Splendid, Part 4

I saw long lines of men falling over from disease and sickness, hordes of starving people who somehow failed at collective preservation falling by the second. I saw Laotian mothers and fathers caught in between conflicts, felled, as children watched in knowing predisposed silence in the water logged rice fields, shirtless, short and knotted from labor. I saw weeping troglodytes from the American suburbs as their devices failed and images could no longer sustain illusion as mud swallowed their gear and bodies and whimpering. I watched on as the waves on the shore lapped over fields of jellyfish flopping from the heat of the sea while sullen Tsunami survivors scraped the poison of the things from their fleshy ankles and elbows and genitals with long strips of palm which also cut like paper, thin and veiled and precise. I watched as angry Grackles tore at each other in swarms over the heat of diesel engines along the embankments of major freeways, smoking under a hot noon sun while drivers swayed and swatted at them from cabs and stacks of spilled cargo behind dessert masks, some exhausted and weak, coughing in the dust, some half cooked, slumped and smeared against the soft asphalt and gooey radials. Then I awoke. I got up and mindlessly set about a series of memorized gestures and tasks like cleaning teeth and wiping ass, and went to meet the boys who were out at the grounds making final preps for the opening which by the looks of the weather would not be well attended.

When I arrived the dawn had not yet come. I popped a beer and sat a distance away looking at the piece, straining to make out even a vague video image. Eric and I sat in silence as the night approached. Sterz remained standing, circling the grounds, slowly dragging his paralyzed right foot sideways over the uneven sod. As dusk arrived, the piece began to take shape. Pulses of movement faded into view until the whole thing was dancing sails, alive with movement behind a turbid veil of mist and drizzle, the fountain below adding the sound. I walked to the edge of the hill looking down across the landscape and settled back on the piece. Sterz approached, tossed his cane and gave a tight embrace with his head buried in my chest. He was pleased, this was success, it worked. Maybe twenty or so visitors came that night, most of them passing by on their way to and from university buildings or simply on a stroll across the grounds. We settled in to the nook near the back entrance of the building and sipped on beers and wine in shelter from the drizzle. Some moments pass and I break the silence, “This place has ghosts, there’s something here, there’s energy here.” I recalled my dream. Sterz says in his slow and ordered way, “I saw my son here before he was born. I was riding my bike, I remember it clearly, when I looked up and had a vision of him standing in Khaki shorts near a forest. Heather, of course, blew it off but I remember it clearly.” I smiled and let a knowing grunt of air escape my nostrils. “Yea?” “Yes,” he replied as he dug in the pocket of his jean jacket to get his wallet, popped it open and there was Calder against a tree in Kahki shorts, a picture he had taken within the month. Not but an hour ago he had showed it to old friends who came to visit when he recalled the vision. I grunt again and nod in solidarity and sip my beer. Eric looks over, nodding as well, “this is my favorite piece I think. This is a really beautiful.” Eric has installed a bunch of them from New York to Miami and back. “Thank you,” he responds. I round the bend to take a piss but get distracted by the toad hopping delightful along the cool damp concrete. Places where amphibians thrive feel right. It felt balanced.

