Red Wheelbarrow for William Carlos Williams

So much depends upon                                           Sept 29 2015

a red wheel barrow

glazed with rain

beside the white chickens.

Dust road shimmer, another dry afternoon

Cloudburst enough for runnels

And rotting spilt grain,

A week’s worth of grain

On the ground, near the coop

But not enough for new corn

Or unshrivel beans.

She sends the children,

Barrow tippers of grain, now

mixed with rotgut bottles in the

knobbyshade tree roots,

to a neighbor, and watches

the chickens peck peck peck

at precious scattered gold.

Yellow marks and cigarette ‘O’s

on her arms and ankles

wait for new color.

There was no money to paint the house

but, soon, she would be vivid as sunset.

More and Other HBKs: They are Everywhere and They Look Just Like Every Other House

"Hey, Miz W, what's gone on in your life since I saw you last? How are the girls? They working? Both still living with you or has Gwen moved out again?"

"I'll tell you, they are a blessing. You know, Gwendolyn has a great position at Price Waterhouse."

"She got it? Oh that's great, she wanted that so bad."

"Mmm. She loves it there and they love her. She is getting it all there."

"Well, she should. Smart, hard-working, talented, beautiful, good tempered. Lot like her momma, if you ask me."

"Thank you, child. All Jesus doing."

"Amen. And how's Genny? She back in school?"

"You know my Genny. She, she jess needs a little more time to get acclimated than some folk do, a helping hand on her back to guide her a bit, but she do right once she gets points that ways."

"Leastwise it's a helping hand on her back and not on her backside, like some need."

"Child, you do make me laugh! But yes, a gentle push now and then to keep her moving on her track, plenty of others could use the same but no one to give it to them. She's in this program, part work, part school. Likes it well enough, pushing papers around and around. Don't know how Gwen or I would feel about that, we like talking too much to real people to push papers or do that Internet frou-frou stuff, but it suits my Genny just fine."

"Be proud, momma, she hasn't had it easy. She is doing so much with what she has, be proud. And what's going on with you? Teaching, selling, training? Where are you living now, every time we talk it's somewhere else."

"I tell you, child, that is true. I have had no luck the past few years with living places. We've know each other five, six years now and I've lived in more places than that but right now we're down in Kissimmee, real nice two bedroom apartment."

"What about that big house you were renting, over down the street, the one that was all redone for you? Gwen told me you had new carpets, appliances, a garage even..."

"That house? That house! That was the Original House of Bad Karma, Hunter's Creek! You know they had to repaint the outsides three times cause the red kept bleeding right through the grey, cream, whateverall color they were trying to paint it!"

"Wait. You mean the house you moved into last year was THAT house? The one across the street from the park? Back of the fence, I mean the divide?"

"Yes, child, that one!"

"Oh no, Miz W, if I'd known that was the house, oh if I'd known, I'd've warned you right then that place is evil! I rode past it, sure, but on the other side of the street. I didn't even like driving past it, could feel it clawing out at me. You know it had two major fires? You know people died in those fires?"

"Yes, they told us before we moved in. More and more on top of what was already there. Getting new blood to feed it on top of the old, pulling down on itself anyway it can. That second floor they added, it was not right, not ever. We looked at that house, we went in through the front door and said, this is nice, this is very nice."

"How long were you there? Wait , as strong as you are, how'd you ever move in?"

"Few weeks. Work was still going on when we saw it, that's why we never did see the garage til after. Place had been empty for a year or so, we got it all new and shiny.

"And then we went up to that second floor. Whatever it was in the garage, it came right up through the floor, cold cold cold, room was so much colder than the rest of the house which sounds like a good thing but no, believe me, no."

"You know this whole area is built on Indian burial grounds? Or so I'm told?"

"I believe that, why not? That house, the fires and the stains... My Genny, she swears something slammed the door on her hand and one time she was going up the stairs and something grabbed her and pulled her and she fell over backwards, nearly broke her neck. We moved out after my Genny got pulled that night. Next morning, we just packed right up and called the owner and told him he could keep the security."

"Smart. Expensive, but smart."

"You should've seen it, like the Amityville horror all over again. Stuff dripping down the walls, nasty mold growing up from the floor. Course, that could have been from the hurricanes, they went right over although maybe the hurricanes were more and the same. Mm-mm, the noises... All hours of the day and night, there were these noises that came from the closets.

"We didn't move any stuff up to the second floor, that was going to be Gwendolyn's own private apartment, but then she decided to room with Genny, that it just was too much trouble to be going up and down the stairs when she works such long hours. I don't even want to think what would have been if Gwen or my Genny had been sleeping up there. I don't want to think about it.

"Miz W, that scares me, you living there, even if it was just for a while. Please tell me the new place is better?"

"Better and boring. Boring is good. I don't know why folks is always badmouthing Kissimmee, it's old and sturdy and boring and the rumors of it being full of crackers, well, I'm from New York but I have family from Ocoy or and my kind don't live there."

"Ocoy?"

"Ocoy, up past Colonial, where the Turnpike crosses it."

"Ocoy? Ocoee!"

