similar nights
preferably together by the fire and curled

Over the horizon calls me and taunts
let go asshole, have some balls
it's perfectly all right
it's perfectly all right
it's perfectly all right

Shoot me...shoot me now...

Smile away the regret.

Fight off the cynics and the critics and fuck the doubting thomas'

I'm just trying to find comfortable eyes.

I'm fine, just taking a break form taking a break from taking a break.

Holy shit, my neighbors kid just tried climbing the tree and he fell, and
he bounced, he literally bounced. Then he laughed until the mother came
running to him in a worried panic...so, he burst into tears. Oscar-winning...

Wednesday, July 23, 2003
 
Diego is going to jump in a lake for about ten days or so...

Tuesday, July 22, 2003
 
THE SHIRT

As he drifted through the double doors of the industrial loft
he took in the glances that came his way. He'd worn a new shirt
that was a hardy tone of green and leaned towards hip more than
his other shirts, he was making an effort. His shyness elicited
fewer than most and he liked that because the looks were often
brief and disregarding...he wasn't important or different enough
to provoke a second look or whispers of any kind. Tonight though,
for reasons unclear one woman in a red cotton dress with spaghetti
straps and black shoes turned to him and didn't look away. In fact
she waited until she caught his gaze and then she smiled. Well...
his heart punched him in the throat and then he froze with a half
smile cracking his face into pieces like a Picasso. He didn't move.
She didn't move until her smile descended and she turned
back to her friends. His feet felt heavy, but he managed to put
one in front of the other until he reached the bar. He got a drink
and turned back to her, but she was gone. he surveyed the room
for her red dress and discovered it over by the window where she was
pulling a cigarette out of it's pack. "Matches" he thought, "I have matches."
Walking the miles to her in a quickened pace he retrieved the matches,
pleading with the gods to let him arrive before she lit the cigarette.
He made it and dug the matches out of his pocket just in time.
She turned to him as he arrived and smiled. Picasso returned to his face
as he tore a match from the spine of the book he held awkwardly in the hand
he held his drink in and struck it. The small sulphur explosion lit up her face
illuminating her green eyes as they grew suddenly he realized his drink
had spilled all over his shirt. He held up the match to her anyway and she lit
her cigarette as she giggled. He dropped the match and began to turn away
as she touched his arm. "What's your name?" "Oh, uh, Dylan...and yours?"
"I'm Amy." "Nice to meet you." "Thanks for the light." She extended a
very lovely hand out to him, and he quickly lifted his up to shake it unable
to divert his eyes from hers and he knocked the glass from her hand. In trying
to catch it he dropped his glass and they both fell to the floor in slow motion
shattering into a Jackson Pollock painting. The entire party looked to them
and again his heart punched him in the throat as he raised his eyes to hers
to see just how mortified she might be, and then he jsut kneeled down to pick
up the glass.

Later, as she helped him pick the glass out of his knees she told him she liked
his shirt even with the stain. He thanked her and told her her he liked her dress
even though between them they looked like Christmas in the middle of summer.
"Well" she said "Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas to you too."




Friday, July 18, 2003
 
THUMB WARS

It was oddly comforting if not slightly disturbing to
see Hillary Clinton's book for sale not two feet from
Tracey Lords' on the counter at Virgin Records.
Porn and Politics...yeah.

Arnold Schwartzenegger (sp?) might run for Governor
of California...

The powers that be are playing down the guerilla warfare
in Iraq, yet they're talking about one year tours for soldiers.
Just like Vietnam!

Kobe Bryant was busted for sexually assaulting a 19 year old
girl...the fame, millions, and beautiful wife weren't enough???
The $7.00 bottle of wine I just drank seems like an extravagance
and I'm thinking about smoking a cigarette except I feel guilty
about it because I want to live long enough to fall in love.

Two old rusty drunks were sitting on the bench in the park
and they were slurring an argument that reached such intensity
it drained al the saliva from their mouths and they couldn't speak.
So they turned to face each other and had a thumb war. They couldn't
actually speak the "one, two, three, four let's have a thumb war," so they
kinda mumbled and gestured for a few seconds and then the one on
the left just started in with a fake to the left followed by a round about
swing into the lower half of the one on the right'd thumb. He was
surprised by this sudden move and fell off the bench. So, they had to
start over and they came to a silent agreement to count down with
their free hands. They did so and it began. By the end of it they were
both on the ground wrestling for real until their laughter dropped them
onto their backs and they guffawed as the thunder started rtumbling
the sky hinted at lightning.