I wished Sara was there and before her Alicia, I ached for it. I allowed this transgress and felt the absence hug my ribs as I stood pissing against the dark wall of the museum. My heart became heavy and I blamed the spirits. I smiled to fight it. On the way home we stopped at the Irish pub and I made paper roses for the girls and a couple of guys who seemed like they deserved it more. I order a plate of sweet potato fries which despite being on the menu actually offends the barkeep. The Irish are strange folks I thought and laugh to myself. Mack calls the Italian and the Irish “the niggers of Europe.” I laugh ‘cause it’s true, that’s the thing about stereotypes and because I’m Italian and because Mack feels comfortable enough to say such things. A few drinks and some well made roses in I get to talking to the girls at the end of the bar. I think they came with a couple of dudes but fuck it, I had a broken heart due to the over indulgent spirits and needed to talk to a woman to dispel the madness. Plus the dudes were dumb enough to leave them sitting there. “So what are you guys doing here?”, the more attractive girl sitting closest to me asks. I point to Sterz, “this man is an artist and we just installed his work at the Tang. This was opening night.” “Really!” she responds with mock enthusiasm. They were clearly unimpressed, not art lovers. “What are you doing here?" I ask. I’m a representative from Xerox and doing my usual rounds, my sister brought me here. She points to the girl next to her. “I gotta look out for her, that’s my job,” her sister adds. “How do you make those roses?” They like the roses. I laugh and think of Ellen. I think of her laugh and the viscosity of her cunt nectar, I was addicted to it, then look up still wearing a smirk and address the question, “I learned it from an Irish bartender in Jersey.” The thought of it made me think of sugary green shots with Everclear or some nasty shit delivered by girls in belly shirts and tight cutoff jean shorts. "Wanna learn?" They look eager. "Here, grab a bev nap." We begin the rose lesson which is going well until the sister’s guy returns and kind of ruins the vibe. “So what are you guys doing here?” She asks the question again, being drunk and short of memory and a little bit taken with the attention. I ask Sterz for a card and hand it to her. “What’s this?” she says intending to be feisty and flirty but it comes out as crass. She continues, “I’m supposed to go to this website and find stuff out?” I imagine her in Xerox marketing meetings barking at the new trainees, sorority girls recruited through ties to business, connections made generations prior. Sterz reaches back and snaps the card away which produces a rolling laugh among the boys. She gives it another go in attempts to save the conversation, “I just mean what am I supposed to do with that?” Sterz’ card is simple, just the website. It comes off as more crass even though the poor girl clearly wanted to restore the peace. “And what am I supposed to do with this?” She looks at her poorly constructed rose, the result of the lesson which I never got to finish. “I dunno, maybe you could Xerox it,” I quip with a smile and leave to have a smoke.

When I return, the girls are gone and the boys are sipping down the bottom third of a mug. We settle up and return to camp Community Court, spirits continuing to swoop and dive at my memory like owls hunting rodents. Sara sends a text in the early morning hours, it reads – Goodnight baby, I love you. It feels good, like a cloak as I fall into a restless sleep.

Splendid, Part 3

Umbrellas. It was my first thought and last on the equipment issue. Umbrellas have the right shape and really don’t interfere with the aesthetic. Preferably we’d get assistants to hold the umbrellas if and when the rain came. Eric mentioned Yost was in town, Yost is an organizer and would definitely be connected to the artists if anyone was. We called him on the issue but needed a backup plan just in case. This was the day of the event and the summer so who knows if anyone would be around. Sterz and I go to find the right umbrellas, he mentions black and golf. We need the things to cover a rather wide distance and be durable enough to handle a moderate wind if staked properly. We head out.