"You say Ocoee, I say Ocoy, that's how the Cherokee pronounce it, or that's what my granddaddy claimed anyways. Me, I still wouldn't live in that part of town, but some black folk do, now. Yes, child, that house, surprising to both of us that I didn't smell the angry in it."

"It was hiding."

"I hope it stays hidden, good riddance and far away. Meanwhile, we all gots to live while we can. More air we blow here, good air that is, righteous air, rich oxygen air, more air going round to light God's candles and snuff Satan's right out."

"You burn bright, Miz W. You give those girls of yours a bit hug and kiss for me. Let me give you some articles I clipped for them, but you bring them next time.

"Thank you darling, I'll say a prayer for you, too."

"Amen, Miz W. Can't hurt, especially an old reprobate like me."

"No, can't hurt, child, can't hurt a bit."

Unclean Title

The hibiscus are in bloom.
There. That place. Where I used to live.
Engine running, Jackie-O sunglasses and scarf, I resemble a 1960's starlet in disguise.
But if they came out, they'd recognize me.
I hope.
I dread.
Its not yellow any more. My favorite house color.
Every house I ever owned was some shade of yellow,
Porch, shutters, gingerbread, window trim, if not all.
The sun bouncing off the clotted red hurts my eyes. I blink a few times to focus.
The crepe myrtle is gone, and the palm
-I don't know what kind it is, I never cared about that-
is so tall it shades the optional bay alcove I paid extra for.
Its just a place I used to store my things and pace the halls because I couldn't sleep,
hornets stinging, subdermal demons writhing,
while the voices threatened to trap me in between the sheet rock and cinderblock.
It was never home.
I put the car in drive and ignore the stop sign at the corner.

Houses and Homes and Promises

I'll build a home with you and we'll never need a king size bed.
We've both been there. We've learned.
I think so anyway. I like to think so, that we've, that I've, learned.
And I promise to smile when you come in,
no matter how busy I am,
no matter how distracted,
because.

A Roving We Will Go

Jump down turn around, pick a bale of cotton.
Jump down turn around, pick a bale of hay.
Jump down turn around, pick a bale of cotton.
Jump down turn around, pick a bale of hay.

She sang as she picked the roving apart, but it wasn't soft, safe, wonderful cotton, despite her assumption, despite its appearance.

It was fiberglass.

Carcinogenic, full of slivers that weaseled under the skin, shimmied into the lungs and brain, and set up housekeeping, eager for spouse, children, third cousins twice removed to come along ans expand the compound.

Fiberglass.

That miracle substance so pervasive in the housing industry that it was regarded as the lead paint of the new millennia and no one was sure whether the better approach was to remove the contaminant or contain it in walls and spray foam polyurethane.

Fiberglass in toys and drapes and attic insulation, where she sat, fluffy piles around her. She liked the way it glistened, the hologram effect when she held a piece to her eyes and pulled, until the light coming through the tiny window was a rainbow. It was her favorite game, that fall, hiding in the attic and singing, a pretend princess waiting for prince charming to kiss her into forever-never land.

Years later, when the doctors told her she had ‘white lung', the fiberglass version of asbestosis, she wouldn't remember that fall.

Who remembers the innocent games of childhood, anyway?

Crowns and Kings

He'd worked on the molding for months, selecting the trims, miter box, glues, stains, prepping the walls and joins, measuring twice and cutting once. His deft fingers slid the last few pieces into place as smoothly as they'd once slid into her.

Standing in the empty doorframe, empty despite having lived there for over two years, empty despite her entreaties for a door, a door with a proper latch so they could shut the world away for a few hours, empty because it wasn't a priority for him, not like the molding or the wainscoting or the inlaid parquet flooring, empty because it just never got done. She wondered why he bothered wearing the gold band on his fourth finger where it sometimes snagged nails, springs, wiring and long ago, her flesh.

He leaned back, tilted his head to check the alignment of the trim and nodded, pleased with his handiwork. "Look, honey, the trim's done. Could you get me the sealant? It'll save me having to climb up and down. Honey? Please? Honey?" But the only answer to his entreaties was silence.

Hurricane Season

Hurricane season. Here in Central Florida, where hurricanes never hit, it's a phrase that provokes yawns and perhaps some gloating over the coastal inhabitants who routinely are evacuated to the general environs of the Happiest Place on Earth.

Until I moved here and my life fell apart.

For more than forty years, no hurricane had traversed either I4 or the Turnpike, but that year, the year I realized my carefully constructed world had crumbled, a Class 4 hurricane flew right up I4, detoured onto 417 East and blew the roofs off homes within an eight-mile radius of the house I lived in. Not my home, not even my house, but merely "the house I lived in" and please don't argue semantics with me. Please.

All around, there were trees uprooted, power lines down, pool screens adrift like giant dragonflies, buildings turned to rubble and the house I lived in, that despised place which had seen the apocalypse, that place built to the latest hurricane code, circa 1998 post Andrew, even that new construction sitting in the eye of the storm, suffered obvious damage.

Let's not discuss the damage inside, which was just that, inside and invisible. But the external, well, there is no such thing as coincidence.

