Thursday, August 10, 2006

The kids just off from basketball beat me in my head
I feel like my life has degenerated into one of those weird movie shorts they show you between programs on the IFC. All I seem able to do is saunter around in a pair of cutoff shorts and complete mundane errands, gathering no real conclusions from any of these activities. I keep waiting to work out the secret algorithm, the sweeping statement which will sum everything up for me. But more and more I realize that there are no answers. It’s a confusing movie, totally abstract in scope, and all there is are dramatic angles, awkward pauses and bewildered looks. I’ve got that much worked out, at least.

Grandma fell on her face today. She called me up in the early am to tell me so. I have no idea how to react to this situation so early in the morning and find myself drifting off, mid-conversation, ignoring all of the actual details. The overarching question remains: how exactly does one fall on her face? Some obscure thought process takes place, and instead of sticking out your hands, your face goes first. Doesn’t that confound natural instinct? Defy the laws of logic? I guess not, because my mom experienced a similar mishap a while ago (although, I guess that does little to further the statistical probabilities). How this happens, I cannot fathom. I go over to my grandmother’s house to check things out. Most of the time I cannot take the things she says seriously as she constantly attempts to wring the maximum amount of attention out of every occurrence. But she did in fact fall in some way, as there she is sitting limply in a chair, with the beginnings of a bruise on her arms and face. “Is there anything I can get you?” I say with futility. “An ice pack or something?” It makes me think of grade school, where the panacea for any number of maladies is one of those squishy icepacks that they give to you in the nurse’s office. You tell them about your stomachache and end up walking away clutching an icepack, unctuous blue ooze dripping from the inside. It makes you feel alright for two seconds, the placebo effect of remedy. Well, let me know if you need anything, I say to her.

Back out into the day, jingling the leash for McBeans, who comes trotting along. Man, I think, contemplating McBeans’ form; he really is the greatest. The dog can hardly walk, but there he is, hustling right along beside me. We’ve had to reduce our walks lately out of concern for his failing legs, but mostly he’s still vibrant. I try and take inspiration from this, but mostly I keep waiting for some external force to come and crush me. Or at least the camera crew for the Dr. Phil Show to come hustling around the corner, taking me off for a special taping of an episode titled “responsibility and those who shirk.” It’s a nice day out, though, and so I decide not to sweat it- for one day at least. A blue sky stretches out indefinitely in every direction, and a warm wind dances across your skin. Things are good like that. In a bold declaration of seasonal commitment, I cut another pair of pants into shorts the other day. And it makes me feel weird to recognize my own commitment to such frivolity. I’m listening to that Fiery Furnaces song “Benton Harbor Blues” on headphones, and I’ve come to recognize this song as the soundtrack for my summer. Over and over, I find myself listening to this one song, striding around the neighborhood in the most ludicrous outfits imaginable. It’s kind of a carefree tune, the repetitive little keyboard part almost warbling out into the air. It’s the transitional, action sequence of the b-movie you’re watching, and the character is doing all of the things she’s singing about in the song: riding a bike through the snow, heading down to the mini-mall. It’s totally fantastic. An ice-cream truck comes rolling up the street, and I order a Nutty Buddy ice cream treat from the driver. Thank you, I tell her, watching as the bright orange vehicle pulls away from the curb, emitting as it does the peculiar music, which strangely resembles a Fiery Furnaces' song.

Sometimes you catch yourself spontaneously recounting the details of your life, reflecting in the totally subsuming way which encompasses the pathways and corridors that have lead to the precise moment. I catch myself doing this more and more, sitting on a stoop or anywhere at all. And it’s in such moments that you find your life taking on the dramatic quality of cinema. It’s a strange movie, with all manner of narrative flaws. But mostly, I realize it’s wrong to characterize life as some pretentious art film. Because actually, it’s an action movie, the camera cutting away, with all matter of dramatic angles. It’s a flailing figure, I imagine, arms extended, and it appears to be falling swiftly, steadily.

Monday, August 07, 2006

K-I-S-S-I-N-G S-E-X-I-N-G C-A-S-I-O B-O-K-E Y-O-U M-E I
Watching, in a detached way, as my finger presses the doorbell. Over and over, it makes this connection, which causes the circuit to close, emitting this peculiar sound. The dog goes into a frenzy as I do this, wildly barking to no end. It’s pretty funny: he’s outside of the door, watching as I do this, but still he cannot refrain. You learn about Pavlov’s dog early on, and here I see this manifesting in real life. Won’t he ever learn, I wonder? How long could I stand here ringing the doorbell to produce a different reaction? And what good would it really do, anyway? Some intruder would end up breaking in and the dog would just lie there on the ground, not frightening anyone. The house would be robbed and it would be all my fault. I ring the bell once more, and my grandmother makes an appearance in the doorway, asking me what I’m doing. “—Oh,” I say to her, “I’m just kind of ringing the bell.” She shakes her head at me and walks away. She will later relate this anecdote to the rest of the family as the latest piece of evidence in the overwhelming case of insanity she is building against me. Clearly, something seems to be wired wrong up there.
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New York City, you are a big city; there’s probably room for me in you. I like saying shit like this. I’m getting older, now- not quite at the age where I start spontaneously singing commercial jingles like my dad, but old enough to issue forth ridiculous nonsense, addressing places as though they were actual people. And then, hurtling up I-87 and producing forth obscenities as the nonexistent Albany skyline comes into a view, which is, actually, a shopping mall. It’s all plain and natural, now. It always was. The lights are on, but nobody’s home.