auld lang syne

Is it a looking-back? Or a looking-forward? Does the calendar turn if the Times Square ball doesn't drop? At the prick of midnight, the nadir of one year, the apex of the new, that is, the apex before the apex before the start. 00:00. 12:00. The exquisite edge, ultimate cliff, razor-tip Now, never to be repeated, never new again, but now in Now, of Now, for Now, is Now.

Midyuletidemonday

What should we call this interregnum of a day, this diurnal hiatus between years, between nativity and epiphany, birth and discovery, between darkness and satori, this timely peninsula of gray waiting, quotidian quiddity? 

Midyuletidemonday?

increasingly disappearing

oxymoron of love or whatever you call it Leonard Cohen called it room service to disappear increasingly meaning the apex of detachment the antithesis of attachment currying favor with the healthy self opposite the poisonous spice of obsequious pandering apposite the embrace of fullness of time other side of waning decrease withering wallowing Joyce is dead nobody does this crap anymore this fancy tapdance this diamond studded diversion increasingly disappearing into equanimity tempered balance buoyant serenity unfathomable steadiness floating oceans of oh-my-this  

'Eskimo Blue Day' True Day

. . . The human name
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

 . . . But the human crowd
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

. . . The human dream
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .
 
"Eskimo Blue Day," Jefferson Airplane
 Grace Slick, Paul Kantner 1969

Be careful there. What's that? Easy now. Careful. Watch out. What is that? That's sharp. Careful! You're gonna hurt someone. It's dangerous. What the hell are you doing? Stop! That hurts! Please. What did I ever do to you? Who do you think you are? Don't. I'm begging you. Stop! That's excruciating. I'm warning you. Pleading. Ouch. This is unbearable. You're killing me. Where do you get off . . . 

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

3 hardest words

I was wrong
you were right
we were wrong
they were right
I guessed wrong
thought I knew
had it figured
assumed it was
love or hate
hate or love
won't you try
try I did
we found out
maybe next time
no next time
time passes quickly
long story short
short story shorter
you and me
you and I
we three kings
you three queens
paper or plastic
not like that
is it real
is it over
I feel fine
stop right here

couldn't

tie my shoes
blow bubblegum bubbles
ride a bike
float
lose my virginity
or anyone else's
get sober
behave
not say it
say it
be celibate
stay married
remarry
divorce
stay divorced
lie

and then I could

merry merry merry

If I say "merry" and ask you what immediately comes to mind, I'd bet good money that "Christmas" would be your reply. Right? I can't think of many other constructions in English that are so consistently paired. (Paired. There's a term used ad nauseam.) Yeah, "happy" followed by "birthday." No others come to mind. Help me out. Is it the same with "joyeux noel" in French?

Why "merry"? It could have gone myriad other ways: happy, joyous, pleasing, blessed, fine, cheerful, glad, sweet, exciting, holy. Okay, not quite myriad. But you get the point.

"Merry" itself has a fascinating history and evolution. The wonderful ("wonderful" instead of "merry"; there's another one) Online Etymology Dictionary traces merry to "short duration," as in "time passes quickly; enjoy it now while it lasts." I like that Zen element thrown in there. Impermanence. Transitory. Have you ever heard a Christmas sermon focus on that angle? Neither have I. It'd be a rewarding hybrid of notions and traditions. (No, not me. I'll spare you my attempt at such a homily.)

Not surprisingly, "merry" also has seedier (see below for the innuendo) senses. The Online Etymology Dictionary cites "merry-bout -- an incident of sexual intercourse." Fun! Following the same line of carnal logic, or passion, "merry-begot" was a way of describing "illegitimate" or "bastard."

Merry, merry, merry Christmas, or anything else.

cold hard cash

The twenty they gave me had writing on it. The bank gave it to me. I didn't notice until an hour later, about to buy coffee.  You've seen this sort of thing. A phone number or a website. This had both. Normally I pay it no mind and use the bill as I would any other. Not this time. I transferred the twenty to my right pocket, the pocket reserved, superstitiously, for savings or safekeeping or temporary non-use. Later on, in the late afternoon, I texted the number on the bill, not knowing if it was a landline or a cell. I texted, "Hey there." I got no answer. I got no answer for weeks. In fact, I said what the hell and forgot about the whole thing. Out of the blue, I get a "hey there." I don't respond to numbers I don't know. Who was this? I soon realized it was a reply to my original message of same. Part of the same thread. 

Can I help you?
I don't need any help. Who are you?
Who are you?
Au contraire. 
Exactly.
What do you want?
Same as you.
Are you male or female?
What's it to you?
Where are you?
Same.
What does that mean?
How 'bout you?
Same.
Want to meet? Someplace neutral.
Beige.
Why should we?
I'm afraid.
Why did you do that?
Do what?
Write your number on the twenty.
What are you talking about? I didn't leave no number.
Any.
What?
Never mind.
Meet?
You crazy?
Course not. And if I am, what's that make you?
Crazier.
Right.
Left.
Don't text me again.
Me neither.
Same.
Same.

drop the mic fail

I do the perfect one-liner, the coup de grace, the quotable quote, the searing stanza, the erotic epitaph, the remember-me-by-this, a luxurious last hurrah, clarion coda, zinger deluxe, epic epigram, frame-worthy finale, embroidered ending, signature sign-off . . . 

the triumphant drop the mic . . . 