The walls separated from the floor, the house tried to rip itself off its moorings, disown the earth, and join the merry mishmash spinning skyward. The northeast corner of the house flooded, water seeping, flowing, gushing as the crack grew.

That corner? The master bedroom suite sits in that corner, the northeast corner.

It flooded and became unusable, which was fine, as it hadn't been used for anything except fitful sleeping, hugging the far side of the bed, as far away from possible accidental contact with anyone else who might be there as possible. The only lovemaking in that bed was between me and fear.

Hurricane season spun me around and spat me out the other side.

For which I am grateful.

Because years later, during another hurricane season when there were no hurricanes but only a symphony of tropical storms and lightening strikes, so much wet in that not-hurricane season, I found myself in a new home with a bedroom in the southwest corner, facing rosy coral sunsets, a room which seems destined for everything except sleep, a room where the torrid nights are inspired by the maelstrom outside and not the other way around.

I rejoice in that room which keeps me close, encourages me to dance in the rains, the same rains which poured down my prison bars years earlier and then blew them apart. I stand outside, now, stand there in the downpour, counting the seconds of the flash, wondering what this year will bring.

I'm not afraid now.

I'll never be afraid again.

Hurricane season: it destroys. And I rebuild.

His Country Home

But the pillars are intact. He stares a moment longer. Just stares.
Thin, thinner than thin, emaciated, he walks onto the porch,
sagging, decayed, black mildew creeps up the walls, kudzo-like.
Just another alien invasive species wrecking havoc on
His Beloved.

Floorboards broken. Shutters hang by a single hinge. Termite ridden, too.
He would open the door to enter the Manse … if there was a door.
Step smoothly over the threshold into that gaping doorway
like a whore opening a zipper and mounting a faceless erection,
still wet with another man’s cum.

Picking his way over piles of debris, abandoned furniture, books, clothes.
Rats? armadillos? snakes? rustle, jump out, slide from sight.
Nothing left of lifetimes. Idly, he picks a book from the melting pile.
A diary, the pages a solid mass, The ink bleached away by fastness.
Another person’s memories
Gone.

emily speaks...

http://lucifer-intheflesh.deviantart.com/art/Sewing-Machine-85912924

happy birthday luke

i love you babygirl.

House is Not a Home Part IV

It is mine, all mine and only mine, the first bedroom to have been mine since I was a child. No one else has a say as to what I have or what I do in here.

My personal space.

Spotless, almost empty.

I moved from the master bedroom into this room three days after I moved into my apartment, just as I moved from the master bedroom into my studio back at HBK and for similar reasons. The people downstairs fight every night, vicious, ugly fighting which spills out into the street as one or the other picks up their little boy and threatens to leave. The screams and cries are too much for me. I cannot handle that, it sends me back to a place I cannot go, so I moved into the other bedroom and enjoy the silence. Time has passed and they moved a few days ago somewhere else to wake someone else's memories, be someone else's nightmare.

When she joined me, my daughter took that room. She shuts the door on her safe haven, her bed, computer, bath, a world inside with no one to pester her. We hope the new neighbors are peaceful or at least restrict their fighting to normal business hours and not to third shift.

The ducks and egrets sing, their voices alternating with the low blue whistle of the train, that train which passes at midnight, 3 am, 5 am, that train going anywhere but here. If I sleep, it wakes me 5 o'clock, telling me to call my daughter and remind her to go to school. The whistle sighs her name, Call L, tell L we love her, we will always love her.

At night, on my too high bed which is too far from the floor, on top of my quilt, white with a pattern of violets, of course violets, what other kind of flower would I tolerate, lace edged and my dark purple sheets, six pillows prop my back. I look out the window to the other side while I work. The vague glow of my laptop and the purple twinkling christmas lights which ring the room guide my hands. The blinds are open and across the retention pond I see the lights of the car wash, the boat dock and John Young Pkwy in the distance, bright enough to blot out the stars.

The purple framed shield shaped mirror hangs directly across from me so I can glance up at any time I chose and reassure myself that I am safe, sane and whole. Is it vanity to have a mirror reflecting my bed, reflecting me in all my moods and guises? Do I care? In the corner stands a ripple of mirror, a candy ribbon, from IKEA, forming the second part of an incomplete triptych. Will I finish it, get another mirror for the other corner or will I instead buy that striking floor lamp whose shape is the same as mine? I'll decide that another night. For a few days, I had a hydra headed floor lamp next to the bed, but moved it into the living room, shifting it from sofa to desk as needed, capricious, as I shift from one work area to another.

You can see into my room from the picnic table which sits in the grassy area between my building and the retention pond. Various and sundry hang out at that table, lighting up cigarettes, inhaling smoke and losing time. Carlos and Javier wave at me late at night. When I see Carlos the next day, he tells me that I shouldn't worry, he'll watch my back. Which makes me laugh as he seems so stoned I get this urge to transfuse his veins with chicken soup and bring him back to this planet's reality.

The only night table high enough for me is my dad's old folding table. It's all I have of my dad, this steel tray table. I have sofas from my brother, a matched pair of Victorian chaise lounges. They are lovely to look at and only to look at, the shape deliberately designed to discourage long visits. They live at HBK. Long visits are discouraged there, too. My mom left me fifty-one Canadian maple leafs but those are long gone and part of the reason I have this room of my own.

