Thursday, June 30, 2005

4:55 and I'm advancing toward my goal. The train to the plane.

I've gone micro, taking close-up pictures of words out of context.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

In the news today: Shark bit boy – shark killed girl.

My mother said, "I think it's about time I left this family." I followed her around pleadingly, waiting for her to change her mind. We were in the high-rise flat in the tiny French town where my dad took students on their junior years abroad. She seemed good and fed up. Naturally being the child I felt I was to blame. She went into the kitchen and took a pan down off the shelf, her gestures brusque and scary. She jerked the refrigerator open and got two eggs. Lit the stove and buttered the pan. Cracked the eggs in sunny side up – hsssshhh! hssssssshh! – and then she did something I'll not forget as long as I live. She took a little fistful of raw rice and sprinkled it upon the yolks. I'd never seen her cook anything that wasn't for us, so I wondered, Is this what she eats? Very soon she slid it all on a plate, a hot and runny mess. It seemed delicious somehow, crunchy grains drowning in flows of egg and butter. She ate it ferociously, oblivious to everything but her plate. I wanted some but knew better than to ask. This was her food.

Tonight was a hot and rainy night.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

The waitress seemed reluctant to step forth. I spied her at the end of the sushi bar, practicing pliès. She yawned. We took a good, long time Liz and me, talking about failed relationships past, present and future. Finally we got her attention for the check.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

I'm listening to jazz that just don't make no sense.

I remember those dewy spring days when I was a temp secretary in the UConn psychology building. I don't remember a lick of work I did there though I think it once involved the mimeograph machine, a car-sized gray steel beast that occupied most of an office down the hall.

I occupied myself perusing a book of quotations on the computer of whoever I was replacing, some homely lady on maternity leave I think. There was a quote on it I'll never forget, though I can't quite remember it either. It was something like this: Give a man a drink or two of wine with supper and he's done for the night. Good for nothing. Done. Going gently into that good, good night. And it's so true. I've tried to fight it and I'm fighting it now, but it's true, you get home from work and you eat and drink and you watch TV and you're done. Done! No damn good to yourself or nobody. May as well stick a shotgun in your mouth.

The jazz makes more sense now, defined by the thump-thump-thump of the bass.

I remember one time we took ecstasy and went to the gay club the Riot. Christene Cooper was going out with Jake at the time and they were sort of at the end of it all, he restless, wandering and distracted and she wondering what's wrong. Same old story. But we took ecstasy and she took off like a fucking jet plane. High, high, high. Thump, thump, thump, thump the house music went and loud, Whoa Black Betty! Whoa Black Betty! Christene was drinking water with an abnormal thirst and staring straight ahead with those curious dark eyes. American soldier dad and Vietnamese ma. Her brow was sweating rather profusely. She wore an expression like she'd just learned something she never knew anyone could know.

"I just realized... what music is..." She was having a hell of a time expressing herself. "It's... it's... it's like the first caveman who ever came out of his cave going ommm, ommm, ommm, ommm!" She was making bass notes, a jaunty walking line.

I nodded vigorously, eager to endorse and possibly deepen this rare revelation.

"It's like he's talking!"

I found Jake and he was high as hell too, we all were. I told him his girlfriend was having some kind of experience and he should go be with her and he nodded emphatically and solemnly in that way that you do when you're ripped on ecstasy, totally open to anything that comes, particularly keen for instances of personal connection. For a funny kind of ceremonial emotionalism.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

The petrified pink gum, strawberry flavored, to take away the taste of envelope. It's Hollywood gum from France. I smell it and taste it and I'm back at the corner bakery on rue des Ecoles, surveying piles of chocolate bars in their baby blue wrappers, lollipops in pretty checkered plastic wrap, yellow-wrapped caramels called Malabar and Fresh 'n' Up, le chewing gum qui gicle.

Friday, June 10, 2005

At the restaurant, out on the terrace with everyone, she was delighted that we’d decided to order rosé; she said again and again rosé is just perfect for weather like this and it was true, the heat. She gulped it with great pleasure and asked for more, which I poured for her. From time to time she became worried, a bit melancholy even, at the thought that it might be gone. Is there any more of that rosé? And yet there was, and I poured it, and she was happy.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

I thought about 21st century lunacy, in particular the defrocked Irish priest who interferes in sporting events, oafishly and hatefully, stepping in the path of Olympic marathoners, ambling across the smooth gray track of a Formula One race. Defrocked and thus cast adrift in the hypermodern eye, bound to disrupt contests of feats of human prowess like a naked Godzilla tyke barreling through his civilized siblings’ wood block houses.