The old lady who lives on the second floor of 834 Granite Blvd arrived
back from the store all hunched over and hauled her cart up the stairs
with a wall reverberating clunk on every step. The cart carried a number
of shopping bags which contained pig's feet, snouts and a couple of
unidentifiable animal brains...

The lightning pierced the quiet grey sky awakening the pigeons on the roof.








Sunday, July 13, 2003
 
CONSIDERING A STRANGER

Broken english writing suggesting South America
she blurts feelings like farts, falls in love/lust with
a few paragraphs from a stranger, gets hot, like
want u orgasm hot need touch u u hot and kissing
maybe like orgasm you write it now hot so touch me.
You are the one...touch me please...answer me.
Curiosity follows such quaint quirkiness in letters.
Imagine a kiss...imagine is all there is maybe...for
strange lust is appealing and kinky attractive but can
also entails such unknown unforeseen bizarro conclusions.

Drawn into the curious van barreling down the hiway
ninety miles an hour on the curves tipping towards
the beautiful oblivion beyond the aluminum barrier.

Where could she be? Where could they meet? Is there
a place on the hiway, a rest stop somewhere.

Disneyland. It's a Small World After All. He'd always
wanted to make out with someone on that ride ever
since he was twelve and had to ride with his Mom
while two fifteen year olds made out incessantly
in front of them, tongues visible in their entwining,
gum stuck to the door on both sides. They continued
the kissing as they walked away and got into line
for Magic Mountain.

It's a small world has music and everything.

Friday, July 11, 2003
 
GHOSTS

Do you believe in ghosts? Because you should. They're everywhere.
They're good and bad, or funny and mean, or whatever.

The nasty ones can be really nasty and make you want to puke.
They steal the really great thoughts. The ones that made your
heart pound on your ribs and bulldozed the blood through your
veins to a million little places all over your skin. Each cell it's
own thorn trying to puncture through to the air leaving a million
little blood stains all over your carpet or on your walls, or streaming
down the shower curtain, leaving you a stunned shadow of bones.
Those thoughts, those ideas, those memories and visions all swirling
down into the bowels of the city with the alligators and rats and arms
and wedding rings.

The ghosts are tricksters and they break your umbrellas, and pop
the buttons off your shirt just before a hot date, or spill mustard
on the crisp white interview shirt you ogled as the key to a prosperous
and parent pleasing future. The memo you forgot to give your boss...
ghosts took it and ate it, chasing it down with the bottle of wine you
'forgot' to bring to your girlfriend's parents at Thanksgiving.

They create thoughts too, becasue they're tricky that way. They put
the "I just won't tell anyone about the teacher who tried to
rape me in high school" or "I can tell her I love her and not really mean
because I think I will mean it one day..soon..soon." or "We could create
fictional companies to increase the value of the stock and no one will ever
know, and we'll get so rich we can pay other people to not only wipe our
asses for us, but take the goddman shit in the first place."

They raise the sidewalk in places so you trip and bump into the pretty
girl with the cherry ass you've been staring at for six blocks. They put
the fucking disease in those friends you lost, and took away your grandmother's
ability to remember you and stole her memories except for the ones where
her husband abused her. They put the black ice on the highway that Jimmy
crashed his car into a tree.

There are some cool ghosts though...the ones that made the sun set so
perfectly that night with her on the bluff hwen you were seventeen
and she glowed as she cocked her head just so and you swore you could
die right there and then for having glimpsed even a hint of her ridiculous
beauty...imagine how it could grow. Men will wilt like dead flowers as you pass
them on the sidewalk because they could not have you.

They were also behind all the great sex you had. All different kinds of sex too.
The kinky, hands tied, writhing with teeth grinding and muscles tensing and
relaxing all to a heavy breathing and moaning like animals under a full moon.
The passion sex, the love sex, the moving in ways you never thought possible
to get closer, transcending kissing and learning every curve, goosebump, and
smell on each other. That crawl inside each other and hold on for dear life hoping
the feeling will never go away sex. That never wanting to go to sleep becasue that'll
mean you can't see each other kind of sex.

They also put the toilet paper on the boss's shoe half an hour after he chewed
you out in front of everyone. Later that night they rendered him impotent
with the stunning vice-president he'd been working on sleeping with for
three weeks. The good trickster ghosts have a keen sense of humor in retribution.

