The Love Artist—4

00034:307:13

But I didn’t mean to show you both sides right away. It’s immature, I know, the sign of a shortened span —and’ve no real right to be heard. But what else? —What else my dear recovering modernists? my little pre-presentists? —my post-person, post, post —post office modernians? —Überlectuals of the Left Coast. —What my sweet and lovely Intimists? Who else has the courage to cut his own throat—out of love and not hate? —to die every day in the same shit? —With no knowledge of rebirth? —Nowhere even. Where are the monks combusting over raped and pillaged dreams? —disturbed feathers of humanity’s spoiled intentions? Eyeballs? Dirt even! Where are my fucking people? My fuckin peeps! —The Political Action Committee Pioneers!? I know you’re ready for the technicians to be gone, for everything to take a backseat—for the experts to die of their own disease —but who’s ready to incubate the new germ!? —To stop killing and let wilt from inattention? To plow under and ignore for nitrogen alone? You didn’t think we’d live in space did you? —Sneaky liberals! I breathe on my fingers for time, I don’t know what it is—correct sequence, right combination—I only know what I had, what I have, —that I’m homesick as fuck, and fuck... —and movement’s a must. —My muscles and weak heart protest of course, —flailing wildly to keep up —I want slow, I want slow myself: rest, —stop —Fuck —but there is but one life—and that, my dear, is one of action—flailing, sloppy, corny action.

> > >

And so I remember—and disserve my heart to go on—my love has left me, my father dead, and I, —I walked the streets alone. But tonight I can’t, —am confused, couldn’t—the grief was for me! I remembered, yes, thank god, I remembered —I remembered I can scratch Post-it notes if she must kill me off in her —withdraw from me her geometric thighs and diamond smile —thwart my tongue and reflected guts. That I can plaster fire hydrants with the graffiti that litters India: ‘Children are my god’! —That I can erupt into the pure night itself if there is no love nor knowledge to pass down. Listen to Orpheuss: ‘Throw it out like you did for her, open your arms to the wind’ —my loop is not closed now—is more abstract and grand—my chemicals leap and spill without cause like blood released from the censorship of a loving vein.. —I remember her tongue held a dent and I pulled without mercy kisses from her face—hard, copious, greedy; greedy in covering each breast and her glorious stomach, ears and shaped cheeks like Polynesian water, Wine. —and what gave me joy—and what gives it now—was that I could! Not how she felt! Not that I was! —That I could! That I could! —O, that I can! That I can. I can. —And will, —my pail has been withdrawn, yes, become larger, yes, —more ugly and rusted—yes and yes—but no one arrests this torrent save me. My target is frustrated, my loop more abstract—of course!, yes! —to keep me human —to keep me pure —yes —it’s not as warm when I bathe—yes, lovely —everything, yes —Yes!—but I don’t have to shut it down! —Let her cry and wonder what right we had to stop such lovely singing—it’s bask or freeze up in this motherfucker!:

I remember, too, the first time I realized it might take my whole life. A different woman, of course—all the vowel my consonant—my constant—ass needed —she was gorgeous, soothing, whip-smart; Fly.

—Okay, she wasn’t soothing, but that’s the price you pay for alive these days —which soothes me —it’s not right I know—but her laugh was the kind you believe in a photograph, the kind with rounded edges and wrinkled eyes that you look over one day at and realize that everything turned out okay. —Which I seem to vastly prefer to the stillborn, the underwater—the like me—and learning how to walk and indefinitely, maybe, —well, whatever —shit.

Watching her I winced—frozen—I had to shut one eye to operate. For less movement she got more—further. And her grace gave nothing to the desire and envy she was forced to live within—that surrounded her in hearts and with loaded eyes. —Effect was none her business —so pure was her cause.

I met her before I knew any of this, though, and in retrospect it’s easy to see —what to see —She liked me, and every tale I told touched her more deeply and elicited a slight purr. I thought it would be all I could do to step up —to meet demand; but here, Dear Reader, I will bear your scorn I’m afraid, for it is here that I admit that she, the woman with whom I start—well almost start—my greatest effort neither left nor wronged me. —She never even kissed me back. My lips touched her cheek once—like a goodbye kiss in black and white after a stumbling attempt on my part to say goodnight like I meant it.

I had asked her—a huge mistake in my business—but it was after what had been a great ride —She had been the one flirting, and grabbing at stop lights —who put her hands in my pockets, talking into my helmet—what’s a man supposed to do?

I screwed up my courage and asked her: “D’yu wanna kiss?” —“Do you want to kiss?” “Do you want a kiss?” I later understood I could’ve asked better, or that if you have to ask...

But shit, if I was an asshole we could have at least gotten drunk and wrung some hurt out rough —this shit means nothing to me, though—living like a pedestrian dreaming of cars. —I know exactly what I’d do tonight, though —and it is nice to have someone there sometimes, just to hold your hand —even if it is just another Friday night. I don’t do Friday nights usually, Saturday night either really, I like the day to day stuff, —Sunday morning —now there’s a construct.