The night table is a tableau of magazines, books, (Douglas Hofstadter, I am a Strange Loop, which I read five to ten pages at a time, savoring his words) maps for work, the work I do for the paper, a bottle of water, a mug filled with pens and markers, custom made for me with my name spelled correctly, and an ankle brace although I cannot imagine what purpose it serves or remember why it is there. I leave it. It seems too much trouble to find a better place to store it.

On the door frame, 2/3 of the way up is the purple and silver leather mezzuzah which went up before I moved into this place, this place I am trying to make into a home, this place which while it does not speak to me, it does not make me cry.

Backstory

“I’ll loan you a sweater.”

“What sweater of yours could possibly fit me?’

“It’s cold out. I’ll find one.” She walked into the closet, stood there, looking at the piles of clothes. So many clothes...

“Oh what, you’re going to give me one of your husband's?” He sniffs, wrinkles his nose. “It smells like mothballs in here.”

“Thank you, yeah I know. No, that would be rude. Or vulgar. Or both. No, one of mine.” Flicking through the pile, she pulls out an old fisherman sweater, hands it to him. He puts it back on the shelf.

“Love, there is no sweater of yours,” moving behind her, against her, he reached around to hold her breasts. Pulled her back against him, kissed her neck. One arm now tight around her, the other slowly moved over her abdomen, back and forth, lower, until he cupped her pudenda with his hand. Rocking his hand on her, he squeezed gently. “that could ever fit me. Besides,I don’t need a sweater.” Kissing her neck, the space behind her ear, he could feel her body getting warmer. The closet filled with her scent. “I'm warm enough. I don’t need a sweater.”

“Oh god...” She arched her back slightly, shaking, feeling him against her.

“Hmm? Yes?” Moving behind her, he knelt, licked her thighs, her cleft. Stood up, pressing against her. He whispered, “I don’t need a sweater, I’m warm, I’m warm all over. You are so, so hot on me. You are so boiling on me,” as he moved inside her.

“Oh god,” she grasped the shelf, her torso almost parallel to the floor.

“I don’t need a sweater...OH GOD!”

“It’s cold out. It really is. You’re going to freeze. Here, take it already. It's the biggest one I have.”

“I look ridiculous.” Holding out his arms, the sleeves stop four inches above his wrist.

“Well, still, it has to be better than not. I don't have anything longer. The rest of it’s not too bad.” She looks at him. Sighs, shaking her head. “It’s just really short on you.”

“You’re really short on me. On the inside, too.” He picks her up, easily. She wraps her legs around him, twines them around his thighs.

“Stop, c’mon. You’re going to be so late.” She flexed her leg muscles, rubbing herself on him. “You really have to go. I have to finish my project, too.” She took a deep breath, sighed. The house smelled different when he was here. It smelled full.

“Don’t have time? You sure? You’re dripping on me, we’re dripping on me.”

She pushes the sweater up, his warm hairless flesh touching hers. She couldn’t stop touching him. Even across a room, she could feel him on her; feel the air rippling on her when he walked past. She loved the texture of his skin, little bumps and ridges, his bones barely visible. One arm around him, her hand on his lower back, the other reached up to pull his face to hers. His well-worn 501s were soft on her legs, the buttons straining against her.

Lips moving on hers, “Yes? You want? Let me take my pants off, sweetheart.”

“No, really. You have to go, I’m just playing.”

“You know how much I love you?”

“I love you more because I’m older.”

“I love you more because I’m bigger.”

“I love you more because...because I’m more compact so it’s intensified.”

“What, you’re a reduction?” He laughed, almost dropping her.

“Yeah, I like that. I’m a reduction. You’ve boiled me away leaving the most intense flavor and aroma behind. Now you can pour me over chicken or use me to make a delicious gravy.” She unwrapped herself, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, laughing.

“Stay there.” He put his foot between hers, pushed them apart. Got down on his knees and kissed her. “Yes, a reduction. Essence of you with more intense flavor and aroma. You are so addictive. If I could bottle you, I would be a rich man. “

”You really have to, really have to, really... Oh! You have to go, you’re already late.” She parted her legs a bit more. “You are going to be so late.”

“Mmph. Like I care? I’m late, I’ll be later.”

He returned the sweater three weeks later. When he said goodbye.

G'te Voch, G'te Yur

Tonight, I went out with youngest child to see the
Osbourne Lights at Disney/MGM.
Got back to my apartment about 15 minutes ago.
I hung my mezzuzot.
I lived at HBK for 7 years and I managed to find every
reason to NOT put up mezzuzah, despite having a few
dozen in wood, metal, ceramic, glass, leather
(oh yesssss...purple and silver leather mezzuzah....oh yesss).
This will be my second night here.
And they are up.

New Year, New Place, New Life

Odd feeling, to be typing 2008. My first post of the new year, overdue by a few days I feel, but I will use the excuse that I’ve been working, training, moving and otherwise too busy to tend to the insides of my own head, not that anyone is particularly interested in the madness that resides there besides myself.

No.

