Spindly legs and elbows sharp,
Strum them raw across the harp.
Silence save an echo faint,
Slowly seeps a coat of paint.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
CLARA, Pt. 4
“12 o’clock,” Elliot said, “Taking your lunch?”
Clara walked down the hall toward him. Her desire to stop at his desk struggled against the steady beat of her footsteps. She felt she was following, was controlled by the click, click, click, click. The space between Clara and Elliot closed and opened again. She had passed him.
“Your hands.”
She stopped. “My hands?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She clutched them to her chest.
“No.”
“They must be a sight.”
“Not at all. I was just—“
“I’ll go wash them--
“--just going to ask if you would like to borrow my handkerchief.”
Her shoulders jolted upward and hung, suspended. Clara didn’t turn around. Spoke tentatively.
“I wouldn’t want to soil it. Elliot.”
His name on her lips tipped her tongue in gold.
“It’s really not a problem…Clara.”
“No. Thank you. I’ll just stop by the washroom. Thank you for noticing. For..informing me, of the condition of my hands.”
The first sound of her heel on the tile put that entire encounter in the past. Ten paces away she could finally expel her breath. Elliot’s presence was in that air, she thought. She wished she could hold it in her lungs forever.
Clara walked down the hall toward him. Her desire to stop at his desk struggled against the steady beat of her footsteps. She felt she was following, was controlled by the click, click, click, click. The space between Clara and Elliot closed and opened again. She had passed him.
“Your hands.”
She stopped. “My hands?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She clutched them to her chest.
“No.”
“They must be a sight.”
“Not at all. I was just—“
“I’ll go wash them--
“--just going to ask if you would like to borrow my handkerchief.”
Her shoulders jolted upward and hung, suspended. Clara didn’t turn around. Spoke tentatively.
“I wouldn’t want to soil it. Elliot.”
His name on her lips tipped her tongue in gold.
“It’s really not a problem…Clara.”
“No. Thank you. I’ll just stop by the washroom. Thank you for noticing. For..informing me, of the condition of my hands.”
The first sound of her heel on the tile put that entire encounter in the past. Ten paces away she could finally expel her breath. Elliot’s presence was in that air, she thought. She wished she could hold it in her lungs forever.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Old and Unfinished
I leave my building with the intention of being free of intention. It is Sunday, the day I walk. There is never a purpose to Sunday walks. There is never a destination or a need for cardiovascular exercise. It is just the day I walk until I stop walking, which always conveniently coincides with the time I arrive back at home. It’s amazing how intelligent the body is once we stop thinking.
Intending to be intention-less, of course, is impossible. Being a goal, it automatically contradicts itself. But it’s un-attainability facilitates success. There is freedom in inevitable failure. So, I set out every Sunday morning to fail, without fail.
This Sunday morning, my failure precedes my walk. I have someplace to visit. There it is: intention. Well, darn, but that’s the thing about these walks. Failure is inconsequential because I have no intention! If I don’t make it there I will have succeeded in being intention-less and failed in arriving at my destination, and if I do make it there I will have succeeded in arriving at my destination and failed in being intention-less. It’s a lose-lose situation. Or, a win-win situation, depending on who you are. But the point is, regardless of where I go, this day will not be wasted because I will have walked. I probably shouldn’t think about this so much. I’ve just written three cyclical paragraphs revolving around nothing. It’s really a simple concept. The city is my Sunday sermon, and Laura Nyro wrote our hymn: “Sidewalk and pigeon, you look like a city, but you feel like religion to me”.
So, I tuck away my intention and let my senses lead me, which proves futile. My destination tints my walk one tiny, imperceptible shade lighter. It illuminates everyone I encounter on my journey, because this will be the day I walked to Shinran Shonin, and these will be the people I passed on the day I walked to Shinran Shonin.
I start off going East on Twelfth Street toward Broadway with a fat, goofy grin on my face. I smile at everyone. I even smile at the construction workers, an invitation for embarrassing whistles I am usually wary of handing out. But today I am feeling generous, and I am, after all, trespassing on their territory. That’s how I feel about all the people I pass, even if they are walking toward me as well. It seems as though this is their habitat. Because, to me, it is. In my memory, the man in the striped red hat and aged leather jacket will forever live in front of the police station. Of all the places along Twelfth Street, I happened to pass him here. It’s like one of those standardized test questions. If I travel east at S miles per hour starting at X:YZ AM, and he leaves his building at A:BC AM traveling west at Q miles per hour, we will meet D miles from my building. There are so many variables. There are no coincidences. This is his habitat. I smile at him, too, and think, “Hello, stranger. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. There, there now I’ve passed you. Will you remember my face?”.