Ghosts are everywhere, and they're not that cool wind you feel on the back
of your neck in dark and scary places...that's only in the movies.



Tuesday, July 08, 2003
 
THE IDIOTS

The young man was walking home through the park as he always
did around dusk. he cut across the baseball field on his way to
his neighborhood in Brooklyn. The outfield was new a few years ago,
but the thin wire mesh used to ground the sod and keep it together had,
in fact, been uprooted in tustles that resembled tumbleweed. At dusk
they looked like wisps of cotton in the back light of a low laying sun.

He'd never been the brightest light in the house, but he was playful.
He'd had a couple beers and was feeling goofy, so he started kicking
the tufts of wire mesh and they kept getting caught in his feet and
tangled in his legs. One thing lead to another and the sticky situation
escalated into a happening and before he knew it the young man had
gained momentum past the outfield where he crashed into a tree head first.

His parents tried to sue the city for poor maintenance of the park,
and wrongful death. They even tried a civil suit, but to no avail.
Both judges had the same thing to say in the end:

"No one can be accountable for your son's stupidity except your son."

The mother sighed as she laid her head on the pillow the night of the
final decision and turned to her husband and said: "He really was an idiot."

The husband replied: "Yeah, but he was our idiot." They rolled over
to embrace each other and had a good chuckle as they bumped heads.



Sunday, July 06, 2003
 
Can you be in love with a figment of your imagination?
That brown hair and those almond eyes are real, though.
You can almost touch them, almost brush the hair away
from them on a windy summer day.

Talking to her is as real as the sun is hot, as is walking
beside her on the way home slightly bumping hips every
so often while playfully slapping each other. Walking for
miles without looking ahead because you can't take your
eyes off her. You've developed superior peripheral vision
so you can do just that. You've almost got eyes in the back
of your head because the sideways glance just isn't good enough.
Walking backwards to see her is the least you can do.

All of this might explain why I keep getting called a crazy asshole
when I'm walking down the street alone...my head hurts, and so
does my ass from falling on it so often.

Friday, June 27, 2003
 
The interior monologue of the very shy pretty woman sitting on the subway
staring at the floor:

"I think that guy looked at me. I won't look up. Did I leave the oven on?
Sex in the City is on tonight. Sex...The filing is behind, i have to get
on that. My back hurts, I should stretch tonight. Robert Stevens...
god I haven't been kissed like that in years. I haven't been kissed
at all in months. Is he still looking at me? I'm going to write a book
one day and sell millions of copies. Then I'll travel around the world
and fall in love with a frenchman, live in Paris, and drink champagne
while writing poetry about love and passion and sex...I'm horny.
I always wanted to be an actress and play Ophelia. Sometimes I think
I'll just scream and start dancing like River Dance on the subway.
If Mr. Brody asks me to make him coffee again, I'm going to say no.
It's not my job to do that. I hope Mom's feeling better. Do I really
believe in God? I feel fake when I pray in church...it just seems like
I'm talking to myself...

 
It Rained

He went for a walk the other night, in the pouring rain. It was a downpour, like the sky was angry. It felt great. He started running, and before he knew it, he was downtown and there was nobody there...so he danced like Gene Kelly, and stomped, and splashed, and screamed until he was crying so fucking hard, he could hardly breathe. he sat there for a long time, then went down to Battery Park and watched the sun rise from the Staten Island ferry. He fell asleep in a park there, and woke up as this old lady nudged him. She thought he was dead. She asked him if he had a home. He laughed, got up and bought her a coffee, and they talked for a long, long time. They said good-bye at the ferry. She lives on the Island. She told him he could always find her in the park in the afternoon, between noon, and four, from May till October...


Tuesday, June 24, 2003
 
CONSIDERING LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

Is it like winning the lottery, or playing good poker?





Thursday, June 19, 2003
 

GUESS WHO'S IN TOWN?

Diego himself...yes sir, Diego the cat is here for two
weeks. What's he doing right now? Sleeping.

He was sitting by the window earlier watching
the neighbors yappy little dog yapping and he
looked over his shoulder at me and rolled his eyes.
I picture him doing a matrix like move out the window into
their backyard and putting an end to the yappy little dog's
yapping life.