The cell phone rings. It’s Mack. I answer, “Mack, Tell me you’re in Tennessee?” Mack had a family reunion in Tennessee, southern black folk style catered deal, something like a couple hundred people. He’s broke and generally not a traveler so even 3 days away is a stress factory for him. He almost didn’t go, right down to the wire so I was eager to hear the answer. “Dude, I’m never taking Greyhound again.” Shit, he took a bus. “I could have warned you, it’d have probably been cheaper if you rented a car.” But I knew he didn’t drive much and the city is in his blood and all that distance is scary especially when entering the South, especially if you’re black (or so I’ve been told), whether it’s justified or not. “It took us 26 hours to get here after the bus got a flat. We were in the fucking hills of Kentucky when the thing blew out. Adrian and I got out, smoked a blunt and waited for like six hours for another bus to come. Fuck that.” In the same breath you could hear the excitement. That is what travel is, good stories both horrific and glorious. “Now that we’re here, it’s awesome. You wouldn’t believe what they got here. Everything you could imagine. I’m about to head into this store where they sell JUST KNIVES and SWORDS. It’s like the size of a Walmart. And later I’m going to this go-cart track with TEN MILES of track, TEN MILES.” “Jesus,” I respond. I just wanted to listen, I’ve never heard Mack this excited, he was like a kid in a candy shop. “I just came out of this place where they had a confederate flag, lemme see, it said, the ‘South in my blood, a Yankee in my cud’ or something like that, I couldn’t believe it, it was so prejudice, I had to take a picture. The guy was like, ‘Where are you from?’ (for this Mack puts on a southern drawl) and I said ‘New York’ and he was like, ‘you’re a long way from home?’” “Damn,” I respond between breaths. “Yea, he turned out to be a nice guy but I couldn’t believe this thing. I got a picture so I’ll show you in a few days. I couldn’t believe it.” “How’s the family?” “Oh my god, there’s something like two hundred and forty people here, its unreal. The whole thing’s catered but you should see the amount of food just for our family, like huge vats of ribs and what not. It’s kind of awesome to think about it, that all these people are related to me.” I started thinking about my family reunions and the general lack of them and how even if there was one it would be based on the top bracket income folks n shit so it doesn’t happen or it gets to be too much trouble for the family that hosts. “It must be awesome.” “It is,” Mack says with a pause for reflection then gets right back to present. “I’m gonna get going into this shop but I’ll give you a call in a few days and show you shit. I gotta work this greyhound deal out, there’s no way I’m getting back on a bus. They’re insane, I can’t believe anyone would pay for a service like that.” “Next time we’ll drive. Hell, I’ll drive,” I say. “Yea, we gotta take a long weekend and drive down here soon.” “Stay an extra day or two if you can.” “I’ll see.” “Alright, go buy a gay blade.” I always use this gay blade line thinking myself so clever. Mack digs for a response, “I’ll look, I think they keep those in the basement.” We hang up and I see that Sterz has been waiting patiently. He adds, “This is so gay,” with a smile and and bit of a laugh because we were certain to succeed in the hunt for black umbrellas and because we were out of Rochester and because we were having an adventure. First stop, Targét. Last stop, Targét. We found exactly what was needed after only a few rounds and some directions from a hot chic.

Splendid, Part 2

Eric’s an excellent assistant. He’s also the vessel for a plethora of bizarre behavior and copious drug intake, seasonal. He’ll troubleshoot a difficult software issue or suggest an unseen elegance to a persistent problem only to drop the HD camera because he forgets to check the safety lock. Stuff like that. It’s the square one phenomenon. Worktime celebration is a veritable roller coaster but mostly good so we power on together because, well, is none of us perfect. For example, Sterz can barely go a meal without a special request or return of an item or entree. He’s focused on his palette to a degree unmatched in other humans. If the wings are too mild, they go back, if the eggs are dry, the Maitre de is notified, if the drink is sloppy or weak the barkeep is shamed. Also, each and all sauce and spice must be delivered at four to five times the house standard, nay the house maximum, and this is usual practice. It is simply what ought to be expected when dining with the Sterz. So Eric has some wiggle room, plus he’s twenty years younger and a learning curve is applied and tolerated. In this spirit, after the first day’s work we go for drink and end up with a six pack back at the Saratoga Community Court Motel, a real shithole who’s only redeeming quality is location. Eric, however, buys a bottle of cheap whiskey to augment the beers, drinks three quarters of the damn thing by midnight and busts out his cell phone to ‘make some calls’ and text madly. I don’t say a word, just observe and answer questions by raising eyebrows and nodding repeatedly with pursed lips in a gesture of acknowledgment. Like I say, he shoots straight for the most part, even in debauchery. This is a guy who actually made the call before proceeding on his drunkest night ever. It was shortly after my separation when I believed all marital problem shit was going to smooth over with a few prayers to Jesus when I alternatively crashed at his place to avoid the isolation and shame of the cold cushionless studio floor. He was dealing with unruly roommates and various woman problems so we headed to the local hipster dive where he announced, “I’m going to get more drunk than I’ve ever been in my entire life.” “OK,” I reply with the raised eyebrow, pursed lips and a nod. And this he did, downed some six strong long island iced teas and a few shots in record time. I literally had to carry him out of the place due to failed motor capacity and blindness. Once back at the apartment I waited two hours with him in the car for his girl to show up because I feared he would choke on vomit. He survived and I give him credit for calling it. This night, he paced the drinking so I wasn’t too worried about a repeat.

