Last night I went to a mask-making party, which actually just ended up being an Irish poet named Simone & myself sitting in her apartment, her typing little poems onto old photographs of French women, & me making a clay vase with raised letters that spelled out, "TELL THE TRUTH." Both of us exercised poor posture, & we only spoke on the surface level. It was fine that way.
Later, more people arrived, most of whom I might've labeled as wankish snobs, but when they spontaneously broke into Folk standards I had to realign my judgements. I left at two in the morning, leaving my vase behind on purpose. I walked the twelve blocks to my loft; when I breathed, my breath became visible. More unsolicited proof that I'm alive.
Swallowing my jealously & longing, I loved reading about your recent adventures, both down the coast & through your artistic pursuits. Sans-jealousy, it's been a great relief to see you doing the things you need to feel fulfilled. It certainly took a lot of walking in circles in a desert of bummers to get there.
Oh, & I remember mentioning those strange, uncalled-for dreams I've been having. Well, it pretty much has to do with being one lung in a pair. Why do I still dream about that?
Just now, I came upon an entry in the pocket-sized High School Musical notebook Victoria gave me. It's from the first day I spent back in Spokane after leaving Olympia for keeps. Yuck.
Here's what it says:
I suppose I'll try to write some real shit during this pause. There is a good chance that I will stop before I'm finished because I usually get bored by the tangible parts of my life. That's why I've never really kept a journal. I'm intimidated by the idea of documenting the true events that back up all the things I make up. I wish that weren't the case, because with my overwhelming fear of dying, documenting the life I'm sure to lose seems like the second-best solution.
Or, on second though, maybe it's the third-best:
1. never dying.
2. Leaving something behind that people I'll never meet will remember me by.
3. The above possibility.
I'm already getting bored by this . If i do finish, it will only be to prove a point to myself. It won't be sincere.
Two days ago I left Olympia, where I spent the last three years becoming deeply rooted & dangerously comfortable.
I actually liked living there, & I mostly just want to stay. But I left so could break my back working this summer. I will spend this summer breaking my back so that I can afford to move to New York City in the fall.
There are six million people in New York City, & I don't know a single one. I know one person in New York City, but she is married, & won't see me.
So I'm leaving my little community of big-heart buddies to be swallowed up by distance & loneliness in the capitol of the world.
Why?
I'm not completely sure. I'll be attending the New School's graduate writing program, but that's just the means. That's what made this possible. I'm just using the New School to get to New York like the girl you go on a date with because you want to meet her friend. But there's something I am supposed to do there. I think it may be important.
I get the feeling that all the isolation & fear I've felt before is just the start. In a way, I'm excited to meet some new extremes, the likes of which will surely sit on my chest & keep me from sleeping at night. By the weight of them, I'll have to focus all of my energy on just breathing. Nevermind the rest.
This is what I'm expecting. It is not what I am hoping for.
But what I've learned about hope is that for it to mean anything, it has to be attached to a lot of struggle. Hope is the breath you take before climbing a mountain, & it is the exhale when you reach the top. All the time in between, though, you've got to keep on holding your breath.
I want to do real good, & I want to do it in New York, because if you can change New York you can change the world.
Also, I want to fall in love again. Is that so wrong?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
to Zosia Rose Waitr, 10.03.09
Dear Zosia,
Once, in Olympia, I was standing on my balcony & looking out over the blinking, bedtime city lights of Downtown, the Sound, & the East Side hill. Just thinking about that sight now makes my heart skip certain beats. It must've been early summer, because the air I breathed out was the exact same temperature as the air I was breathing in. When that happens, time pretends to stop, & allows you to believe that you are standing in a living memory.
"There really is something magic about Olympia," said Robin Rapuzzi, a close friend of the time, someone full of poetry & resurrected dreams of the American Folk Body, "but it's like the shire; you've got to leave if you want to do all the things you were meant for. It's so safe here, and so comfortable. & everything really does seem possible, in a way. Olympia is such a difficult place to leave. But you've got to, eventually. There are bigger things happening out there, & they need you."
He returned, then, to his hand-rolled cigarette, & I squinted my eyes to look beyond the Shire, to where young dogs lay gutted across whole avenues, businessmen fall to their knees & pull at their hair every time they walk past a mirror, or any kind of reflective window, & there is always some explosion set to level whole neighborhoods in a matter of moments. But it was night, I couldn't see far, & Mt. Rainier was in the way.