That’s not true. You, dear reader, are interested, must be interested in whatever amusement, insight, twist I bring to play on this game we call life, this game-not-game we call love.

Or why would you be here?

It is early morning. I am awake in my newest place, no more moving around, running, running. I have a lease, a for-real lease. Not a day-to-day, week-to-week thing here, a lease. I have space. I have rooms.

Rooms.

Rooms.

All I have in the way of furniture is a bed which is WAAAAYYY too far from the floor and a chair.

My own bed. It is the first bed that is all mine since I was a child. And I can do whatever I like to decorate it, I have no one else I have to please or accommodate in terms of headboard or linen selection. I can pile the pillows and blankets as high as I want. I can hang drapes from the ceiling and twinkling lights, make believe I am looking at stars when I cannot sleep. Make believe I am beautiful in the dim light, small consolation for being alone, make believe.

What woman really believes she is beautiful?

If I am beautiful, then why am I alone?

It is all so much make believe.

So many rooms here, a full kitchen so I can make scones or biscuits or whatever every day if I choose, so much space. So what do I do?

I drag the only other piece of furniture I have into the bedroom, the oversized folding chair and set it in a corner. Once again, I am living in one small space, wrapped as tight to me as possible. I need to make it tight, hold myself with the walls.

There is no one to hold me.

And there are no memories here to hold me.

It is clean, sterile.

The place I’ve been the past six months, had many memories. I came in, it was full of memories. Every stain on the carpet, every cigarette burn on the furniture was its own memory. And I made memories there. I built a life of sorts. I lived there. I was Rapunzel in her tower, standing at the window, listening to the honking cars, a symphony of brake lights, waiting for her lover to climb her plaited hair, wrap her tresses round his hand and kiss her. I was.

I waited so many nights.

Leaving there, yesterday morning, the shadows stand there, taunting me. They walk back and forth, remove glasses from the cupboard, turn the TV around, prop the pillows up, throw the blankets on the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed, my last morning, and watch them. They talk to me, scenes replayed over and over, and the tears come, oh god, the tears come.

I cannot stop crying.

I walk to the window, one last time. Look out at the lights, the morning rush hour traffic. I watch the red lights as I did so many nights when I could not sleep. Watching traffic does not cure insomnia. And it is small comfort to know there are others wandering the streets, restless and alone.

The window sill..... I brush it with my fingertips, trace the shadows on it. Even the window sill has ghosts. I turn, look down on the bed, my home, my workplace, my safe house, my everything these many months. I cannot touch it.

At this point, I should be used to having my guts ripped out. It is not the first time, it is not the last. Vivisection is not unknown to me. I do not need a saber to perform seppuku. My dragon’s claws will rend me and chew my intestines as they spill upon the floor, an unsightly train to my fleshly wedding gown.

I am still crying.

I try not to let the door hit me on the ass as I leave.