From my experience, it seems that the old men are the most likely to smile back. Like this man, walking toward me with his gray hair flattened underneath a black beret. I love these old men. Their smiles hold secrets and gifts. They understand the power of a smile, but not the exceptional power of their unique breed of smile. They smile selflessly, effortlessly, without expectation. And I want to be married to them. I want to be old, with a husband who has grown old with me, who smiles like that. Will I love and appreciate those wrinkles when they reflect the wrinkles on my own face? I wonder, and before the thought is complete, the old man has passed me. Goodbye, old man.
People continue to pass me, and I fight the persistent impulse to change direction and walk with them. I want to know where they’re going. I have an infinite number of questions I would like to ask. It’s disappointing that this isn’t socially acceptable, and even more disappointing that I’m not willing to branch outside of behavior that is deemed “normal”. But there are other things I have free reign to question, to stare at, to touch. I can stroke the rough stone and read the fading graffiti. I can take the cool morning air inside of me and steal its oxygen. I can stand under the skeletal winter trees and scrutinize their layered trunks and branches. Without the perky leaves of spring or the golden leaves of fall, they are seen as ugly, incomplete, bare. Yet every year they decide to shed again, putting function before beauty and discovering the freedom of vulnerability. Their slender silhouettes reach toward the sky in praise or prayer, pleading or rejoicing. I hope they rejoice. I think they do.
Nature flaunts its vulnerability while animals, especially humans, hide it. I guess that’s how we’ve evolved. We are each a threat to the rest of the world. Every one of us has the potential to be permanently destructive. We’ve all experienced the power of words. Our bodies are bombs. There is untapped power in my hands. Power to manipulate, to destroy, to create. I am both intimidating and intimidated. I would never stand naked on the sidewalks of New York as these trees do annually. I am suddenly very aware of my clothes. I can feel where my soft khakis and sweater cling to my body. The wind, strangely warm for a February morning, pushes my pants against my legs, a constant reminder of my separation from the environment. I am the only stranger, I realize. This is tiring.
Intending to be intention-less, of course, is impossible. Being a goal, it automatically contradicts itself. But it’s un-attainability facilitates success. There is freedom in inevitable failure. So, I set out every Sunday morning to fail, without fail.
This Sunday morning, my failure precedes my walk. I have someplace to visit. There it is: intention. Well, darn, but that’s the thing about these walks. Failure is inconsequential because I have no intention! If I don’t make it there I will have succeeded in being intention-less and failed in arriving at my destination, and if I do make it there I will have succeeded in arriving at my destination and failed in being intention-less. It’s a lose-lose situation. Or, a win-win situation, depending on who you are. But the point is, regardless of where I go, this day will not be wasted because I will have walked. I probably shouldn’t think about this so much. I’ve just written three cyclical paragraphs revolving around nothing. It’s really a simple concept. The city is my Sunday sermon, and Laura Nyro wrote our hymn: “Sidewalk and pigeon, you look like a city, but you feel like religion to me”.
So, I tuck away my intention and let my senses lead me, which proves futile. My destination tints my walk one tiny, imperceptible shade lighter. It illuminates everyone I encounter on my journey, because this will be the day I walked to Shinran Shonin, and these will be the people I passed on the day I walked to Shinran Shonin.
I start off going East on Twelfth Street toward Broadway with a fat, goofy grin on my face. I smile at everyone. I even smile at the construction workers, an invitation for embarrassing whistles I am usually wary of handing out. But today I am feeling generous, and I am, after all, trespassing on their territory. That’s how I feel about all the people I pass, even if they are walking toward me as well. It seems as though this is their habitat. Because, to me, it is. In my memory, the man in the striped red hat and aged leather jacket will forever live in front of the police station. Of all the places along Twelfth Street, I happened to pass him here. It’s like one of those standardized test questions. If I travel east at S miles per hour starting at X:YZ AM, and he leaves his building at A:BC AM traveling west at Q miles per hour, we will meet D miles from my building. There are so many variables. There are no coincidences. This is his habitat. I smile at him, too, and think, “Hello, stranger. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. There, there now I’ve passed you. Will you remember my face?”.
From my experience, it seems that the old men are the most likely to smile back. Like this man, walking toward me with his gray hair flattened underneath a black beret. I love these old men. Their smiles hold secrets and gifts. They understand the power of a smile, but not the exceptional power of their unique breed of smile. They smile selflessly, effortlessly, without expectation. And I want to be married to them. I want to be old, with a husband who has grown old with me, who smiles like that. Will I love and appreciate those wrinkles when they reflect the wrinkles on my own face? I wonder, and before the thought is complete, the old man has passed me. Goodbye, old man.