I've lived in New York City for one month now, but it feels like a month-long moment, scrambling for definition & refusing--at the cost of blindness--to blink. By now, I've buried those dogs. I've met those sad men & I've been blown apart by those explosions.
You said in your letter that everyone you talk to is in some kind of transitory state. I agree. Every note of news I gather from Olympia these days seems to carry with it undertones of gross mutation and loss. It's as though all of the houses in town are being set on fire one-by-one, & all the displaced hobbits (to return to the Shire analogy) are now standing bare-foot in the middle of the street wondering what holes to dig their houses into now. This keeps me up at night. Why are all my friends not happy? Was leaving the right thing to do?
I'm sure things aren't quite so bad. Perhaps the grape vine I listened through is sour. How does the world look to you these days, Zosia?
Thank you for the Wallace Stevens poem you sent with your last letter. I loved reading it aloud to the three cats who likely know more about me by now than all of my roommates combined. But I have to say, I'd love it even more if you'd send a poem of your own. I've always liked them very much.
In the spirit of long-distance solidarity,
Joel.
P.S. There is someone walking around on my roof. I hope it's God.
Once, in Olympia, I was standing on my balcony & looking out over the blinking, bedtime city lights of Downtown, the Sound, & the East Side hill. Just thinking about that sight now makes my heart skip certain beats. It must've been early summer, because the air I breathed out was the exact same temperature as the air I was breathing in. When that happens, time pretends to stop, & allows you to believe that you are standing in a living memory.
"There really is something magic about Olympia," said Robin Rapuzzi, a close friend of the time, someone full of poetry & resurrected dreams of the American Folk Body, "but it's like the shire; you've got to leave if you want to do all the things you were meant for. It's so safe here, and so comfortable. & everything really does seem possible, in a way. Olympia is such a difficult place to leave. But you've got to, eventually. There are bigger things happening out there, & they need you."
He returned, then, to his hand-rolled cigarette, & I squinted my eyes to look beyond the Shire, to where young dogs lay gutted across whole avenues, businessmen fall to their knees & pull at their hair every time they walk past a mirror, or any kind of reflective window, & there is always some explosion set to level whole neighborhoods in a matter of moments. But it was night, I couldn't see far, & Mt. Rainier was in the way.
I've lived in New York City for one month now, but it feels like a month-long moment, scrambling for definition & refusing--at the cost of blindness--to blink. By now, I've buried those dogs. I've met those sad men & I've been blown apart by those explosions.
You said in your letter that everyone you talk to is in some kind of transitory state. I agree. Every note of news I gather from Olympia these days seems to carry with it undertones of gross mutation and loss. It's as though all of the houses in town are being set on fire one-by-one, & all the displaced hobbits (to return to the Shire analogy) are now standing bare-foot in the middle of the street wondering what holes to dig their houses into now. This keeps me up at night. Why are all my friends not happy? Was leaving the right thing to do?
I'm sure things aren't quite so bad. Perhaps the grape vine I listened through is sour. How does the world look to you these days, Zosia?
Thank you for the Wallace Stevens poem you sent with your last letter. I loved reading it aloud to the three cats who likely know more about me by now than all of my roommates combined. But I have to say, I'd love it even more if you'd send a poem of your own. I've always liked them very much.
In the spirit of long-distance solidarity,
Joel.
P.S. There is someone walking around on my roof. I hope it's God.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
to Tasha Marie Glen, 09.08.09
Dear Tasha,
Yesterday I found myself on the rooftop of a twenty-two-story building in the Lower East Side. From what I could see, it was the tallest building in the neighborhood. From there I could see the entire New York City skyline, from Midtown to Williamsburg, & further. Suddenly I became terrified of something resembling heights, but not exactly that. Feeling how fragile things ca be at such a height, I stepped away from the ledge & cowered, holding my stomach.
One week ago, I crept up the fire escape of my friend's twelve-story apartment building in the West Village. Beyond were faint, blinking bridges. The walls of the rooftop were curved like an abandoned swimming pool–I imagined Crater Lake; there is a subway poster that advertises it as being deep enough to stack six Statues of Liberty. Really, though, I've been looking for a lake that has no end, or a statue of similar properties.