House is Not a Home Part III

There seems to be an obsession or perhaps a synergy between damaged relationships and domiciles. I look at people, picking through the detritus of their lives, the vacant wounded stare as they turn over a broken bit of crockery. Over, over, over, as if they've never seen a shard before. I have. Shards have sharp edges, cut. Drag the shard along the length of my forearm and watch the pretty design well up. And a new work of art, see! red rain on the tiles.
Oh. Oh god. Oh. Oh no. Oh god. He'll...... Oh. It does not matter what he'll do anymore. He can get mad, he can get furious. I am not there to care, to hear it. Lovely spatter pattern, burgundy on cream colored tiles.
There is other flooring. The carpet is stained. It is red, not red with blood, or at least I do not think so. Green sofa, neutral chairs and bed coverings. The walls are beige, benign. Sterile. Functional. Anonymous. Air conditioning off and still cold, despite the Florida heat. Windows open to let in the warm air, but it does not help.
This monastic cell is cold, so cold all the time. A place of retreat, prayer, repentance. A place to reevaluate a life. Perhaps a place to begin a life. Perhaps a place to end one.
The furniture is cheap, knocked around. So many water rings on the coffee table, marks of the many faceless former residents. It is a no-smoking room, but there are cigarette burns on the counters, window sill, carpet. Cigarettes bring some small comfort, or at least a five minute distraction. And sometimes a five minute distraction is comfort enough.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands have slept in this room, in this bed, one night at a time. Covers pulled up over my head, trying to keep out the cold. Alone, hanging off the edge most nights. Perhaps not quite alone as my laptop lays here next to me, constant gateway to the world outside. Its bright glow calls me. One a.m., three a.m., five a.m., I turn to check the screen. Is there anyone awake, anyone I can talk to? Can anyone hear me? Count the tears?
It is supposed to be an oasis, a haven. During the day, the three blankets are smooth, tight. You could bounce a coin off that bed. Look closer. It is worn too. No sheet to cover the box spring, no dust ruffle to cover the bare framework holding it up. All surface and nothing underneath.
The four mismatched pillows are piled at the top. Two are old and flat, lumps of padding. The third is a feather pillow which never holds its shape. It suffocates the head that lays upon it. The fourth pillow will not be used as a pillow. It pretends it is Japanese, a carved wood head support, but that is more pretense. Obvious what it is and what it is not. Everything in this room, obvious in its pretense and pretend, its simplicity and reality.
Cigarette burns, stains in the carpet, so many. Can't clean it, carpet so worn that dirt and dust are all that hold it together. You can't tell if those are blood stains, the floor a puddle of blood. Except for the tiles. They are cracked. Once upon a time, did someone pry up a tile, test the sharpness of its edge? They are as sharp as the broken china which litters the floor where I lived, in a universe long ago and far away. I sit on the floor and touch the cracked tiles gently, stroke them with my fingertip. I suck the warm blood, a frisson, eyes closed with pleasure.
There is a table, or perhaps a desk against the wall. Crowded with work files, printer, CDs, a small incense burner, it is hard to see the surface. Scent floats up from the burner, but does not cover the stale damp smell of too many bodies. The desk lamp does not work. Ironic, a light which casts no light on any subject. This room sucks it up. Curtains wide open to the sun, but the sunbeam is anemic. The room absorbs the very life from those who enter. "Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate." Yes, abandon all hope, you who enter.
The sofa, a two seater, sags in the middle. Directly in front of the air conditioning unit, it is even colder than the bed. No. Nothing is colder than that bed, except the bed I slept in before. The freezer isn't as cold as that bed. The void isn't that cold. Hell isn't that cold.
A small white tiled bathroom. Anonymous. The shower is hot, scalding. The room fills with steam. It cannot wash away your crimes. It cannot wash away the crimes committed against you. Memories set by a branding iron, scrubbing deepens the scars.
There is a one door refrigerator, full of food. I bought it. All of it. Every last item. Is there a party in this room? Are there plans for a party? Gourmet foods, sauces, rare chocolates and spices, four bottles of wine, champagne. The two-burner cook top is scrubbed, the cleanest spot here. I have to make it clean, scour it, scrub the damned spots from it, scrub them out. This is only place in this room that pleases me, that is me. Mixing bowls, mugs, pans, wok. How many kitchen appliances can fit into that tiny cupboard? Curries, crepes, chow fun, fondue, mashed potatoes, soups, every shade of ethnic cuisine emerge from this corner. This building is the honorary dormitory for the local culinary academy, $50,000 tuition for 15 months, but mine is the only room you can trace from the elevator. Hansel and Gretel follow the scent of cookies to the witch's home. I pretend that this is a home, although I suspect it is an oven which will send me, smoke, to the heavens.
Photos, embroidered pictures, throw pillows, stuffed bears. Art attached to the walls with push pins, not even hung. Shabby attempts in a shabby room. All transient. Does anyone notice the comings and goings of those who reside here? Does anyone notice me? Does anyone care?

Reefer Madness

Everybody wants to relive their mispent youth. Especially the parts they didn't actually get to live, the parts that exist in the memory of "shoulda/coulda/woulda". Even a bunch of staid attorneys can indulge in a moment of might have been.
Early 1970's
My dad and his cohorts were sitting in a diner one day, talking politics, law, dames, kids and all the other things men discuss that make life either worth living or worthless. That's what a bunch of 40-ish guys did back then, in New York. Nowadays, they'd play racket ball, golf, texas hold 'em or take a gourmet cooking class as a prelude to talk. Back then, the diner sufficed.
The discussion turned to the growing influence of NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. If any women had been present, a connection might have been made to NARAL, National Abortion Rights Action League, just a few letters and a million miles away. In the 1970's, though, no women were present at this political gathering. Just as well, a woman would have boxed their ears and sent them home with no dinner. And no story for me, lo! these many years later.
Most of the men present at this pale Algonquin shadow had served in World War II. They'd gone to college on the GI bill. They wanted better for their kids, that their kids shouldn't have to struggle like they did. So they sent their kinder off to the best colleges to be influenced by persons they wouldn't cross the street to kick.
The kids would come home, reeking of pot, and displaying various problems in their pants. The dads decided to fight fire with fire, to infiltrate the masses,discover the enemy by experiencing it. They were going to smoke some of that deadly weed and flush the rest! Yeah, right. Wanna buy a bridge? Cheap? Talk about after the fact justification!
How are they going to get the stuff? None of them have connections. It would be too embarrassing to ask their kids. So who? A lightbulb went off. One of the rounders suggested they ask the nice young man (NYM) from legal services, he must have access. He's got long hair. And a beard. And [OMG!!!!] pierced ears!
They make the approach by phone. Phone booth, not cell phone. There were no such things as cells, PC's, Starbucks, iPods back then or any of the other techno things we can't imagine living without. He agrees to catch up with them later in the week.
The pale Algonquins watch as NYM rolls a few joints, taps them, and passes them around. They dutifully smoke the joints, coughing and hacking. Some of these men haven't smoked a cigarette in years, let alone anything more...intriguing. They get giddy, hungry, giggly. After an hour or two, they agree to go home, that they will discuss it in the morning.
My dad comes home and sits at the kitchen table, relating the nights' misadventures to my mom. She makes him toast, coffee, more toast to settle the munchies. Carbo loading, but this is a sugar he'll have to digest slowly with the rest of the night. They talk about the risks of having approached an outsider, even if he is an attorney.
My oldest brother comes home, says hello to the pair of them. Our dad tells BB what happened and how it felt. Big Brother nods and continues to listen.
After a while, when our Dad has told the whole sordid tale, BB speaks He looked at my dad, lost in his oreos and toast.
"You know, dad, you didn't have to ask NYM for help. I could have helped you. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted, what you were thinking. Less risky than bringing in an outsider with little to lose and much to gain by reporting you. In any case, did you have a good time?"
My dad replied, "You could have gotten us some weed? How? Where? Why?"
Big Brother, "Of course I can. I'm in college."
Dad: "You smoke weed?"
Big Brother: "Gets me through the night in this crazy family."
Dad: "Umm, yeah. You smoke this stuff? You think its good?"
Mom: "You smoke marijuana? Doesn't that stuff make you crazy and psycho?"
Dad and Big Brother together: "Hey, this is guy talk. Leave it alone."
Dad: "So you smoke? You're not pulling my leg."
Big Brother: "Yep. Nope. Maybe soap. In any event, Dad, keep it in the family. You ever want more, just ask me. That's all. "
Dad: "Oh wow."
Poor Daddy. Attempting to recreate his youth brought him into sharp contact with the youthful life of his own kids. And he did not like it one bit. As for me, I prefer to have my senses altered by other endorphins. But what do I know about anything anyway?

