oh, laptop, how I love thee. when my body is exhausted, joints sore with insomnia, susceptible to chill, sneezing and blowing, but the racket in my brain sprung in small hours won’t kindly shut up, I can lie most pleasantly abed, muffled in flannel, propped by pillows, and give vent to the odd bits I can’t seem to slough. like projects in compulsive collection. like interstellar transcriptions. ibook, my trusty buddy, so shiny and white, so portable and flexible, so handy with usb and firewire ports for flash drives and dv recorder downloads. the best debt ever. debt being something I have a degree of expertise in.
creative genius versus…
the best work tells a compelling, somewhat puzzling, and to varying degrees resolvable story.
I, on the other hand, get caught up setting the scene in exquisite details– and all too often leaping to moral conclusions.
venice vision
an hour and a half west of g.p., and here’s the idea: move west & market my aesthetic– a shop called “farmland garden,” import/sell midwest stuff + shop locally and sell midwest-type stuff– keep a record player playing scratchy copies of bessie smith, tom waits, squirrel nut zippers, m ward, gloria deluxe?, etc. have a samovar set up with tea + teacakes or other snacks. lamps and indirect lighting. sit there and make collages on an old farmhouse kitchen table. also little books. also have wireless internet. maybe also an espresso machine? food and drink on/in old dishes, linens. squishy chairs, low tables. nextdoor thru the heavy curtain: “brocade lounge”. wine and beer. smoking, if excellent ventilation. old spinny ashtrays. dark walls, dark textiles: reds. sconces. overstuffed. tiny stage for singer acts. out back: shared courtyard terrace. roses & water fountains. little lights in pachysandra. stone flags. candles on tables. live down the street in a small arts & crafts bungalow.
who’s who of the damned
just that. it’s a poem title, I believe, for a poem as yet unwritten.
cattywampus
the whole thing was tilting: walls, floors, doorways, staircases, all gone crazy. windows idiosyncratically aimed gazes into sky or, alternately, ground. everything inside trembled, live and inanimate– elderly lapdogs cowered under beds while antique dressers heaved themselves across hardwood floors. and each time we moved, the whole thing shifted with us: make for the door, and the floors headed south; retreat too quickly, and the walls ground backward in sudden overcorrection. we were frozen in place, terrified to turn it, to send everyone and everything crashing down one way or another. still, some made dashes and attained the outdoors– but once outside, how could they live with the guilt? a few ran back in to do what they could toward salvation, ushering out anything they could lay hands on– a cat, a stranger. some worked the exterior, searching for ropes and adequate anchorage. we were miles from civilization, off the map, off the radar, unlooked-for. we were on our own, doing our best with disaster. I discovered a cell phone in my hand and told the rest I’d call for help, but somehow never placed the call. maybe there wasn’t time, maybe we tipped, maybe I had immediate issues staring me down. eventually, we knew they were on their way, but what could they do? we knew we were in for it. we were in it: to go down or make it out alive all on our own devices. we gritted teeth, touched one another’s shoulders, readied ourselves for whatever was coming next.