Tasha, my dreams have become different. I can call them back, for a time, some mornings. Or when I wake up, I will look about in a stupor, at the strange peeling walls & jutting wood panels that create state lines across my floor. The wall outside my window, & the morgue rack on which my clothing hangs like stacks of headless, horseless, horsemen. "How did I get here?" I call, almost aloud. In the dream, this life was a dream. Am I crossing?
In Williamsburg, the toddler walls of the rooftop made homes for a Cannery Row of leashed satellite dishes looking up to the distant heavens like J.C. on the cross. It was a converted factory building that hipsters call their home. I waved to the East River like we were meeting on a first, blind date. But no, we've met before.
I hope that soon you'll be able to tell me about the sea. Are you taking care of yourself, by some definition? Have you found a way to live with Minnow?
If you do set sail, put a good word in for me, with the sea,
Love,
Otis Pig.
Yesterday I found myself on the rooftop of a twenty-two-story building in the Lower East Side. From what I could see, it was the tallest building in the neighborhood. From there I could see the entire New York City skyline, from Midtown to Williamsburg, & further. Suddenly I became terrified of something resembling heights, but not exactly that. Feeling how fragile things ca be at such a height, I stepped away from the ledge & cowered, holding my stomach.
One week ago, I crept up the fire escape of my friend's twelve-story apartment building in the West Village. Beyond were faint, blinking bridges. The walls of the rooftop were curved like an abandoned swimming pool–I imagined Crater Lake; there is a subway poster that advertises it as being deep enough to stack six Statues of Liberty. Really, though, I've been looking for a lake that has no end, or a statue of similar properties.
Tasha, my dreams have become different. I can call them back, for a time, some mornings. Or when I wake up, I will look about in a stupor, at the strange peeling walls & jutting wood panels that create state lines across my floor. The wall outside my window, & the morgue rack on which my clothing hangs like stacks of headless, horseless, horsemen. "How did I get here?" I call, almost aloud. In the dream, this life was a dream. Am I crossing?
In Williamsburg, the toddler walls of the rooftop made homes for a Cannery Row of leashed satellite dishes looking up to the distant heavens like J.C. on the cross. It was a converted factory building that hipsters call their home. I waved to the East River like we were meeting on a first, blind date. But no, we've met before.
I hope that soon you'll be able to tell me about the sea. Are you taking care of yourself, by some definition? Have you found a way to live with Minnow?
If you do set sail, put a good word in for me, with the sea,
Love,
Otis Pig.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
to Mara Beckman, 09.20.09
Dear Mara,
It was a simple mistake: I'd entered on the wrong side of the subway--the 1st Ave. L station has one entrance for the Brooklyn-bound train, & another one for the 8th Ave.-bound train. After going back through the station, crossing the street, & descending into the proper side, I swiped my Metro Card at the turnstile, only to be met by a glowing, green display that read, "JUST USED," instead of the more common "GO." So I approached the woman behind the glass.
"Excuse me--my card won't work. It said "JUST USED," I think because I went in on the wrong side."
The woman rolled her drooping, glaucoma-addled eyes & pointed to the white board behind her, upon which she'd written in blue dry-erase marker, "no Brooklyn-bound station transfers!"
"Uh. What does that mean?"
"You got to wait eighteen minutes before you can get through."
"But I don't have eighteen minutes--my class is in fifteen. Couldn't you just buzz me through the service gate? I feel like that's been done before."
"The woman shook her heavy head; the tiny bones in her neck creaked faintly. "Absolutely not. MTA says you gotta wait eighteen minutes, or else you gotta buy a new card."
"But I already spent eighty-something dollars on this card. Isn't there some kind of third option?"
"That's the way MTA wants it. If they invent a third option they will let me know, but until then you either gotta wait eighteen minutes or buy a new card. I don't make the rules."
"Are you being serious?"
The woman nodded, making a bored & puckered face, her lips pursed in the shape of a grossly swollen blossom.
"Well, couldn't you make some kind of exception?"
Rather than responding, the woman behind the glass made it a point to avoid eye contact with me, a practice she'd clearly mastered. Predicting that this cabaret of asking & not recieving would unfold like closed doors opening to other closed doors, I decided to cut my losses, abandon my self-respect, & pursue a different approach entirely. I leaned close so that when I spoke my breath would become visible on the glass, like ghost matter caught between microscope slides. I said, "It's only been three minutes. That means I have to wait another fifteen before I can go through the turnstiles. So I'm going to spend those fifteen minutes here, & I'm not going to stop talking until I'm able to walk onto that platform, one way or another."