House is Not A Home Pt II

"You should go."
"Go? Go where? Why? I love it here. I love you."
"It's time. I cannot protect you any more."
"You've always protected me."
"From the outside. But now you need protection from within."
"Within?"
"It grows here. In you, in me, in all of us. I cannot protect you from
yourself. Or from those you allow to abuse you."
"But House, what do you mean?" I start to cry. I cannot leave House.
House has been everything to me. I am closer to House, love House more
than...well, more than.
"How can you tell me to leave? You are my joy."
"I was your joy. Now I am just a place. And you will always be my joy.
But now, to you, I am a place of sadness and death. I do not see joy in you, do
not feel it. Not for a long while. You do not dance."
"You are my only joy."
"No."
"Yes."
"No. There is no joy. You have too much mourning. I cannot make you joyful
anymore."
"All my joys."
"Do not lie to me, beloved. I have become a sarcophagus to you. You used
to look at me... Now you look at me and see sorrow. Pain. Tears. And I cannot
keep you safe from yourself any longer."
"Oh House, what will I do?" I can't leave House. "Where will I go? Who
will love me as you do? Who will love you?"
"You will love. In time."
"No. No one. No thing. No more. No."
"Yes, beloved, you will. I know this. In time. But now you must go. The
dark grows in you. Perhaps a land of sunshine will burn it out of you, bring
the light back in. Perhaps."
"Perhaps not."
"Perhaps not. Still, you must try."
"I want to try here. I will heal here."
"There is too much here. You cannot mend here. You just can't."
"All can be mended."
"Yes..."
"Let me stay."
"No. You need more than I can give. All, but not in this case. Not now,
here."
I was silent. House was right. House was always right. The hurts in me
festered. The scabs, bandages, salves House placed on my wounds helped but did
not heal. And I needed to heal. Needed it desperately.
"What shall I do?"
House shrugged. "Do? Whatever you think will help, that's what you do.
Many things are possible."
"But how will I decide? What if I'm wrong..."
"Try again. Try them all. All the pathways are open so do not get yourself
set on one."
"Oh, House...."
"I will always be here for you. In you. You are my beloved and I see
myself through your eyes."
"House..."
"Shh. You will heal. Someday. But not here."
"Who will care for you? Love you?"
"You'll always love me. As for caring for me, you have made me strong. I
will care for me. I will care for whoever is here. But I cannot help you. You
are too broken. And my trying to fix you, breaks you more."
I look at House sadly. "House, please...."
House did not answer.
"House? Please, House.... Do not leave me. I am afraid and alone. Please,
House..."
Still no answer.
"House..."
All I heard was silence and the blood pounding in my head. I was alone.
Lonely. So lonely. The lonely after love is the loneliest of all.

House of Lies or The Truth is Too Strange

It was a lie from our first date. In fact, he didn't believe our first conversation. Does not bode well for a relationship does it? To have a potential boyfriend disbelieving you even before you've gone out. But that is what it was and that is what it remains. A lie from start to finish, in his head.

A Saturday in mid-February, 1974 about 11 am (a week or two after my 15th birthday)
"Hi. Would you like to go to the movies tonight?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I have the worst headache and I think I'd be really lousy company. If you want to take a chance, call me back later, maybe 3 or so. By then either I'll feel better or the headache will be killing me. But yeah, if I feel better, I'd like to go to the movies with you."
"Okkkkaaayyy. Then I guess I'll call you later." click
I hang up the phone, thinking to myself, that has got to be the worst line ever. He is never going to believe I have a headache. He is going to think I'm waiting for a better offer. I guess i just fucked this up before it started, didn't I?

Same day, about 3 pm
"So, you said to call you back about 3. Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, thanks. I took some aspirin and laid down. So if you still want to go to the movies, I'd really like that."
"Great. I'll pick you up around 7. What's your address?"