For privacy, Eric heads to the car as not to bother Sterz already lounged out for the night intent on the food network programs. A few hours pass and you can still hear the boy yapping away. No sense to it really, if he was keeping us awake, he was keeping others awake. There was some type of commotion, laughter, broken English being spoken when we hear the car start. “Thank you, Thank you,” Eric says. “Where you from?” “New Jersey, no kiddin’, me too. Way small world, way small world.” It was a classic bit, including the Jersey standard of asking “what exit?” to refer to home or travel and full discussion of traffic and gas prices on the turnpike and/or parkway on the way out of town. So classic in fact that Sterz and I laugh audibly.

A short time later Eric pokes his head in the room. It’s dark except for the pale television flicker. “I’m going to drive around a while to charge up my mom’s battery,” then promptly closes the door without waiting for reply. He had just received a jump from a late arriving traveler which became necessary because he sat talking on his charging cell phone in the car with the parking lights on while listening to the radio for the two hours prior to his announcement. We had driven his car down (which was actually his mother’s car) because it had the necessary room to accommodate three along with equipment and the van was a lot less comfortable. This plan he had for driving around sounded like a bad idea especially since he currently was driving on a suspended license and well beyond the legal alcohol limit AND all the display equipment for the piece was currently in the trunk of the car. Sterz promptly struggled out of bed, swung open the door to a flood of light from the headlamps on his naked body, “I’d prefer if you didn’t drive around. The equipment.” To which Eric responds, “oh yea, that’s right, OK, I’ll just let it run for a while here and hang out here.” And that’s what he did. Sterz and I traded jokes about him getting a DUI right there in the parking lot before nodding off. Hell, with Eric’s frequent lapse of common sense and the clear disturbance already caused we gave it a 50/50 chance he’d be hauled in by morning. I awoke about 4:30AM to the intermittent hum of the cooling fan, got up and turned the car off myself as he slept soundly slouched over the wheel like a slain gangster.

The next morning we swap Eric to a bed, let him sleep it off and return to the installation grounds to inspect the piece for weather damage. If all was well, Eric would be right as rain by show time and even if not, he’s never shirked work for a hangover.

Splendid, Part 1

We arrive midday in Saratoga at the Tang Museum to an overcast sky and a general confusion by the staff about the needs of an outdoor installation artist. This is typical. In precise and direct language Sterz repeats his needs and before long we are ready to prep the grounds for setup. The rain is the most difficult part but not impossible which requires a necessary solution, how to protect the electronics, three projectors and DVDs, from moisture in the elements or the piece can’t run. No panic, just a sustained effort in audible banter about what may work. We needed supplies anyway so head to the home depot to get them and seek solutions. Plastic was the first choice but I loathe synthetics unless necessary for electronic display and even then it’s an aesthetic or presence problem. We looked at plastic bins, lids, drains and flashings to cover the sizes necessary. After sweeping the entire store, Sterz, Eric and I make off with the necessities but without equipment cover. We have a day to solve it.