"You go ahead and do whatever it is you gotta do. I'm here all night."
"So I removed the leash that my mind keeps tight around m mouth's neck & I began a seamless row of comments, questions, & trite observations that nauseated even me. For example: "Do you ever notice how the subway's always so loud? I'd think you might want to do something about that, because whenever a train comes I always have to plug my cars, which I feel embarrassed about. Maybe you should think about handing out free earplugs because I'm sure those awful, mechanical shrieks are a hazard to everyone's hearing."
&: "Can I tell you something?"--no response--"Sometimes I have dreams where I'm watching myself dream from the ceiling over my bed for hours & hours. Occasionally I'll see my body grin, or murmur words like 'Thank you!' & so I get the idea that the dream my body is having is a really good one, & I hate not knowing what it is. I hate not knowing my own dreams. So I try to cut myself loose from the ceiling, as though my invisible self was tied by some invisible rope. I twist & shimmy for whole nights sometimes, until I manage to bend my consciousness into the exact position. then I fall from the ceiling, through my body, then my bed, then the floor, basement, & miles & miles of ground until I find myself in the cold, empty center of the world, like a dystopian, metallic egg that monsters get born out of. That's when I wake up--do you think there's something wrong with me?"
At that, the woman nodded ever-slightly.
By minute thirteen, my tone had shifted to that of a maudlin street poet in the moments before fainting. I ask the woman, in a very sincere way, "How is it that we've come to this? I mean, we're speaking to one another through glass, like we were in prison! why can't we treat each other like humans? After all, my best idea for getting back at you for being so rude was just to talk to you. How crazy is that? We're dying a little more each second, so why is it that we choose to spend what time we've got together living like strangers? Come on--we could change it right now! Come out of that box, & we'll go through that gate together! There's still time; what do you say?"
The woman behind the glass raised her heavy, beaten hands against the sides of her face & shut her eyes; suddenly, I was taken by the urge to know more about them, those hands. This is the most "New York" thing I've done so far. It's also the meanest thing so far.
When minute fifteen arrived, I left without a word. I swiped my card. "GO." Before crossing onto the mezzanine, I waved the woman goodbye. The woman waved back, in more of a sendoff than a riddance. I was surprised.
That night I never made it home, waking instead to a stunning, 21st-story view of the Upper East Side, the likes of which I'd only ever imagined (& imagined poorly in comparison).
Large-sized hearts,
Joel
It was a simple mistake: I'd entered on the wrong side of the subway--the 1st Ave. L station has one entrance for the Brooklyn-bound train, & another one for the 8th Ave.-bound train. After going back through the station, crossing the street, & descending into the proper side, I swiped my Metro Card at the turnstile, only to be met by a glowing, green display that read, "JUST USED," instead of the more common "GO." So I approached the woman behind the glass.
"Excuse me--my card won't work. It said "JUST USED," I think because I went in on the wrong side."
The woman rolled her drooping, glaucoma-addled eyes & pointed to the white board behind her, upon which she'd written in blue dry-erase marker, "no Brooklyn-bound station transfers!"
"Uh. What does that mean?"
"You got to wait eighteen minutes before you can get through."
"But I don't have eighteen minutes--my class is in fifteen. Couldn't you just buzz me through the service gate? I feel like that's been done before."
"The woman shook her heavy head; the tiny bones in her neck creaked faintly. "Absolutely not. MTA says you gotta wait eighteen minutes, or else you gotta buy a new card."
"But I already spent eighty-something dollars on this card. Isn't there some kind of third option?"
"That's the way MTA wants it. If they invent a third option they will let me know, but until then you either gotta wait eighteen minutes or buy a new card. I don't make the rules."
"Are you being serious?"
The woman nodded, making a bored & puckered face, her lips pursed in the shape of a grossly swollen blossom.
"Well, couldn't you make some kind of exception?"