People continue to pass me, and I fight the persistent impulse to change direction and walk with them. I want to know where they’re going. I have an infinite number of questions I would like to ask. It’s disappointing that this isn’t socially acceptable, and even more disappointing that I’m not willing to branch outside of behavior that is deemed “normal”. But there are other things I have free reign to question, to stare at, to touch. I can stroke the rough stone and read the fading graffiti. I can take the cool morning air inside of me and steal its oxygen. I can stand under the skeletal winter trees and scrutinize their layered trunks and branches. Without the perky leaves of spring or the golden leaves of fall, they are seen as ugly, incomplete, bare. Yet every year they decide to shed again, putting function before beauty and discovering the freedom of vulnerability. Their slender silhouettes reach toward the sky in praise or prayer, pleading or rejoicing. I hope they rejoice. I think they do.
Nature flaunts its vulnerability while animals, especially humans, hide it. I guess that’s how we’ve evolved. We are each a threat to the rest of the world. Every one of us has the potential to be permanently destructive. We’ve all experienced the power of words. Our bodies are bombs. There is untapped power in my hands. Power to manipulate, to destroy, to create. I am both intimidating and intimidated. I would never stand naked on the sidewalks of New York as these trees do annually. I am suddenly very aware of my clothes. I can feel where my soft khakis and sweater cling to my body. The wind, strangely warm for a February morning, pushes my pants against my legs, a constant reminder of my separation from the environment. I am the only stranger, I realize. This is tiring.
Late Victorians
"I study my body in the mirror. Physical revelation - nakedness - is no longer possible, cannot be desired, for the body is shrouded in meat and wears itself."
Richard Rodriguez
CLARA, Pt. 3
Work consisted of horizontal and vertical collections of paper. Clara filed. Clara stacked. She stacked files and filed stacks. She reorganized existing stacks and files. Some days she would transcribe documents onto a computer. On those days she lugged a basket of papers up to corporate. Supporting its weight with her left hip, she would carefully press “11” and wait for the elevator to groan shut and creak slowly up the long stretch of twelve floors. Clara kept her right finger hovering over the red “emergency” button, and her knees slightly bent. It was her belief that if the elevator should plummet, her best chance of survival was in countering the fall with a jump.
These mornings were both a welcome relief and a source of discomfort. A young man sat in a cubicle just outside of the elevators. His name was Elliot Fink.
“Good morning, Clara. Big stack today.”
“Hmph,” she would say, and walk toward the back of the office.
“Are you taking your lunch at 12:00 today, Clara?” he would ask, as she walked passed him.
And her shoes would click on the cold tile.
“Because I am. Taking my lunch at 12:00,” he would say.
And her shoes would click on the cold tile.
And his eyes would scan her, linger on her hair, the small of her back, the width of her hips persuading the limp fabric of her skirt to cling and then fall, cling and then fall, until her figure would disappear at a crook in the hall.
Elliot was a morning jogger, a book-a-day reader, a daily shaver, a bike-to-work rider, a fresh=faced, young accountant with an almost unhealthy, thoroughly consuming interest in the girl from the stacks who came up on Fridays. He watched her until she was gone, and then stared at his watch, urging it to turn more quickly. Clara always took her lunch at 12:00.
Around the corner, Clara let the box of papers rest between her hips and the wall, and gave her arms a rest. She clumsily brushed her hair out of her face with her back of her black, print-smudged hands. And, let her head nod into the plaster. “Yes, many papers today. Yes, quite a lot, Mr. Fink. Just look at my hands, sir. Like a coal miner’s, I always think.”
These mornings were both a welcome relief and a source of discomfort. A young man sat in a cubicle just outside of the elevators. His name was Elliot Fink.
“Good morning, Clara. Big stack today.”
“Hmph,” she would say, and walk toward the back of the office.
“Are you taking your lunch at 12:00 today, Clara?” he would ask, as she walked passed him.
And her shoes would click on the cold tile.
“Because I am. Taking my lunch at 12:00,” he would say.
And her shoes would click on the cold tile.
And his eyes would scan her, linger on her hair, the small of her back, the width of her hips persuading the limp fabric of her skirt to cling and then fall, cling and then fall, until her figure would disappear at a crook in the hall.