Back at the grounds, in a light drizzle, we hammer the copper stakes down with some difficulty into the shallow shale and limestone soil and erect the sails for projection when the cellphone rings. “Unknown Call,” which could mean mom or creditors. I answer. “Dan.” It’s mom. “Hi mom. I’m in Saratoga at the moment installing a Sterz piece in the most beautiful surroundings. There’s baby Ducks walking all through our work, fearless little guys, you would love it.” There were actually two families of Ducks from the pond below who were unfazed by our pounding and sort of swarmed around our work site to look on and check out the action. It was magic and I couldn’t think of anyone more excellent to share it with. “Oh, I need something like that right now.” She’s crying and I could hear it. My heart dropped. “What’s wrong mom?” “There’s an explosion in New York and I’m just worried. Peter lives in midtown now now and I never know where you are and.” I interrupt, “what are they saying?” “Nothing conclusive yet, I just worry and,” she sniffles a bit which drops my heart. A man can take torture and divorce and all sorts of abuse but a mother crying sets off a whole flood of chemistry. I listen. “Nothing’s conclusive, they’re saying it’s a steam pipe but no one knows if it’s terrorism or if anyone got hurt. No one is saying.” She says this in a level headed sort of way, nothing hysterical but still the tears get to me. I tell the boys, who look concerned but continue working. Mom’s struggled with a whole bunch of life changes and the reality of life in the greater NYC area is tense. For most people it is tense. So tense in fact that even the liberal bastards like me won’t tolerate another single incident that’ll bring the house down and make my mother cry for Christ’s sake. That’s the deal in my heart now, come and help and be a part of making something better or don’t come. Especially don’t come to destroy shit. Same goes for US policy, don’t send out bombs to wreck shit unless you are absolutely sure that it’s surgical. Fighting cancer is a reality so I gotta keep lines open, even for military. “Well, keep me informed and I’ll call back at the hotel.” “I’ll probably not know much more because they’re not saying anything but I’ll call if so. But I called to let you know that I sent a check out. It’s not much but it’ll help you get through the summer.” My heart drops lower. I need it. “Thank you. I’ll look for it.” It’s well past the age where I can comfortably ask for help from family but my Mother always knows. The last check I never cashed but this one I’m going to need. I’m stunned. She’s crying as much because of the descriptions of our days work as for the anxiety over potential violence in the city. Her actions are awash with goodness. “OK, I’ll call if I hear anything.” “Ok. I love you.” And I head back to the task at hand which produced a fine blister on my right pointer finger.

Later I ask Sterz what he was thinking. He replies, “I was thinking, the terrorists have to be the best terrorists they can be, the ducks have to be the best ducks they can be and I have to be the best artist I can be. So I continue working.” They are good words. We move back to problem solving mode and go find a good bar.

lions at a feast

Perched on stools near the end of the bar Sterz and the boy devour an order of Buffalo wings. It's a sight straight out of the Serengeti, two beasts focused on the fresh kill, sauce and scraps all over, lions satiating a roiling hunger. I watch it like a nature film until Sterz grunts for me to join in. I'm not hungry but accept anyway as not to disturb the feast. I pour more beer. The boy eats well for once and doesn’t require any encouragement; Sterz notices too and encourages him in turn. “I’m proud of you.” “Why Papa?” “Because you ate well tonight.” The boy takes another bite. They both look pleased.

Just beyond the feast three men ordered pitchers of beers raucously and a fourth sits a bit to the side looking forlorn but putting a good face on. Sterz gleaned from their conversation prior that the fourth was a son and brother of the others and heading back to Iraq for a second tour of duty in a few days, this was their farewell celebration. When we first entered the bar, the boy immediately ran to make friends with the guys at the video machines while we sat at the center island where we could keep an eye on him. We moved to the bar proper after feeling swarmed and annoyed at the volume and stupidity of the conversation. It was early evening, much too soon for horse shit. The bartender, a gorgeous young woman wearing a low cut red number whose hair lifted with cinematic elegance each time the door opened was also visibly annoyed with the noise. It was better to sit and watch her anyway. The guys causing the raucous clearly didn’t frequent the bar. They were behaving as they would in their neighborhood and made no apologies about how they did things, a point I wouldn’t normally protest except for the honored guest’s demeanor which projected a competency his family hadn’t ever learned. “No. No man, fuck her, let the bitch wait. She gonna act up, let her wait!” One brother says to the other loud enough for the whole bar to hear. They suggest moving the party elsewhere. The father responds. “Hell no, I ain’t going there, there ain’t no females there.” Again, for all the bar to hear. Two of the guys are on cell phones talking loudly and the father is talking over them. It’s nearly impossible to determine who is talking to whom. They take frequent trips in and out of the bar and the whole mess seems unorganized. They’re waiting for the women to show up. The soldier waits quietly and patiently then disappears to the restroom while the others order another round. He returns some time later. There’s a cadence to the speech that makes it hard to follow despite the volume. A few years back I’d have felt embarrassed for them or pissed at the artless babble but now I just watch. I feel for the soldier and the distance that his discipline has rendered. The others seem oblivious to it, but he doesn’t. It’s visible in his expression and the false smile he dons for their humor. Between drinks the soldier stares into a glass of water or scans the television screens feigning interest in the scores. As the father gets more drunk he paces and shakes his head in bursts of laughter before settling back at his stool, an uncomfortable distance from his son to the left. Over the course of the evening Sterz and I observe this without discussing it much. If the soldier survives his next deployment and I assume he will, the real battle will be coming home again to a world which can’t really celebrate his changes or worse, doesn’t want to.