This weekend will involve wedding bells for friends,
farewell drinks for another, and hello I haven't seen you
in a long long time drinks for another. By the time the wedding
happens on Sunday I'll be a fucking vegetable.

I've decided to build a boat in the park across the street,
and when the flood arrives I'm going to charge $500 bucks a head
and $200 for animals to float around New York City waiting for
the rain to stop. We'll have a band, and gambling on the boat.
I think I might try and get cirque de soleil as well, or at least one
of the contortionists...

Someone somewhere did one hell of a rain dance in April...maybe
they were on Ecstacy and couldn't stop...




Monday, June 16, 2003
 
CONSIDERING PIGEONS FUCKING

I think two pigeons fucked in Central Park this afternoon.
To be honest I don't even know for sure if pigeons fuck in the classic
sense of the word. It was by the fairytale pond with the reflection
of the Park Plaza in it. Tourists wandered with craned necks,
and couples slept entwined on the grass as in the bushes by the
path a smallish almost fragile looking pigeon squatted on the ground
looking over its shoulder. From behind a shrub came a rather large
pigeon strutting with its chest all puffed out and a shit-eating grin
on its face. It sidled up to the cowering pigeon then hopped up on
top of it and, I think, fucked it. It was over in seconds, then it stepped off
and swaggered away into the bushes.


Saturday, June 14, 2003
 
CONSIDERING...........not sure really...

Pop culture is so fucking boring. So is the every day news.
It's weird but it seems like everyone's been getting off on
all the extreme news that we've been witness to of late.
Of late being the last two years. It's like we've all been getting
off on all the chaos because we're just bored. Life gets boring
so much easier now. This is, of course, only the drunken
ramblings of a single man in his thirties. No rsponsibility really...

The galaxies in a passionate woman's eyes as she sings
her beliefs in a monologue about the 'stans...uzbekistan, kurdistan,
stanistan, ameristan, canadastan...Whose world is it? How do we
share it properly? When will we grow up as a being? To think we're
the only thinking and evolving life-form is ridiculous really, so how do
we measure up? Star Trek's been trying to figure it out for years.
All the things we cry out about and rally about and bitch about in our own
society that allows us to live freely, but with problems.
"Authority is a problem...it 's oppressive and facist." (overheard at a party)
What is the defintion of authority? To say that a family living out in the
prairies with only their land, wits and guns is living without authority
is true, yet they have an authority unto thmeselves as there is no doubt
some kind of hierarchy happening within that family in which thewre is
authority. We evolved in a way that created society, and authority as a
necessity to maintain order. Did we go wrong somewhere? Is evolution
something that we can control?

If that were so, than I would have a full head of hair.

Life is wicked...isn't it?

What makes your heart beat faster? Does it happen once a day? It does
really, if you think about it. even if it's the brain rattling screech of the subway.

The cartoon glint in a friend's eyes after a posture destroying story is fuel
for a million moments of depression.

People losing control is funnny. whether it be tripping on a rise in the sidewalk
or spouting off political beliefs in a way that softens the din of a party.
Awkwardness breeds thinking. We need to throw pies in the faces of scholars.
We need to have a pie thrown in our own face and not take it personally.
Download some porn and have a good time!

We need to get drunk more often.

We need to make fools of ourselves and recover emboldened.

Hell...just talk to strangers...but be careful doing it, I guess, becasue
well, you never know who's crazy. Your "hello stranger!" might get you
a shot to the head or simply a cold shoulder. Or! It might just warrant
a hello back and a new friend...they might take you to a broadway play!

Maybe you should just go back to bitter land and grunt at the world
because it's easier.

Go to bed.










Friday, June 13, 2003
 

She strolled unencumbered down the avenue
in her new Adidas. They felt new which made her
very aware of her feet, and her walk. She came to
realize that she walked flat footed. She didn't really
roll heel to toe, but just softly landed each step with
a measure of delicacy and weight distribution.
When she was three she actually walked on the balls
of her feet in a perpetual ballet. Now, at twenty-seven
she was, in fact, a dancer, but of the modern kind.
Dancing was more of a necessity than anything as it was
the only form of communication that came easily.

He ran up the avenue in his old boots, completely
unaware of his feet or the awkwardness in which
he moved. He had to be at the audition ten minutes
ago and was determined to get there before they
closed the doors because he knew he was perfect
for the part. "Dishevelled young intellectual with a
chip on his shoulder." Him.