Rather than responding, the woman behind the glass made it a point to avoid eye contact with me, a practice she'd clearly mastered. Predicting that this cabaret of asking & not recieving would unfold like closed doors opening to other closed doors, I decided to cut my losses, abandon my self-respect, & pursue a different approach entirely. I leaned close so that when I spoke my breath would become visible on the glass, like ghost matter caught between microscope slides. I said, "It's only been three minutes. That means I have to wait another fifteen before I can go through the turnstiles. So I'm going to spend those fifteen minutes here, & I'm not going to stop talking until I'm able to walk onto that platform, one way or another."
"You go ahead and do whatever it is you gotta do. I'm here all night."
"So I removed the leash that my mind keeps tight around m mouth's neck & I began a seamless row of comments, questions, & trite observations that nauseated even me. For example: "Do you ever notice how the subway's always so loud? I'd think you might want to do something about that, because whenever a train comes I always have to plug my cars, which I feel embarrassed about. Maybe you should think about handing out free earplugs because I'm sure those awful, mechanical shrieks are a hazard to everyone's hearing."
&: "Can I tell you something?"--no response--"Sometimes I have dreams where I'm watching myself dream from the ceiling over my bed for hours & hours. Occasionally I'll see my body grin, or murmur words like 'Thank you!' & so I get the idea that the dream my body is having is a really good one, & I hate not knowing what it is. I hate not knowing my own dreams. So I try to cut myself loose from the ceiling, as though my invisible self was tied by some invisible rope. I twist & shimmy for whole nights sometimes, until I manage to bend my consciousness into the exact position. then I fall from the ceiling, through my body, then my bed, then the floor, basement, & miles & miles of ground until I find myself in the cold, empty center of the world, like a dystopian, metallic egg that monsters get born out of. That's when I wake up--do you think there's something wrong with me?"
At that, the woman nodded ever-slightly.
By minute thirteen, my tone had shifted to that of a maudlin street poet in the moments before fainting. I ask the woman, in a very sincere way, "How is it that we've come to this? I mean, we're speaking to one another through glass, like we were in prison! why can't we treat each other like humans? After all, my best idea for getting back at you for being so rude was just to talk to you. How crazy is that? We're dying a little more each second, so why is it that we choose to spend what time we've got together living like strangers? Come on--we could change it right now! Come out of that box, & we'll go through that gate together! There's still time; what do you say?"
The woman behind the glass raised her heavy, beaten hands against the sides of her face & shut her eyes; suddenly, I was taken by the urge to know more about them, those hands. This is the most "New York" thing I've done so far. It's also the meanest thing so far.
When minute fifteen arrived, I left without a word. I swiped my card. "GO." Before crossing onto the mezzanine, I waved the woman goodbye. The woman waved back, in more of a sendoff than a riddance. I was surprised.
That night I never made it home, waking instead to a stunning, 21st-story view of the Upper East Side, the likes of which I'd only ever imagined (& imagined poorly in comparison).
Large-sized hearts,
Joel
to Zoe Hosmer-Dillard, 09.16.09
Dear Zoe,
I would like to tell you about this one thing:
I rode the M train up from my loft to Long Island City, where the contemporary art museum, P.S.1 is located. Every saturday of the summer, this museum would hold a great bash, to which hordes of strangers would come & dance around a tree. I did bring my dancin' shoes, however, the courtyard was so filled to the brim with strangers that there was no room left for me. Instead, I walked the halls of the museum as a constant pulse of breakbeat music vibrated through its heavy walls. I imagine this is what it might feel like to be a a baby in the womb, though I don't remember well enough to say for sure.
The museum is named P.S.1 because it used to be a public school for elementary-aged children. I tried to keep this in mind as I wantered the many floors, & soon enough, faint ghosts of backpacks & jubilant calls began whizzing up & down the hallways.
Most of the art I observed as I drifted from room to room acted as an homage to the strange world of ironic &/or disturbing pop culture that we're already a part of. Screens displaying old horror films to the accompaniment of a sporadically programmed player piano, & beds with the names of Stat Wars droids (C-3P0 & R2-D2, to be exact) printed across the pillowcases made for most of the content. I began to wonder if the artists' role had somehow shifted from one who perpetuates culture to one who merely reflects upon it. & if that's true, how will we know what to look forward to in the future? I suppose the alternative to this though is the idea that what happens next is what's already happened; that we've become caught in a kind of feedback loop, & when we exit out of one end we simply emerge back at the beginning, like the hundreds of cruise ships and fishing boats who drift across the Bermuda Triangle searching for a way out.
