Springtime Come

How I anticipate Spring, even with believing it’s existence present; the women consuming the streets with fresh, bare legs and scarves atop, fewer layers of clothes, putting the old tennies in circulation, the people are out, most noticeably the couples – everywhere, on each corner: hand in hand, arm in arm, locking lips while waiting for the light, totally inescapable. While talking with one of the painters who live in the apartment below mine, on the front stoop outside, he pointed across the street to the cathedral at the bush beside the door already with blooms of white adorning the green beside it and then we finished our cigarettes to escape the cold and retreat to our respective workplaces. No, Spring is come despite the persistent Atlantic winds bellowing down the avenues forcing the slightly heavier coat and a light scarf. Everyone knows that Spring is arrived, even if a fight against the weather remains or an umbrella to come a few days this week. That doesn’t slow down the quick beat of fresh life, a spirit taking over the masses, a kiss from the wind as she blows across the face, even if bitter, a reminder of the sounds and smells and faces and tastes of spring. “What is poetry? -It is what the early Spring is saying about the deaths of Winter.” A beat, a movement, a change – all the same. A street corner, the caress of the sun beat, a couple dozen faces held high – the Springtime. A turn of the ear for each living thing, a meditation on the colors: green, blue, pink, violet. A hundred more footsteps past irreproachable buildings towering as high as ever, visibly subject to the weather. And what of the life that is enthusiastic about life and enthuses others on or about or inside of life? The weather bears them down too, but not withstanding! For the weather is in our favor soon, if not now. When? But today the rhythms of life continue in their glory as is the only possible day to continue. So as the wind patters down and the layers become fewer, the tennis-shoes pulled out from under the coffee table and the windows remain open in every establishment and apartment, the street-noise echoes further and parties of people gather on rooftops or by fountains running fresh with water or in parks filled with the newly returned colors reflecting the jubilance of those surrounding themselves with them: deep in thought, deep in pollen-season, deep in richness of that that is; the event that comes but once a year – Springtime.

No Narrative (3 Dialogues)

TO BED: 6.34 AM INITIAL WAKE: 2.16 PM RE-STIRRED: 3.16 PM ARISE: 5.08 PM DAY: THURSDAY NOVEMBER, 20, 2008 AD MET JARED AT UNION SQUARE: 6.13 PM BORROWED PEN AND PULLED OUT NOTEBOOK: 6.14 PM 3 THINGS WROTE DOWN: LIQUOR STORE, STAND-STILL AND PESSIMISTIC. WENT TO EAST 11TH: 6.24 PM WENT TO STATIONARY STORE: 6.47 PM LEFT STATIONARY STORE: 7.03 PM DEPOSITED CHECK: 7.08 PM ON ‘A’ TRAIN: 7.21 PM UNEXPECTED DELAYS ANNOUNCED: 7.33 PM IN APARTMENT WITH SANDWICHES: 8.16 PM WATCH DVD AND LISTEN TO RECORDS, DIALOGUE UNTIL: 1.03 AM READ NOVEL UNTIL: 1.48 AM WRITE PAGE ONE IN SPIRAL NOTEBOOK: 2.04 AM WRITE PAGE ONE IN LEGAL PAD: 2.58 AM WRITE PAGE TWO (PRESENT): 3.39 AM
LIQUOR STORE, STAND-STILL, AND PESSIMISTIC ALL TO OCCUR BETWEEN RISING AT 5.08 PM AND MEETING JARED AT UNION SQUARE AT 6.13 PM.

3 DIALOGUES: 1 inside my head inside a cab. 1 outside my job, after receiving my paycheck, in the street over the phone. 1 inside my ear – a woman walking the same pace on the phone, both en route via Broadway to Union Square.

LIQUOR STORE
I’ll just get out here.
No, I’ll pull around. Just chill. Chill.
I’m leaving ( opens door and exits beneath freeway crossing traffic to a liquor store). (Before door shuts: I’ll be right outside!)
Driver: Man, Devin be stupid as shit!
Passenger (woman): Leave him alone. He never meant no harm. ’sides he’s the one always gets out and gets the liquor anyways. Never see your lazy ass so much as move off the couch, stoop, carseat – whatever the hell you always be sittin’ on.
Driver (agitated): I’m the one who has the car. I’m the one that owns the couch he sleeps on and the bed you sleep beside me in! I got the apartment and the TV and the money to buy the liquor in the first place!
Passenger: Oh, you’re go’n get al high and mighty on me? Try and talk down to me? Like I need your fucking bed to sleep in! Like your entitled or some shit? Like money just grows on trees in your shitty apartment? We all know where the money comes from. It don’t just magically appear in yo bank account. (she looks away)
Driver: Don’t pretend you’re not grateful. No matter where the fucking money comes from -
Passenger: I nevah said I wasn’t grateful. Just don’t go acting like I need it. Like I got no place to go. And like yous all entitled and shit.
Driver: I nevah said I was entitled to nothing. I know where my money comes. Just don’t need you busting my balls over an’ on it.
Passenger: I like you just the same. (Turns to driver and smiles) (Driver still annoyed, sees the oncoming of Devin and forgets any troubles)
Driver (excited): Bout time! Shit. Been in need of a drink since I woke up!
Passenger: Don’t say that unless you mean it.
Driver: Who says I don’t?
Devin: Both of yous can shut the hell up and drive! I’m ready to get my drink on as much as you! (pause) (reaching in paper bag and pulling out small bottles) I got us a few a pocket whiskeys too! Hand me my drink and lets grab some food ‘fore headin back!
Driver: Throw me one in my soda.
Passenger: Yeah, give me a few and we’ll start this thing early.
Devin: And lets get some food too! Yeah . . . (looks out window as car drives and drinking 2 parts whiskey, 1 part soda).