—“D’yu want’a kiss?” I was trying to ask her if she wanted to kiss. —Trying to be straight—she was the one who had called back and asked if I wanted to get dinner too! —but she shrugged, —blushingly, unknowingly —got caught and pointed to her cheek. Oh, humiliation, —is this why no one’s sober?, why we’re all alone? —“Do you want a kiss?” —I realized too late she had heard that. “Do you want a kiss?” —and she did, kinda, maybe —later —undecided, whatever —but I was wrecked. I reached my dry and sorry lips over to where her finger had touched, had pointed —the joy of our ride—all of my pride —the world of open possibilities gone now, the excitement of spring rotting in gutters like leaves. —Time to get out the ladder.

So I pecked her cheek at the ordained spot and took off. —First; second; third; uhhhhg —I knew what she’d wanted and what she’d had, —what lays burning and latent on every riverbank under the fucking sun—but what was I to do?! I’m human, too, —too human.

> > >

She inquired later of my neighbor about me —like a sleepwalker inquires about the night. Called and hung up. I don’t know, she’s fine—but I believed—believe!—and this is my problem —am blind. —Willingly, —and willfully. She caught me so open she may not even remember herself—and any single other who pretends to be a man would never cop to such nothingness—such blatant stupidity—let alone immortalize it—but I can do nothing else—have nothing else —no car, no promotion, no raise, no vacation—vocation—no woman, no child, no property, no book, IPO, no story, no time —if you tell me one lie I believe it to death. And when I learn it’s a lie I believe you still—your mouth and your teeth and your air anyway —that you said it —that you were there, and alive —with me and no one else.. —every day is real to me now, and every minute—every breath of thought—my entire life. Everything gets figured from scratch —chucked and reinvented, day after exhausting, empty, stupid day —and still I’m wrong! —Not one nagging inclination brought on by a soup commercial or missed meal gets left aside, and not one pined for breast—behind cashmere, under collarbones —around corners or getting into cars —not one soft cheek can be luxuriously ignored. To believe it all—from dandruff to the Department of Transportation—to be one minute closer with the hopes of reflecting back—anything —before the apocalypse—the Rapture—anything before now —this is the job I hold and lose twice a day, look for under rocks, am on call for between meals—get out of bed at four in the morning for —seven long-ass days a week; or one ripe second only —This!


00034:314:22

My city was treating me well and I slowed to work my sorrow into an enjoyable fetish. —That elusive keyhole. —I once longed for it—I ate for it, smoked for it, drank for it, and fucked for it. The city wants its pain over fast, there’s no place for it, it’s like being with an audience —or part of an audience—an unforgiving one—all the time. Mistakes are not treated kindly. The countryside (it still exists, right?)—like most monks I imagine—lays its shit bare—to rot on the side of the road. It’s got the land and doesn’t have the money. I’m beginning to realize it’s all about land. —About ghosts and chemicals and talk of merit and grain. I’m city born and bred but am getting buried by the sun. I’ve never needed happiness or even necessarily fun and maybe this’ll be my escape but contentment is what I will not do without. I know why people settle for glamour —it’s too thin for me, though, I’m methodical and ugly and too hungry to make a good run at it —plus, no one’s got the time—If I weren’t I’d be calling from Paris—at least there they’d let me confess.

I wanted to stop, to get a bearing —I wanted to figure the composition of this rare mood, to hold on somehow—I wanted to include lust or make something useful—but was afraid to break my flow. My attention has a particular fondness for motion and when it’s firing I let it, well, bees.

[Bang, Bang]

“Come in.”


00034:316:23

I never know when to eat so I go by tradition: breakfast when I get up then lunch as fast as I can to get it out of the way so I can get something —or nothing—as my chemicals allow—done for the day. —Dinner I’m always ready for as on a good day the afternoon’s efforts can last until midnight.

I was going to find lunch but it seemed dark already, a 40-watt afternoon. As I hunted I surveyed my city. What was it? Monday? Buildings up, people down. An unusually warm gust of air injected my lungs and turned my body hair sideways. I’d never noticed the barber shop here: California Love, it said, barber & beauty. Is that what it is? —chlorophyll!? —They were out of business but it seemed possible —and just the sign was enough for me. I made a note to take a picture before they removed it. —I looked around. No rush for real estate out here.