Elliot was a morning jogger, a book-a-day reader, a daily shaver, a bike-to-work rider, a fresh=faced, young accountant with an almost unhealthy, thoroughly consuming interest in the girl from the stacks who came up on Fridays. He watched her until she was gone, and then stared at his watch, urging it to turn more quickly. Clara always took her lunch at 12:00.
Around the corner, Clara let the box of papers rest between her hips and the wall, and gave her arms a rest. She clumsily brushed her hair out of her face with her back of her black, print-smudged hands. And, let her head nod into the plaster. “Yes, many papers today. Yes, quite a lot, Mr. Fink. Just look at my hands, sir. Like a coal miner’s, I always think.”
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
CLARA, Pt. 2
Clara loved failing to anticipate the end of a staircase. She would walk up in the evening with her eyes closed, blocking the urge to count the forty-two steps. If she succeeded in tricking herself, it resulted in an odd sensation of falling. Odd because her standing leg was still firmly planted on the last carpeted stair. The total displacement of her body was zero. But, the feeling of falling had nothing to do with loss of elevation. When she lifted her working leg up to the phantom step, Clara expected the solid wood floor to catch her. But it did not. And, she loved it. And, she appreciated it. The failure of the floor to rise up to greet her leg was a demonstration of everything she believed in. “Hmph,” she would say, confirmed in her notions.
A 5:30 am riser, a morning jogger, a three-whole-meals-a-day-er, a vitamin popper, a calendar user, a newspaper reader-- Clara had stacks of the Los Angeles Times dating back to January 7th, 1978 in her attic, right next to her back up set of encyclopedias and all her retired paper shredders (eleven). She had a hard-copy inventory of every item in her house down to the paperclip, and, for fear of losing a piece, she refused to lend out any of her precious Tupperware collection.
A 5:30 am riser, a morning jogger, a three-whole-meals-a-day-er, a vitamin popper, a calendar user, a newspaper reader-- Clara had stacks of the Los Angeles Times dating back to January 7th, 1978 in her attic, right next to her back up set of encyclopedias and all her retired paper shredders (eleven). She had a hard-copy inventory of every item in her house down to the paperclip, and, for fear of losing a piece, she refused to lend out any of her precious Tupperware collection.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
CLARA- Pt. 1
Clara had not spoken in three days. There was no bet money involved. She had not had dental surgery. She was not in mourning. No words pressed at her tongue. None pleaded with her lips. There was no reason, save the nonexistence of a reason to speak. To part her lips. To form sweet words with the pinkish mass in her mouth. To violate language with her fat, tepid slug. No, there was nothing pleasant about the idea in the slightest.
Without speech, her thoughts came very rarely. She went about her day almost entirely by habit. At five o’clock, Clara woke. At five and five she opened her eyes. Her windows faced the sunrise, and the morning light shone directly on them. But, the blinds were closed. She stared at the ceiling, her body still, collapsed, its weight completely surrendered to the mattress. At half past five, her alarm went off. Vivaldi’s “L’estate III”. It was the default ring. Her slight hand slipped out from under the cover and turned it off. By six and a quarter, Clara had run 4 miles, stretched, and sat down to breakfast of toast and coffee. By six-thirty, she was going upstairs to take a shower.
Without speech, her thoughts came very rarely. She went about her day almost entirely by habit. At five o’clock, Clara woke. At five and five she opened her eyes. Her windows faced the sunrise, and the morning light shone directly on them. But, the blinds were closed. She stared at the ceiling, her body still, collapsed, its weight completely surrendered to the mattress. At half past five, her alarm went off. Vivaldi’s “L’estate III”. It was the default ring. Her slight hand slipped out from under the cover and turned it off. By six and a quarter, Clara had run 4 miles, stretched, and sat down to breakfast of toast and coffee. By six-thirty, she was going upstairs to take a shower.
Franny and Zooey
"The voice at the other end came through again. 'I remember about the fifth time I ever went on 'Wise Child.' I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast--remember when he was in that cast? Anyway, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I went on the air again--all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than juts a couple times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and--I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made sense.'
Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. 'He told me, too,' she said into the phone. 'He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, one.' She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. 'I didn't ever picture her on the porch, but with very--you know--very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!'
'Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy...Are you listening?'
Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.
'I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret--Are you listening to me? There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know--listen to me, now--don't you know who the Fat Lady really is?...Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.'"
J.D. Salinger
Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. 'He told me, too,' she said into the phone. 'He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, one.' She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. 'I didn't ever picture her on the porch, but with very--you know--very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!'
'Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy...Are you listening?'
Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.
'I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret--Are you listening to me? There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know--listen to me, now--don't you know who the Fat Lady really is?...Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.'"
J.D. Salinger
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