. . . and then stay on the stage
 

postcard from Oslo, 1973

A faded image of Akershus Castle, in Oslo, on the front. On the back, the part where people write their messages, my name appears, with a Salt Springs Road address below it. I last lived there in 1974. There are no discernible address forwardings to my current address (same city, opposite side of town), except for one Band-Aid-sized sticker with today's address affixed haphazardly and partially over the old address.

In rounded, florid cursive handwriting, likely from a fountain pen, the following message appears, in English, with several smudges and blurred letters:

"16 October 1973

Dear Paul,

Stop calling here, you drunken fool.

Love,

Marit"

I have never been to Oslo.

But I do know without a doubt who the sender is.

I met Marit in Salzburg, Austria, in July 1973. Or did I meet her on the train? I can't remember for sure. (Where is that journal I kept?) If the latter were true (the train version), how is it that I would reconnect with her in Salzburg and spend a companionable, and electrically charged, three or four days with her? Remember, we had no cellphones.

She insouciantly walked barefoot through the cathedral, sandals in one hand. I thought it was rude and scandalous of her -- which attracted me all the more.

We spent a languid and carnal afternoon in her rented room.

When I returned to the States, we exchanged letters. Her English was impeccable, better than that of the high school students I was teaching in America. She lived in Oslo. I tried to teach myself Norwegian. I read "Hunger" by Knut Hamsun, in English.

When I was drunk, which was often, I'd get the obsessive notion of calling her, when it was 5 or 6 a.m. in the morning where she was. I would anger her landlord by waking him, and her.... until one too many times and I finally stopped. Long-distance was so expensive, I easily could have flown to Norway instead. And what was it I had to say to her?

I was awful.

I must've thought I was in love with Marit, which was no excuse for such outrageous and revolting behavior. 

Is love ever a good excuse, for anything?

How did I get this postcard?

And what do I do now?

a coinage

During his morning walk, he spotted a wet penny on the black glistening pavement as he walked downhill on Lewis and Clark Street. Only a thin crescent of the penny glistened; the rest was darkened by time and decay. He picked it up. He walked a few more steps. A trove of pennies. And one dime, shiny in the damp. He bent to pick them up. Was anyone watching him in the snowy rain? He stooped and rose, stooped and rose. Is this embarrassing? Is this what old men do on their morning walks? Twenty filthy pennies and one dime. Filthy to the point of non-recognition except by shape, diameter, and thickness. Not texture; disgustingly dirtied. He left one penny on the pavement. A statement. A question. A tease. An invitation. Thirty cents. Home. Washed with dish detergent, to little avail; cleanser, same results. Rinse. No. not the steel wool. Rest them on a paper towel. Rinse with finger rubbing. Pick them up. Put them in the coin jar. Will the machine take them? Was it worth it? Why? Worth exactly what? What was the point?

post scriptum: Two days later, I returned to the scene of the dime (and pennies). The penny I had deliberately left remained on the ground. Truthfully, it was impossible to say, because scattered on the ground was a constellation of a dozen or so pennies. Which penny was the one I had decided to leave there, as a "message"? Impossible to say. More disturbing is this notion: did I not see that many other pennies on my first go-round? Either way, on this coin-incidence I kept walking. I had no inclination to stoop to conquer said artifacts. Who would do such a clumsy, doddering thing?

staples

At least it makes sense, the evolution from crude tele-phone, in two pieces or more, to rotary telephone to answering machine with phone to portable phone to smartphone. Progress. Technology. The same with desktops to laptops to tablets to "devices." That sort of thing.

But what about staples? I don't see that stunningly simple technology evolving. Evolve to what. Staples and stapling, and staple removal, work fine. Why improve it? So modern yet so retro.

Same with paper clips.

Ballpoint pens.

Envelopes.

Does any of this make any sense?

It's not a Luddite sermon.

Staples. They're so simple and practical.

They're here to stay as is; that's my guess.

different

We put in the new fridge.
When I was gone?
Everything should be all set.
Good. Thanks.
Let us know if you have any problems. The settings work. You should be okay now. Your freezer works, the bottom part, too.
Okay. Thanks again.
We'll see.
How's it working?
It was working fine. Just fine. Should be okay.
That's good. That's good. Glad to hear. Thanks again.

Hey, how's that fridge?
Oh. My new refrigerator.
Everything okay?
It seems to be all right. I put some water in a plastic container to see if it freezes. I did that for the top and the bottom. The freezer. And the regular, whatever you call that part. The refrigerator.
And?
Does what it's supposed to do. Freezer and nonfreezer. So far, so good.
Figured it would. Perfect.
There's one thing. Not exactly perfect. I almost don't want to mention it. It's . . . 
What's that? The temperature ain't right?
No, no, no.
What?
No, yeah. No, never mind.
C'mon, what?
It's nothing. Nothing really. It's . . . 
Tell me.
The doors.
Oh! That! Yes, we know they're on backwards.
It's not really backwards. I mean, the doors work and everything. They're just different. Now I have to open from the right side.
Give us a few days.
I can adjust. Really.
No problem. We'll fix it.
Well, it's not really broken. It's . . . 
We'll fix it.
You don't have to. I was going to make it a little challenge every day. I keep grabbing for the handle on the left side. I forget. But I'll learn.
Yeah, yeah. We'll fix that next week.
The doors are really perfectly fine. They're just different. Nothing's really wrong. I feel so silly.
We'll fix it. Hits the cabinets, right?
No. Not really.
We're gonna fix it. I'll call you next week.
It's just different.
Have a good day.
You, too.