That Night
"So what gave you the headache?"
"I bet you won't believe it. I don't believe it."
"Oh come on, what?"
"Well, I went shopping with my mom early this morning. We were out on Church Avenue when this brick, a piece of the facade on the storefront, falls out and hits this guy on the head. Killed him. I got some of his blood spattered on me."
"WHAT?????"
"Hey, I said it was a strange morning. Now you know why I had a headache. Still want to go to the movies?"
"Um, yeah, I guess..."

10 years later... in a neighborhood clothing store many miles away
Carl: "So you're from Church Avenue?"
R: "Yeah, that's where I grew up."
Carl: "You ever shop at Dave's?"
R: "Oh all the time. I got my first bra there."
Carl: "You know about that guy that was killed?"
R: "Know about it? I got spattered with his blood. Scary. You know, he was the neighborhood homeless guy. He used to sweep in front of all the stores."
Carl: "It ruined Dave's business. Not the lawsuit, but he just felt so guilty about it."
R: "It was a real tragedy, but it wasn't his fault."
G: "You mean that story you told me about the brick was for real?"
R: "Yeah it was real. You mean you never believed me? You thought I could make something like that up? We've been going together for 10 years and you never believed me?" (voice rising to almost shriek level)
G: "Well....no. It was too weird."
R: "You thought I made that up? Oh my god."
Carl: " Let me get some popcorn. Round One!"
R: "You never believed me. Ever. Oh my god. Oh my god."
G: "I'm sorry?"

What does it mean when a guy thinks a girl is lying before the first date?
Will he ever believe her? Ever? And what does it say about him that he
would pursue someone he thinks is a lying cheating whore anyway?

House is Not A Home Pt I

While the terms are often used interchangeably, even synonymously, they are not the same. They don't feel the same. They don't taste the same. Think about it. The place you work may be in your home but it is not of your home. Whether it is a corner of a room, a desk, a separate wing, it is set apart from the overall living space, just as the segments of your mind fly off on their own, centripetal force flinging them hither and yon. So these terms form a funnel, the meaning of each more precise and yet more vague as the words shift from logical to emotional.
A building can be anything. It may be a house, it may contain your home, but it is a generic term for walls, floors, ceilings. It applies just as well to a castle as to a shed, chicken coop, multi-occupant apartment complex, shotgun duplex or waste disposal plant. It is a neutral word containing no emotional baggage. Nobody says, " This is my building" when pointing to their residence. Well, nobody except me. Because I lived in a building, not a home. When I feel kindly towards it, I say it is the house I used to live in, my former primary residence aka ‘the house of bad karma'. That at least indicates some ownership of it although not much. Only financial and legal ties, not emotional ones.
House? House is the first winnowing of the definition. House implies living space as opposed to commercial, farm, penal or storage space. It goes to the usage of the space. Can you say, "This jail is a house. This garage is a house." No. It fills your mouth with wrong. House will have sleeping, eating, bathing areas. The purpose of house is for people at rest, not things or activities. House provides the most basic shelter to any who have the key. Unless your name is House, in which case any who try to enter will find the doors locked tight. There is no key. My, that's a familiar feeling. Is House his own ‘house of bad karma'? Shall I send him a bonsai to care for, to warn him of pending evil?
Final term for today's lesson: Home. To quote Dorothy, "I want to go home." It is all anyone wants. To find the place that is not just shelter from the storms but shuts out the storms, gives safe haven, comfort. The place that never locks you out, but lets you in, keyless, naked and wraps you in warmth. Home goes to the essential and the existential. Home has nothing to do with a physical place and everything to do with velvet silver ropes that bind you to it. Do you have a home? Do I? Have I ever?
Many years ago, I searched for a house. Investment, shelter, tax advantages. All the usual logical claptrap which one needs to justify a big ticket item. I looked and looked, rejecting so many buildings, so many houses. Too small, too big, too crowded, too empty, too near, too far. I used every excuse that I did not even know was an excuse because I was looking for something else and didn't know it, was not aware what I searched for.
And then...
One day...
I opened the door. Saw a dusty mantle of a too small, too old, too many windows, too few baths house. With parquet floors. And it said, "I'm lonely. Please care for me and I will be your home. You will fill me and I will protect you." And I said, "Yes. I will love you. I will fill you with laughter and you will dry my tears."
I walked in, laid my head on that dusty mantle of that ugly little house. "I will make you my home. And I will love you and cherish you."
House replied, "I will be your home. You will be safe in me. I will protect you."
"I will paint you and make you beautiful."
"I feel beautiful already. For I am looking through your eyes at me. I see me as you see me. " and House was happy. "I will keep the evil outside, away."
"I will bring my friends here, House. I will fill your walls with good things, with joy and pleasure and shared pain."
House said, "Pain shared is lessened and joy shared is doubled."
I kissed the mantle. "I do."

And the realtor said, "Do? Do what? You like it? You haven't even seen the upstairs. Or the backyard or kitchen."
I replied, "I don't have to see it. Believing is seeing. I believe."
House smiled for the first time in many years. So I kissed it again.
Home. I was home.