—I believe in signs. Names and signs are the purest words —transparent like the word “I”. Graphic design lets us swallow the undigestible —even if it is just propaganda. —The appeal of a stripe is undeniable —the most primitive and guttural mark of progress, —and everyone wants to believe they’re getting somewhere—“I have improved!” the shit screams—to any sympathetic eye that will listen. I must work on a germ to believe people like advertising, or make them advertise people. —“More than a mother™” —Turn nappy hair and no socks into the latest thing. Make the radical more chic than Chic and let the caps of Mad Ave play shit until all but one lith is shot. Ahh, the evening held us like a blanket. The next day had started already, with a keyhole for anything you wanted to stick in and turn—like a cat in a bowl of soup, —forty feet high —with neon. The exact one which beckoned me to lunch.

The windows were steamed like etched glass. Blue vinyl lettering on the windows stood out but I couldn’t understand any of the words. The cat seemed fine with her transformation into soup siren, which had required the installation of a soup bowl underneath her, but all that remained of her former life was the neon “The” from ‘The Puss Puss Cafe’ between her triangle ears and that made some people sad. Only the older residents, though. Everyone else called it ‘The’ Cat Bowl.

The room was crowded for a Monday and I stood for a table. There was no foliage to duck behind nor convenient corner in which to hide so I felt stupid standing in the middle of a room—like a ringing phone—until finally I was seated.

I scanned the room for a place to latch my attention. I hate writing or sketching in public, especially before I eat—it’s a sure sign of an immature span. The woman next to me had her head softly cocked to the left—more from weariness than empathy—and as she turned her head to look away from her companion I saw her profile. Her eyes were slow—kinda shot—or steady, as if she had gotten tired of looking all over the place and decided just to study a few things well. She turned back towards her partner. Her skin was bloated from years of filtering alcohol.

On her head was a turquoise leather hat stitched with a thick leather thong. It complemented her magenta shirt, and she probably didn’t know it (she seemed to be having a bad day), but her outfit combined with her hair contained three-fourths of the additive color wheel—cyan, magenta, and black. With a dab of yellow she could’ve reproduced any photograph in the world. She ate carefully as if she might hurt the food.

Her white-haired companion was eager to eat and leave. His eyes bounced continuously off her slow gaze —eager perhaps to get back to the bottle —but she had no place better to be—she could’ve stayed all night. And I could think of several eastern religions that agreed with her. —I agreed too, shit —the room was warm and humid from the bowls of soup and the conversations were animated. It wasn’t our family but the day was nearly half over anyway. Even the canned Vietmusic and the door’s alert chime added to the sensation. —A spontaneous reunion where the food appears magically —out of a hole in the kitchen wall—just as you walk in the door.

—There’s a restaurant in Cairo with no menu. —Something teen it’s called, or teen something—it’s in the guidebooks —So it’s possible to eat silently —walk in, stake a seat on the bench —a cramped table in the corner —smile at the boy who will re-wipe your metal tabletop with a grimy rag and wait to be delivered a bowl of noodles mixed with rice and caramelized onions and egg. No menu, no decisions—it makes breast-feeding look hard—plus you feel so smart, —if only you could arrive the first time and know to do nothing with confidence instead of a look of hungry confusion. And when the kitchere arrived you’d choose from the red or white sauce right there on the table and stretch your stomach to glorious perfection. —Plus, you’re in Cairo so you get a siesta!

But The Cat was the aftermath, like everyone sitting in the living room and forgetting to fight on Thanksgiving because they were too well-fed and soft from booze. —We’ve got to work on a food-based salvation—the chemistry anyway —of what to eat and when —The fifty secrets of magic craftsmanship.

Eating in a room speaking the wrong language is very relaxing, —until, of course, a woman you don’t know creates a familiar pain through your chest, —dividing head from groin and dumping chemicals —writing sit-coms with couches center-stage and comparing social systems worldwide. —Is this the absurdity Camus talked about? —or was it the opposite? —And what’d he do? —Not kill himself?

She walked away from my table and I contemplated for a moment the back pockets on her pants. —I wanted that shit.

—Fuck!!

—The angle of her nose and the width of her jaw seemed impossibly delicious. The only shading of her light was the unfortunate uniform they had plowed her into for the sake of harvest. It ran completely counter to what she was born to wear and what the lines of her vibrant body hoped to hold tight—something with flow —something that ran —up and down —maybe tied in the front. The black jeans and turquoise golf shirt chopped her in half and made her beautiful black hair seem forced and too long —Imagine! —hair too long! —the manager seemed to be begging for baseball hats.

The woman wasn’t actually my waitress but I hoped she’d be the one to feed me so I could thank her and have her smile leveled at my chest. She didn’t.

But I got my food and consoled myself with the slurps and swipps from tables around me. —The light was coming in through the huge front window and it made the room look like an old train station—with every thought washed by a rising cloud of steam and great potential for power.

Eating I gradually forgot about the waitress, and although she continued to buzz the tables around me, she meant less to me now. The slowness I had cultivated on the walk over was gone—its contrived nature able to withstand no human contact —no wonder monks never talk. —We’ll need a slightly more robust god if we’re to get anywhere significant, —or maybe they could lower the truth for a second...