At the bar, the boy returns to his new friends in the back and another drunk stumbles in and sits where the boy had been. “I’m gay.” I look up and he’s looking right at me. “How’s that going for you?” “I just want to be loved,” he adds swaying a bit from drunkenness. “Don’t we all.” “Well I’m straight but it hasn’t exactly been easy in that department for what it’s worth.” Sterz adds in, “I’m bi. I just haven’t found the right lover yet.” The man reaches out and grabs Sterz’ hand and he allows it. I look to Sterz, “I can watch the boy if ever you want to explore some possibilities.” “Um, Can you watch him tonight?” he quips with a smirk. We laugh. “Sure, why the hell not.” It’s pride week in Rochester so we’ve been getting a fair amount of come-ons from men. I imagine most of our haunts assume Sterz and I are a couple, it’s always just us, occasionally with the boy and I’m usually attending to him in some way like patiently holding the door while scanning the floor for dangers, helping him onto barstools or picking him up from a fall when we’re drinking the hard stuff. Plus my whole look is ambiguous, shaved head, sandals, toned from exercise, plain white t-shirts, fashionable jeans, approachable. Fags and women like it, straight guys don’t. Fuck ‘em. But after a nice start to an interesting conversation, the guy starts talking and ruins any small window of opportunity with a lame ass story about kids after he makes the connection that Sterz is the father of the only 5 year old in the bar. He leaves after a few more lame attempts. A second drunk fills the spot but this one’s silent. A bar back approaches. “Is that your son in back?” He’s looking at me, not because he thinks I’m the boy’s father rather because it’s easier to talk to me than to the cripple. I look to Sterz to answer which is my usual procedure. He answers, “Yup.” “It’s just that it’s getting late and usually we don’t allow kids in here after nine but I’ll keep an eye on him. Those guys back there get to drinking and cussing and like to fight one another so usually it’s not good for kids to be back there after nine. But I'll keep an eye on him for you,” he repeats from nervousness. I sit unfazed and pour the rest of the pitcher. Sterz nods to the bar back who looks a bit nervous about having offended him. We sip the beer for a moment in thought until he leaves. I look to Sterz, he nods, “Go get him.” We finish our beers and leave, the boy exchanging goodbyes with his new friends on the way out past the center island where the soldier sits sober among his drunken family.

confessionals 1 - passivity is a knife

“Babe!” I look up from my drink at Sara across the patio table. It’s late and we’re eating a slice of pizza under a perfect sky. The night is cool, for the first time in days. “You don’t love me anymore,” she says with half mocked exclamation. “C’mon, that’s not true. You know what I’m doing; Thinking.” Stories bubbled by and I wasn’t writing them down. Or more accurately, specific phrases passed through consciousness and I felt anxiety about losing them. I just sat there remembering. “Baaaaabe!” She repeats. I smile. She knows better but this is our game. Goose (Dick Balls) is with us. He finds a rat and goes after it, up the nearby stairs, through the railing post and runs out of leash so he just kind of dangles there by his neck, Sara attends to it and I’m left thinking.

