Archive for June, 2015


June 6, 2015

(nicola lo calzo, all pics here)

In junior high, I used AOL instant messaging to talk to my friends, but mostly to flirt with one boy. My AIM name was iwantafanta898. Fanta was not just the orange soda. It wasn’t the orange soda at all, actually, because I had outgrown that summer tingle drink by then. Fanta was a boy’s thigh accidentally touching mine. It was my seaweed snack at theater camp that I’d place on my tongue like a communion wafer while making eyes at that boy, and him glancing back. Like, don’t you wish you were this thin crumpled piece of green paper? Like, it might take years, but eventually you’ll touch me.

In theater camp, I remember hearing that so-and-so gave you-know-who a BJ on the catwalk. First of all, what’s a catwalk? You mean that black part above the stage, and how can I get there because I wanna see? Secondly, BJ is the name of the restaurant on the 210 on you’re way to Pasadena so I don’t know how you give someone that.

Never went to BJ’s but I did go to IHOP once. That’s where the cool theater kids went after performances for midnight breakfast. I went during breakfast time, though, with family visiting. I remember there was red syrup and balding fat women. I remember there were people at IHOP that put syrup ON THEIR SAUSAGE PATTIES. That was not right. It must be different at midnight.


While our internet dial-up sang its horrid song, I looked out the window and saw my red-headed neighbor boy walking his dog. He searched about him on the sidewalk corner to make sure there were no passersby and then stuck his finger in his dog’s anus. I’m not kidding, I saw it. But then I looked away because the dial-up song was over. AIM, at last.


Back then, there were never enough letters or punctuation marks for the frenzy I felt inside. Remember those good ole days, I thought in junior high about days even before that, when we could take a bath together and it was no big deal? And what about the OLD OLD days, when a boy would say, “Can I take you out for a milkshake?” (or an egg cream, which please, don’t tell me has egg whites in it?) and there were red and white straws and sparkling booths for our thighs to stick to?

I tried to make a root beer float with Fanta instead of root beer. I thought it would taste like an orange creamsicle, but it tasted like artificial citrus with all the effervescence gone.

I drank every last drop.


June 3, 2015

jocksturges (jock sturges)Henri de Saint-Delis(henri saint delis)

She stared at me in disbelief and then began pinwheeling the serpents, her hands moving like she was jumping rope, in tight little circles at her sides that swung the snakes in wide arcs. “This is the humane way to kill them. Makes them dizzy until they fall into a syrup sleep. I call it that ’cause I like to think of it as a sweet sleepy state. And then they’re stuck there. Like if you fell into a pool of maple syrup.” Bogey said the word syrup in one syllable: srup. I wondered if she fantasized about pools of srup, if drowning in srup, maple or corn, was the way she hoped to go.Margaret Watkins (margaret watkins) and a little excerpt from werner herzog’s “of walking in ice”

The regulars would love to see the boy reach under the waitress’s skirt, but he doesn’t dare. Only if this were a film would I consider it real. Where I’m going to sleep doesn’t worry me. A man in shiny leather jeans is going east. “Katharina!” screams the waitress, holding a tray of pudding level with her thighs. She is screaming southward: that I pay attention to. “Valente!” one of the regulars screams back, referring to a crooner of the good old days. His cronies are delighted. A man at a side table whom I took for a farmer suddenly turns out to be the innkeeper, with his green apron. I am getting drunk, slowly. A nearby table is irritating me more and more with its cups, plates, and cakes laid out but with absolutely no one sitting there. Why doesn’t anybody sit there? The coarse salt of the pretzels fills me with such glee I can’t express it. Now all of a sudden the whole place looks in one direction, without anything being there. After these last few miles on foot I am aware that I’m not in my right mind; such knowledge comes from my soles. He who has no burning tongue has burning soles. It occurs to me that in front of the tavern was a haggard man sitting in a wheelchair, yet he wasn’t paralyzed, he was a cretin, and some woman who has escaped my mind was pushing him. Lamps are hanging from a yoke for oxen. In the snow behind the San Bernardino I nearly collided with a stag—who would have expected a wild animal there, a huge wild animal? With mountain valleys, trout come to mind again. The troops, I would say, are advancing, the troops are tired, for the troops the day is done. The innkeeper in the green apron is almost blind, his face hovering inches from the menu. He cannot be a farmer, being almost blind. He is the innkeeper, yes. The lights go on inside, which means the daylight outside will soon be gone. A child in a parka, incredibly sad, is drinking Coke, squeezed between two adults. Applause now for the band. The fare tonight shall be fowl, says the innkeeper in the Stillness.