STANDSTILL
Daylight is near its end and the streets are suffused with grays and blues. People walk on a car-less street. Everyone is en route someplace. The workday just finished. The cold air of late fall force echoes of voices to be carried with further punctuality than is normal. A man crosses the street, dressed in all black – slacks and shoes, a long wool coat reaching his ankles. He carries with him a briefcase and touches his hand to his ear in which his phone is embedded. His companion is dressed in lighter colors and more loosely. He has jeans and an auburn sweater on, an open full coat, checkered scarf and leather gloves. The man whose phone is in his ear, his hand constantly returning to it when speaking to be addressed more clearly, booms his voice with, at one time forced however with such regularity it now comes with ease, a definitive, unwavering ego. Obviously using this tactic to intimidate the person on the other end of the receiver.
Ok, so then lets talk it over. I’m as ready to be over ‘th this thing as you.
I’m in Manhattan.
You want me to come to you? (Pause) No, yo go’n have to come to me. –
I’m in Manhattan. Yo go’n have to see me.
I’m not leaving the city an certainly on no grounds you set fo me.
Well, I guess what we got here is a standstill.
I said, “I guess what we got here is a standstill!”
(The narrator turns the corner and the bellowing voice does not follow)

PESSIMISTIC
The sun, now, has finally come to the horizon. Its rays barely escaping over Manhattan Island. Broadway below 14th twists and turns twice. Scaffolding covers most of the streets and most of them are well-lit. The store fronts also glare out onto the street. A large cathedral on East 10th Street marks a break in the deafening lights, its steeple lit only, far from the ground. With the return of storelights, so do the stores become larger; a movie theater, mega DVD and music store, bookstores. The low-rise district of Greenwich Village ends here. A woman walks with a hurried pace beneath the scaffolding along the twists of Broadway, passed the cathedral, towards the goal of Union Square. In my ear, she was compelled to speak (she walked at the same pace as I).
All right, John. You can come to the next one.
It’s on Friday the 4th.
I’m sorry if you felt left out. I didn’t think you were interested. It was only me and Nicole and -
Yeah? OK
I’m still not feeling optimistic.
I said I’m still pessimistic.
Well I dunno . . .
I’m still pessimistic about it.
(Forced chuckles)
Yeah, OK maybe (more chuckling)
Now I’m feeling optimistic
(the narrator turns the corner, unable to continue listening)

The Cave

The cave is filled with pictures and posters and calenders and books and pages. Many pages filled. More than I have ever filled. The coffee table I write atop could not be imagined without the spirals and legal pads and notebooks and memos. All of them empty canvases yet to be filled or sit as a reminder, already full. The futon I sit on has lasted our wear. The wood beneath presses through and a pillow is on top for extra support. It is not comfortable. Still, this is the only place I crave to be in while outside. My bedroom has become the place I sleep. The place I undress and redress. The cave remains my sanctuary. With the onset of a new year, the heart of winter still before us, the doldrums have set in. Life has become burdensome to endure. The winds remain unchanged. The cold still is bitter. Snow has not left the streets for weeks. The same people trudge through it. The same cars drive on it. The sidewalks are salted. The curbsides are devious with excess snow piling and exhaust remains, a clear footstep, icy water stands. Once work is done, people are forced to bear the weather and take to the streets. A heated seat on the subway is coveted. Tucking in my scarf to remove it later.

The middle of the week. The errands are done. Only priority gives to leave. To face the cold again. The cabinets are full. The refrigerator stocked. A box full of tea. An empty bear once filled with honey. Empty wine bottles sit in window sills. Cans of soup line the kitchen. Boxes of crackers stay in the pantry, removing a sleeve at a time. Bags of chips are folded over. Canned food lay stacked in rows. I have prepared myself for hibernation and nothing would give me more pleasure. The rent is due. The bills are here. Sales tax, income tax, federal tax, city tax, state tax, indulgent tax. Paycheck – taxed. Cigarettes – heavily taxed. Faucet water – ultimately taxed.

The bus to the train to the avenues to the restaurant. The specials today are: the lack of energy I have to recite them. Excellent bottle of wine, sir. The producer – point. The name – point. The year – point. Open the lever, drop the corkscrew, insert and turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, turn. Pop! A try sir. Very good. With my right hand hold the label out and pour to the right. And pour to the right. And pour to the right. And pour to the right. Clear from the left x4. Polish glassware, reset tables, plastic wrap over the sugar, vacuum. The train to another train to another train. Gloves on, remove, light cigarette, replace. Turn the key. Embrace the dimming light. Enjoy the record playing. Sit on the pillow-covered futon. Write.

Poem

Daphnia in the rain
In her rainboots
The yellow ones
At the end of the steps
By the iron fence
That had rusted over
And flaked off
Into the brick walkway
Laid down more than a century
Earlier the church bells rang
Every 10 minutes, when now
They only ring on the hour
In the highest part of the church
An evergreen tree tries to pass it
Steadfast by the bricks
And drips rain into a puddle
Filled with the face of a girl
In her raincoat
Dipping the toe of her rainboot
In further each time
Smiles and looks back to the steps

A Note

The original intent of this blog has radically changed, as I have. Posts will come as I feel adequate. Also, the website will be changing in address as soon as I know what it will change to.