A few weeks back I slapped her across the cheek and bloodied her lip. I didn’t even know until the next day and then I felt embarrassed and ashamed. Sort of. It’s our agreement to hit each other, actually it’s probably the reason why we’re still dating. The idea is, we get drunk and hit each other in public. Hard. She initiated the behavior and I liked it. It worked well in the beginning when everything was new and I honestly believed these were my last days of life, might as well feel it. Seemed a perfectly natural response to life in Rochester. It worked except for the occasions when we’d show up at a friend’s place and shit went down. We didn’t get invited back very often except to the bikers’ place, no problems there. As long as we awoke and left sometime the next day and even then we never really put it to the test. These were the early days when she couldn’t get enough sex or danger. That was our path to love I suppose, which seemed a better bet than my former attempts which included unnatural anxieties, unrealizable dreams and extended courting. Yuppie dating just plain doesn’t work for beasts and we’re beasts. Most of us are, if not all. Agreements are all that is necessary and this we had. Somehow our agreement faded as Sara’s sobriety increased. The courts have this affect on anarchists but that’s another story.

Once, while living in Wyoming, shortly after my nows faded and debunk marriage began, I was left by my wife to transport our belongings across town to a new apartment solo. She had been out of town for a performance and decided to stay some extra days in Utah after. I was far too permissive and there were no agreements so that’s what happened. When she finally did get back to town she immediately fell into a depression about the move and clammed up, no discussion, no explanation, no sex. The kind of depression that clearly has a source but isn’t processed as such. The kind of depression where no resolutions are possible. She has this type of depression, the unaccountable kind and I felt, at the time, that I did too with additional doses of pureform anxiety. My response to this perceived injustice, after many similar like it, was to trash the place like a brutish cyclone. I piled everything high in the center of the open studio and poured our good white wine all over it. Most of ‘it’ was books, my books. I wanted to slap her but didn’t, no agreement, so I hit myself instead, nasty surgical jabs to the jaw and torso. I had no clue what I intended to accomplish but it’s safe to say that ‘plans’ were not a part of the process. There were tears of frustration, the psychologist was called, who arrived promptly to the vision of me cowering in the tub with hands on temples and the whole damn place smelling like stale chardonnay. In small towns word gets out and rightly so. She left for a week and I felt ten times worse. The whole event left me so traumatized that I decided never to trash property again. I apologized to her and dealt with my shit, moved on. It’s likely the most shameful moment of my life. I learned then that no one human is ever right. I try to keep this in mind while tossing insults. Clearly something was justified, it just wasn’t this. Goal not accomplished, damage done. It probably should have ended there but we were married and I was entirely committed, faults and all. It never happened again nor will it. When we busted up for good she cited this as an excuse to kick me out and keep me out. I honored it but I know it was simply a device she used to mask her affair. I’ve often thought, I should have beaten the shit out of her, but again, no agreement. Can’t accomplish much without agreements. Passivity is a knife.

Rochestarians

“Excuse Me.” The man walking past looks up from his thoughts in his desert fatigues passing at a decent clip through the airport. “Thank you.” She’s an attractive blonde and has the look of a mother in her late twenties. He nods and walks on. I heard, lounged next to the monitor repeating CNN headlines, and look up to assess the scene. There’s a lot of soldiers here I noticed upon deplaning. Now being a Northerner, a New Yorker, liberal and against the war, I’m tempted to pass judgment, maybe huff to myself, send a text or two with veiled comments about my freedom and theirs. Rather, for the moment, I choke back the desire to weep. Some liberal. I was glad she said something. I watched the soldiers pass for a while. So this is Texas. They’re right, everything’s huge and the flight here was longer than expected as we flew far west and back toward Dallas to avoid the storm heads. The flooding was visible. The land bloated. I managed a few conversations, mostly on the sheer size of the airport and the distance between gates lugging bags. I had three hours between flights and really didn’t mind. I was glad for the conversation.

The three hours turned to six after boarding the final flight and prompt deplaning when some kids clogged the toilet irreparably before we even left the tarmac. We moved to another gate and I sat with the Rochesterians waiting to go home. They are plump and snacking with pleated pants and faded Polo’s. The women gew out with faded winter flesh. We are, by all accounts, a most diverse lot, Asian, Caucasian, African, black, brown, white, mixed. They feel distant. They wear frowns. There’s at least three children in view. They too wear frowns but also bounce and frolic. I smile at the children especially at the chubby one who prodigiously walk and hops on his toes and heals between giggles and crawls over the faux leather seating.