However, there is one room that's different.
In P.S. 1 there is a room that's only open for two hours each day: from sunset to sundown. It has a door, beside which a medium-length line of curious & patient museum patrons extends. There is a security officer who ushers in tiny parties, few and far between, like the outside of a posh night club. I should also mention that this room is located on the top floor of the museum.
I eagerly awaited my turn to enter the room, composed, though occasionally I would find myself tapping my heel impatiently against the wall. After fifteen minutes, maybe more, I was finally led inside the room.
The first thing I noticed was that almost the whole of the room's open floor was occupied by people of every sort, laid out in rigid lines to optimize all the available space. Without even thinking about it, I contributed my body to this strange row, wondering what kind of display would be worth all this wait (& all this bending). Looking up, I discovered that there was nothing on the ceiling to look at; there wasn't even a ceiling. The walls of the room rose up & curved into a frame to display the real & open sky. Billowing clusters of drifting, pinkened clouds: this kind of art transcends culture, time, & every type of ironic climb that we thing gets so high up, the way we think Manhattan's pointed cityscape is really reaching something, until we find ourselves in a room, alone together, on a very romantic date with pure sky.
Like an armada of ships exploring out of love instead of conquest, these vast cumulonimbus clouds never find themselves emerging out of an old exit because they know nothing of beginnings or endings.
!
Otis Pig
I would like to tell you about this one thing:
I rode the M train up from my loft to Long Island City, where the contemporary art museum, P.S.1 is located. Every saturday of the summer, this museum would hold a great bash, to which hordes of strangers would come & dance around a tree. I did bring my dancin' shoes, however, the courtyard was so filled to the brim with strangers that there was no room left for me. Instead, I walked the halls of the museum as a constant pulse of breakbeat music vibrated through its heavy walls. I imagine this is what it might feel like to be a a baby in the womb, though I don't remember well enough to say for sure.
The museum is named P.S.1 because it used to be a public school for elementary-aged children. I tried to keep this in mind as I wantered the many floors, & soon enough, faint ghosts of backpacks & jubilant calls began whizzing up & down the hallways.
Most of the art I observed as I drifted from room to room acted as an homage to the strange world of ironic &/or disturbing pop culture that we're already a part of. Screens displaying old horror films to the accompaniment of a sporadically programmed player piano, & beds with the names of Stat Wars droids (C-3P0 & R2-D2, to be exact) printed across the pillowcases made for most of the content. I began to wonder if the artists' role had somehow shifted from one who perpetuates culture to one who merely reflects upon it. & if that's true, how will we know what to look forward to in the future? I suppose the alternative to this though is the idea that what happens next is what's already happened; that we've become caught in a kind of feedback loop, & when we exit out of one end we simply emerge back at the beginning, like the hundreds of cruise ships and fishing boats who drift across the Bermuda Triangle searching for a way out.
However, there is one room that's different.
In P.S. 1 there is a room that's only open for two hours each day: from sunset to sundown. It has a door, beside which a medium-length line of curious & patient museum patrons extends. There is a security officer who ushers in tiny parties, few and far between, like the outside of a posh night club. I should also mention that this room is located on the top floor of the museum.
I eagerly awaited my turn to enter the room, composed, though occasionally I would find myself tapping my heel impatiently against the wall. After fifteen minutes, maybe more, I was finally led inside the room.
The first thing I noticed was that almost the whole of the room's open floor was occupied by people of every sort, laid out in rigid lines to optimize all the available space. Without even thinking about it, I contributed my body to this strange row, wondering what kind of display would be worth all this wait (& all this bending). Looking up, I discovered that there was nothing on the ceiling to look at; there wasn't even a ceiling. The walls of the room rose up & curved into a frame to display the real & open sky. Billowing clusters of drifting, pinkened clouds: this kind of art transcends culture, time, & every type of ironic climb that we thing gets so high up, the way we think Manhattan's pointed cityscape is really reaching something, until we find ourselves in a room, alone together, on a very romantic date with pure sky.
Like an armada of ships exploring out of love instead of conquest, these vast cumulonimbus clouds never find themselves emerging out of an old exit because they know nothing of beginnings or endings.
!