Their eyes lit up as they turned their heads toward
each other in the ambulance...

Such a pedestrian accident the avenue had never seen before.

...to be continued...




Tuesday, June 10, 2003
 
CONSIDERING SEXY: part 1 of many

In my inbox: YOUR DICK AS BIG AS A BEER CAN!!
not sexy unless her vagina is a beer cozy

Twelve years old and two minutes in the closet with Bonnie.
She smelled and tasted like watermelon flavored gum.
She smacked her gum after we kissed and laughed.

22 years old and surprised with handcuffs by Adrian
Sexy...until she couldn't find the key.








Friday, June 06, 2003
 

Billy was twelve years old, bored and armed with firecrackers
thanks to the landlord's nephew. He sat on his stoop in Brooklyn
gazing at the park across the street.

The squirrels in this particular park were charmingly tame and often
ate from the hands of the friendly folks in the neighborhood.

It took Mrs. Kieslowski two hours to get the stain out of her dress.

Billy was heard to say "accidents happen...squirrels spontaneously
combust, the world is an imperfect place."

Billy was grounded for three weeks, and all the matches and lighters
in the apartment were put away in high places.





Thursday, June 05, 2003
 
Slim moon tonight and the dogs in the park
could only muster a whisper of a howl.

So...the big rottweiler who was normally so
well behaved decided to stir things up and
shatter the peace. He turned to the mini poodle
that followed him around the dog run and smiled.
Then he ate her.

I laughed as the owners screamed and I felt kinda
guilty as I walked home.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003
 
CONSIDERING RED (an out of date holiday story)

He went to a RED party at a dyke bar in Manhattan in December after he'd split up with Nicole.
This would be one of a number of surreal nights seeing the world through bloodshot eyes.
He went with a woman he worked with, a photographer from a film shoot that was only tolerable
for her presence. He found her attractive which was ridiculous because she was absolutely
unobtainable. She was gay...like definitely. Anyway, after getting over seeing her in a short black skirt
and tight RED top with a necklace that hung in such a way as to remind everybody how beautiful
she was, he began drinking. The RED thing was for Christmas he guessed, or just because beautiful,
intelligent lesbians look mind-bendingly hot in RED. So, he ordered a vodka in the spirit of RED,
well, eighties RED. He didn’t have one piece of RED clothing in his closet, so he was wearing
green: a/ because without him in the room, it wasn’t really Christmas. b/ because he thought it made
him look earthy and approachable, and it matched his eyes (his sister taught him that trick) which
nobody could see because it was dark.

An hour had passed by and all he'd done was watch a room full of beautiful and intelligent women in RED.
He watched the waitress slide across, bend over to give someone their drink, revealing her tattoo...
He couldn’t make out what it was, but realized it didn’t matter. What mattered was where the tattoo was.
It was perched perfectly by her hip. It wasn’t on her ass, it wasn’t on her back, and it wasn’t on her hip.
It was in that perfect place between her hip and her back and just above her ass. It seemed like such
an obtainable place...like it wouldn’t be that hard to get there. He could navigate the landscape that lay
between him and it...

Two hours passed and all he'd done was watch. He'd watched dancing and kissing, and grinding
and jumping, and gazing and screaming. He had not himself screamed yet. He sort of danced a little,
in his own subtle, I don’t know anyone here and I’m not that drunk yet kind of way.
He'd talked to two women, the waitress who took his order for his first three drinks, and the
waitress who took his order for the last two. Both were very nice and very cute, but...busy.
His flirting skills were slow to come back after the break-up and clouded by drink no doubt.

Three hours now, and he'd lost track of drinks, but he'd moved into full dancing mode.
He was dancing for dancing’s sake. He danced with whoever would look at him, or deal with him.
He realized he danced like he thought, kind of all over the fucking place but with a destination and,
he thought, rhythm. Maybe it was his rhythm alone, and it looked like he was being attacked by wasps,
but he quite enjoyed letting his funk out.

Four and a half hours now, and he'd actually made it home. He was seeing RED.

Five hours and he was passing out.