When finally we board the plane I’m ready to be home. We’re ready to be home. The airport pizza gave me gas and I squirmed uncomfortably the entire ride. When we touched down it was midnight and I was strangely awake despite the nearly twenty hour travel day so Sara and I head directly for the bar. The city looks dirty and the bar dangerous. These aren’t mountain yuppies and by the looks of the crowd they are glad it’s Friday night. We smoke a few cigs and kiss before heading to the North end bars. The dog in the car continues yapping at all the passers-by and at the bouncer who started yapping back when we pulled up. I warned him he wouldn’t quite if provoked and he didn’t.

It wasn’t but a drink in at that North end bar before some dudes get into it. “I’m talking about 30 million WHITE babies being murdered every year.” I look around. We’re all white so he felt the privilege. The dude he’s arguing with is noticeably larger and both are drunk. “If god wanted you to suck dick he’d have written it in his word but it’s not there. That gay shit is depravity against god.” The man protests and they are toe to toe now. I wish I could say this one was fiction, that it doesn’t actually go down like this but it does. This is us, I keep thinking. Just a tiny splattering. I look over at Sara who raises her eyebrows back. She’s a player, I think. She’s survived this shit and dumb ass brothers and all sorts of judgments flailing about. If I were to step up and throw down I know two things would happen. One, it would accomplish nothing and two, Sara would play the situation. She always plays the situation. For this I am both grateful and wary. 2PM rolled by, the bar closed, the men quit their bickering and we drove back to the apartment and made love. It’s home by I keep thinking, I’m not sure for how long.

in re: Vegas

what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...

joy

The first thing that I noticed in Arizona was not the local culture. By local culture I mean impatient liberal responses to burning questions of our day like how much gas an SUV consumes, and, if it’s rude or not to text message, and, why weed should be legal. These conversations begin timidly at first and then quickly devolve into major posturing. “You’re gonna think I’m nuts.” This is the driver of the shuttle North from Phoenix up Interstate 17 150 miles to Flagstaff, a retired man with a trim peppered beard, looking younger than his years. (A fact of which he was proud because he told me his age, 61, though I didn’t ask.) His phishing proved me a non-threat so he shared some of his liberal views. “You’re gonna think I’m nuts, but I think they should stop everything for an entire year. No new laws, no new legislation, no elections, no policing the world, no more building, no more roads, no new cars, if you need a new car you have to buy a used one. Just take an entire year to think about it and take stock of what we got.” He was right, I thought he was nuts, but it seemed a sound plan. When I hear such plans in the wide open country while simultaneously awestruck by the utter raw beauty of it, even in the 110 degree heat, I think, “The world is good. People care. I’ll just stay here. I can just stay here.” The thought felt so conscious I told him so, “maybe I’ll fall in love with the place and stay.” “Many people do,” he responds. Then I thought of a boy I saw on that ten mile walk to the lake I made a week back when anger hit my blood and nearly unloaded. The boy walked lazily between loiterers and panhandlers along the ghetto plaza with a half eaten fast food burger and a jug of water. When done he tossed the whole mess right there on the street, no bones. No one raised a concern, not even from the nearby homeowner scraping paint from his railing. That boy lives on those streets, navigates them, had to learn and live through them. His immediate utopia, omitting the transgress, evidenced by his piers navigating those same streets would likely be immediate procurement of gas consuming SUV supped to the nines, and a fat wallet permitting free roaming access through the social stratum, the local one, familiar ones, those streets, and maybe Atlanta where his sister took him once by plane when he was eight. In the west, movement is enough, burn down the rest save for the gear shops. Nope, no chance the drivers plans’ll go down; he’s outnumbered by the poor in distant cities never mind the economic elite polluting the wilderness with subdivisions. One can dream. But before all that, before I make judgments and notice the brown skinned people, the Navajos or the sun baked burnouts, I notice that the people here are kind. Here, there exists a genuine and sustained attitude of service to fellow man. It alters ones approach. And as I saw my friend for the first time in over six years, we embrace, I smile huge and tell him without reservation, and with honest sincerity, “Brother, I must tell you, I feel… joy.”

ports