I hum an off-key note on Putnam St and the sky is a blue that doesn’t have a name and calling it blue isn’t right because even though it’s summer it has the white of anticipatory snow, it has the yellow of hot California fields, it has this purple that I only saw once when I was a child when I walked with Grandpa to the post store, a post office that sold pastries in Oxford and outside there were foxgloves –or were they merriweathers or kisses of a nun or a flower that had such a name- and they were a lavender purple infused with the yellow of lust and saffron of my mother’s rice and that’s the color now but it’s turning black and once it’s black there won’t be stars because I live in New York but there will be planes on their way to JFK and they’ll jitter red and white on the sky, planes full of people sad and hungry and happy and crying at romantic comedies and I live under them and I’m hungry and the sky is getting dark but tomorrow I’ll wake up when the sun comes up because my body can’t help it and when I wake up my humming will be in tune, maybe, maybe just once I’ll hit that nice G, that G chord I strummed, you strummed, he strummed on a stage with fat people clapping, applauding, eating hotdogs, smoking menthol, thinking I want to go ask her to dance.( romualdas pozherskis)
Archive for August, 2015
You can understand, then, why the last pop tart flavor I wanted to be was strawberry. I felt doomed as I waited for my eater to retrieve me. I hoped that at least it would be a sweet little Sam boy or a cherub angel that would nibble me outdoors or on a swing. I hoped I would transform into a Tagalong cookie, instead. My favorite Girlscout cookie, the kind filled with peanut butter and coated with chocolate, the kind I was never allowed to eat at home. The kind that stuck to your teeth and palate and turned it all brown with gunk.
But nobody came and I sat there all day, patient, stale. I could feel the strawberry turn congealed and cold, and the sharp rainbow flecks flake off.
And then a sound. And then a girl. No not a girl, a woman. With hair like mine and skin like mine, and those three moles, right, there, like mine. And you know what she did? She held me. She pressed me to her chest until I warmed up again. My little strip of frosting softened and smeared onto her little chest. Then she opened the window. Then she frisbeed me away and I flew. Past the pigeons and the high rises and the oak and fig and sycamore and I flew and flew and flew, until I wasn’t a pop tart anymore. I was just crumbs, and I was everywhere. I wasn’t a pop tart –I swear, I was everywhere.
i saw the david foster wallace movie and i wondered what the movie would look like if it had been made based on my 7th grade interview with him, as opposed to the unlikeable david lipsky’s. in 7th grade english we had to write reports on what we wanted to be when we grew up. i proposed travel writer, because it seemed an easier version of writer with the perks of free travel. mamá said go interview david, her friend and tennis partner. i wasn’t so sure…the last time we had seen him was when his dog died and he told us to come over to retrieve all the photos of his black lab in his house to help with his grief. my mom said, yes, interview david, he will give good advice. so i did. after dinner at our place. he had marlboro cartons in his socks and dirty hair and a couple months after he got in a big fight with my mom and he stopped coming over smelling of ranch dressing. i think he didn’t like being interviewed, even by a 12 year old. but i think he liked 12 year olds more than grownups, because back then i didn’t know what loneliness felt. or rather, i knew it more thoroughly and reasonably than i do now.
i went to fort tilden beach yesterday at 9.30am and it was the best time to go to the beach. to see big ole wieners wrapped in red saran wrap basking in the sun, to see children build their breakfast sand castles, and to get pinched by a crab on the big toe. (cristina garcia rodero)
i now go on wordreference more often than wordpress. gotta know those words.
mini skirts are always fashionable!
i’m moving to south slope where i’ll see a cemetery
from my window.
i’ll be leaving behind the men with loud bikes who vroom vroom with bright lights
big wheels big hands big stoops big 40s
for a land of quiet zombies and salvadoreños
of corner pie diners.
i’ll still be in the same flight path, though…
paper airplanes and heavy ones, too.
in berlin, there were carrots and acrobats sprouting from every park. men wore babycarriers and women went barefoot and kids swung from trees howling like monkeys. it’s a place of leisure.
in dresden, there were ashened facades and sad fountains and an australian restaurant serving kangaroo. it felt like a chimneysweep’s skin.
in prague, men in red harass stag parties with the prospect of titty clubs and hash, spires and churches ding-donging their midnight bells. pilseners and cans of chickpeas kept me alive while i breathed the chainsmokers’ air. seagulls caught my breadcrumbs in mid-air.
in bilbao, there was fragrant cheese and a toothless dog.
in asturias, there was more fragrant cheese. cider dribbled down cobblestoned streets, bearded old men spilled glasses of red wine and barked about the merit of john wayne. spanish masculinity on the rise. women wear sequined swim suits.
in cantabria, i talked to brown cows.
in galicia, i went in the sea when it rained and when it didn’t and i stepped on a fish, cracked open a muscle on a rock and felt guilty afterwards incase it felt something because it was soft inside like inside me. the woman in the plaza sold me a dozen figs for a euro. the honey she sold was deep brown like molasses.
(matisse, spanish woman with tambourine)