Sunday, June 01, 2003
 
OVERWHELMING

He sat straight backed as he always did for fear of bad posture
but also because he believed rigidity kept the aliens from entering
his system because they thrived on weakness and bad posture was
a sign of weakness. It also made him look short which he hated and had
since Joey Guttioni teased him in High School. In fact his therapist was
working on that issue as a main source of his insecurity complex. Not
being allowed on certain exciting and popular rides at the Spring fair
only made it worse as he had to stand by the little safety fence and watch
all the cool kids-almost everyone but him, as he looked over to his left and
saw Thea Thepolotimus who was not only short but fat, in fact too fat
to ride the ride according to the obnoxious and clearly insensitive ride
guy who took the tickets. He could have told her it was because she was
too short but he found it necessary to point out that she was fat, further
embarassing her and in fact planting the seed for future violent crimes that would leave
a number of ride guys all over the country with severe knee injuries and
landing Thea a rash of short stints in prison where she was again teased
for her stature and so on and so on and away the vicious circle went. Angry
short and fat people all over the country began to rage when they heard her
story and hospitals were packed with tall obnoxious people with knee injuries.

So, he sat straight backed and looked around and began to see a language in
gestures. A scratch of the head was some kind of signal to someone on the
same car. Some kind of plot was being acted out as scrathing, yawning,
picking of a nose, brushing of hair from a face, adjusting a position. All of
a sudden he could barely contain himself when the one who had started
it all reached into a big black bag. He freaked and jumped to his feet and
screamed "TERRORIST!" He ran to the door to get off and slammed into them
because they had closed and the train had just pulled out of the station. When
he ccame to a few seconds later it was very awkward. The man with the black bag
had helped him onto a seat and asked him if he was okay. "Sometimes I can't control
certain impulses." "Yes it would seem so." "I'm okay now." "Good"

He got off at the next stop and went to the park and sat straight backed looking for
suspicious pigeon activity.



Wednesday, May 14, 2003
 
GO WEST YOUNG MAN

My neighbors four year old kid made me laugh this morning as he got stuck
in the fence out front trying to get a ball he was playing with. Things was, he
got stuck half a foot from the open gate that he could have sauntered through
and retrieved his ball safely. I told him I'd have to get some butter to pry him
loose, but he told me he hated butter. I told him he didn't have to eat it, but
he still refused. I told him I could take apart the fence piece by piece, but that
could take all day. He said I should find superman, though he pronounced it
soupahman. I told him Superman was on vacation. Batman? Home sick.
Robin? He's in Key West doing a convention. Spiderman? West Coast consulting
on Spiderman II "The Magnificent Spiderman" or something like that. Superheroes
are lame these days, I told him, but you don't need them because the crime rate
is down and really all you need to do to free yourself from this fence trap is too breath
in really hard and hold in your stomach then I'll push you through. We did, and it
worked. He got his ball and went to the park across the street, throwing the ball to
me once, which I returned and he went on his way to meet his friends. Then I went
on to the subway.

The subway this morning was a lesson in humility and just the send
off I needed for getting the hell out of New York for a while. I was groped,
pushed, prodded, bad breath breathed on, coughed at, sneered at,
tripped, beaten, blasted by a dirty wind, laughed at by a rat, laughed at
by an MTA worker who clearly had too much coffee this morning, dissed,
dismissed, and pissed off by the insanity of all these people ready and
willing to kill in order to be somewhere on time so they could do stuff
for others to make money, and in return get a little money themselves.
An over-simplified observation, yes, but the truth none the less.

Can't complain really, I could be a prisoner about to get tortured for information
I simply don't know, or worse, I could be stuck somewhere boring...

The clouds have moved on and the sun is out again. I burnt the roof of my
mouth on a piece of pizza last night after too many guinesses. The image
in my head when I woke up this morning was a pretty face...that's a nice
way to wake up. Then I looked in the mirror...

Okay...west I go, so Diego will be absent for the next ten days, as
I'll be in Toronto dodging SARS and then out west dodging, well,
nothing...just beaming in the ridiculous beauty of it all and friends.

Stay cool, but don't freeze.

Re-pot a plant if it's choking.

Listen to the birds outside the window and decide they are flrting, it makes it
a lot more interesting.

Non-sequitars are excellent.

I dreamt of a couple dancing above the floor in an ornate ballroom, they
weren't so much dancing as flying or floating with thrust, they
moved like they were balloons with the air coming out and pushing
them around in gravity-defying ways. They reinvented physics
as they gracefully swooshed around the room making
up steps and bending in ways that would have made the best
choreographers jealous. All the while their gazes were locked,
and their slight and peaceful smiles never wavered.

Peace.













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