Sunday, December 15, 2019

Digging through the trash to try to find a piece of the broken angel, I was traveling through the past, back to Tuesday’s dinner, those packages we received back when, the time before the fight. I would eat these coffee grounds if it would turn back time. I got down to the bottom and I didn’t find the piece.

Thursday, December 05, 2019

Just waiting for that update that’s going to solve it all. Waiting for it. Waiting for it.

Wednesday, December 04, 2019

Listening to some Dead show from 1979 on the Internet Archive made me feel suddenly like an interloper or a voyeur. I was never meant to be there, at Soldiers & Sailors Memorial Hall in Kansas City, Missouri. That place and that time was for them, for the rowdies yelling “Saint Stephen” and “Sit down!” The tenuous, unpredictable nature of a Dead show suddenly seemed not just precious and unique but intimate, private. Yet here I was listening in from another universe. I never did get that feeling listening to tapes back in the day. They seemed hard won somehow—bartered for, borrowed, recorded from a friend of a friend by attaching a cassette deck to a cassette deck. You felt like you earned it and you belonged.

Tuesday, December 03, 2019

There was a man on the snowy roof across Houston Street from where I work this morning. I saw him scampering away from the edge with something in his hand, a rectangular object, like a folded-up newspaper, but not a folded-up newspaper.

Of course I imagined him falling off. It was just a story up, behind a big sign for the bar down below, the bar where we always went for company events. But if he fell surely he’d break a leg, break his neck. I’d gasp in horror and my coworkers would scramble to the window to see. Everyone wants to see someone writhing in pain on the sidewalk for one reason or another.

But he made it across the roof and onto another and into a door and down a roof hatch. To warmth and safety.