Bony-ribbed amateurs with cockeyed breasts and drooping panties, women who scare and are scared of the camera.

Monday, June 06, 2005

  1. On March 27, 2004 a male officer of the Bureau entered the licensed premises at approximately 11:30 p.m. He paid a $5.00 cover charge, and proceeded to the rear area where the dancers perform.
  2. The area where the dancers perform is a room whose dimensions are approximately 40 feet by 40 feet. There is a stage in the middle with dimensions of 15 feet by 15 feet, which elevated about three feet above the floor
  3. The officer took a seat at the end of the bar near the DJ booth.
  4. The officer noticed at least ten female dancers intermingled with the patrons. Six of them were seated on patrons’ laps grinding their buttocks into the laps of the male patrons either facing them or facing away from them.
  5. The officer saw some of the female dancers rubbing their breasts into the faces of two of the male patrons.
  6. One of the dancers sat on the lap of the officer, facing away from him. She ground her buttocks into his groin area. She then turned around and did the same thing facing him and rubbed her breasts against his face. When she got off his lap, she ran her hands along his thighs.
  7. At approximately 11:45 the disc jockey called all dancers to the DJ booth, at which time all ten female dancers congregated next to the booth. A bachelor who was about to be married, named Kenny was led onto the stage by the ten female dancers. They sat Kenny on a chair in the middle of the stage and removed his shirt, took his belt off and unzipped his pants. The dancers then took turns sitting on his lap, facing him and facing away from him and thrusting into him with their buttocks into his groin area. Several of them rubbed their breasts into his face.
  8. One of the dancers took Kenny’s belt and put it around his neck. She then led him around the stage like a dog while some of the other female dancers slapped him on the buttocks.
  9. The female dancers then took Kenny back to the middle of the stage and had him lie down on his back. They turn took turns, some sitting on his face or on his crotch. They ground their pelvic areas into his face or crotch. He touched their pelvic areas and buttocks and brushed against their breast areas.
  10. After the bachelor performance ended, a female dancer named Candy took the stage. She was wearing a bra and a g-string. She began dancing on the stage and was joined by a female named Megan who came out of the audience dressed in street clothes. Megan took off her blouse and her shoes. She had only the very tips of her nipples covered. The rest of her breasts were exposed. Candy and Megan danced together for almost ten minutes. They rubbed their breasts against each other. Several times Candy bent over and Megan slapped her on the buttocks. Candy also removed her bra. She also had only the very tips of her nipples covered, and areola areas were exposed.
  11. On April 22, 2004 at approximately 8:07 p.m., the officer again entered the licensed premises. He paid a $5.00 cover charge and proceeded to the back room where female dancers were performing.
  12. As the officer entered the back room a female dancer heard to be called "Cherry" was on stage dancing. Two other dancers were doing their "tip round." They were sitting on patrons’ laps, grinding their buttocks into them, simulating sexual intercourse.
  13. Some of the dancers rubbed their breasts into the faces of the patrons prior to getting tips.
  14. When the dancer named Cherry finished her dance on stage, she approached the officer and sat on his lap, facing away from him. She ground her buttocks into his groin area for about thirty seconds.
  15. Cherry whispered in the officer’s ear, "Would you like to have the best private session of your life?" The officer declined. She said, "You don’t know what you’re missing." She then rubbed a small white purse she was carrying against his groin area and then moved on to the next patron.
  16. The next dancer to finish dancing on stage was named Paris. She approached the officer and sat on his lap. She ground her buttocks into his groin area, simulating sexual intercourse. She asked the officer if he wanted a private session. When he declined, she got off his lap and moved on.
  17. The last girl to dance was named "Jealousy." After dancing on stage, she approached the officer and placed her hands on his thighs. She rubbed her body against him and made a point of rubbing her breasts against his groin area. The officer tipped her and she moved on.
She took the salt shaker and ground it for pepper.

She said, The great thing about Johnny Cash is he mixes the sacred with the profane. She said with a wag of her finger. Mark her words.
Early June and yet the air conditioner labors mightily against the dense, wet heat in my room.

Earlier we watched with one eye as the Yankees lost their eighth of nine games, against the Milwaukee Brewers. A pitiable offensive effort, rife with strikeouts and double-play balls. PC and Steve were cursing extravagantly at the sorry spectacle, waxing scatological. The Yankees were shitting everywhere, messing uniforms, scorecards, the dugout, field, the entire plane of their television existence. Nothing was unsullied. PC and Steve demeaned them exuberantly, in the manner of the most very devoted fans.