Otis Pig
to Derek Ryan Hain, 09.14.09
Dear Derek,
the place I have arrived in is named "Goodbye, Blue Monday," & could be compared to Le Voyer in Olympia only more pact to the brim with ironic & horrifying displays of the culture that often bleeds out between the seams of the past few decades. It seems my arrival has, in fact, occurred on a Monday, whether or not any degree of "blue" will be staved off on that account is yet to be determined.
A fantastic band named Crazy & the Brains is crooning something to the likes of "I don't want to do anything that I don't like / I just want to be on Saturday Night Live!" As you know, this is a goal of mine as well.
Several minutes have passed, & now a hefty man with a thick beard & dark, long hair parted down the middle is doing something which reminds me of sad, old bears who only groan because they've long since run out of growls. He is wearing an AK-47 tee shirt. I'm sure that you met many types like him on your tour across the country.
Sitting next to me is a girl who I imagine to be very pretty, though I cannot say for sure because I haven't worked up the courage to look upon her face. But the heels of her low-profile boots tap against the legs of her stool out-of-time with the music; I'd like very much to think up a clever entry point from which we could begin a conversation, though nothing profound comes to mind.
Across the room a mustachioed, mid-twenties townie in a gray tee-shirt which reads, "TALK NORMAL" is shaking his head from side to side to the implicit beat of the song, which makes me think that he's engaged, but disapproves strongly of the music. Just now he raised his fist & began shaking it about in the air. Again, an ambiguous gesture.
Living here is strange, in ways I haven't begun to understand. I often walk the streets looking up in a simultaneous state of awe and terror. I'm thinking of writing a Timefighters column on the subject, titled "Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places."
Just so you know, the girl who was sitting next to me before has gotten up to leave, though just before, we managed to look at one another, & share a brief smile.
This evening I watched dusk arrive from the base of a tree in Central Park. A little tune began to hum out from my mouth. I don't know the notes, otherwise I would transcribe it onto a musical staff for you. Soon enough, words began occupying those notes until I had a handful of verses about not asking another for love, but to just be close enough to feel their breath as they speak. I was rather pleased with this sketch as I made my waty to the 6, & then the J train, though, by now it's gone the way of most dreams.
Keep on dreamin'.
- Otis Pig
the place I have arrived in is named "Goodbye, Blue Monday," & could be compared to Le Voyer in Olympia only more pact to the brim with ironic & horrifying displays of the culture that often bleeds out between the seams of the past few decades. It seems my arrival has, in fact, occurred on a Monday, whether or not any degree of "blue" will be staved off on that account is yet to be determined.
A fantastic band named Crazy & the Brains is crooning something to the likes of "I don't want to do anything that I don't like / I just want to be on Saturday Night Live!" As you know, this is a goal of mine as well.
Several minutes have passed, & now a hefty man with a thick beard & dark, long hair parted down the middle is doing something which reminds me of sad, old bears who only groan because they've long since run out of growls. He is wearing an AK-47 tee shirt. I'm sure that you met many types like him on your tour across the country.
Sitting next to me is a girl who I imagine to be very pretty, though I cannot say for sure because I haven't worked up the courage to look upon her face. But the heels of her low-profile boots tap against the legs of her stool out-of-time with the music; I'd like very much to think up a clever entry point from which we could begin a conversation, though nothing profound comes to mind.
Across the room a mustachioed, mid-twenties townie in a gray tee-shirt which reads, "TALK NORMAL" is shaking his head from side to side to the implicit beat of the song, which makes me think that he's engaged, but disapproves strongly of the music. Just now he raised his fist & began shaking it about in the air. Again, an ambiguous gesture.
Living here is strange, in ways I haven't begun to understand. I often walk the streets looking up in a simultaneous state of awe and terror. I'm thinking of writing a Timefighters column on the subject, titled "Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places."
Just so you know, the girl who was sitting next to me before has gotten up to leave, though just before, we managed to look at one another, & share a brief smile.
This evening I watched dusk arrive from the base of a tree in Central Park. A little tune began to hum out from my mouth. I don't know the notes, otherwise I would transcribe it onto a musical staff for you. Soon enough, words began occupying those notes until I had a handful of verses about not asking another for love, but to just be close enough to feel their breath as they speak. I was rather pleased with this sketch as I made my waty to the 6, & then the J train, though, by now it's gone the way of most dreams.
Keep on dreamin'.
- Otis Pig
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