intersection

As I approached Williams Street where it meets Emerson Avenue, my jaunty cane in hand, the one with the brass eagle for a handle, a low-slung sports car (red, of course) zoomed toward the crosswalk, seemingly oblivious to the stop sign, or not caring, not enough to obey its literal command. And seemingly oblivious to my approaching the crosswalk, preparing to cross Williams Street toward Porter School. Seemingly being the operative word. I did that asshole thing that people, especially old people, do: tried to teach the driver a lesson. I deliberately and purposefully entered the crosswalk ahead of the seemingly zooming car. I was making a statement: look at me, stop. Or, as Ratzo Rizzo, played by Dustin Hoffman in "Midnight Cowboy," memorably said: "I'm wawkin' heah!" I did not utter those words or any other. But that was my statement, that was my lesson. The other aspect of the lesson was: obey the stop sign, be law-abiding blah blah. As if any driver anywhere in Western Civilization or anywhere else is going to declare to oneself: "Gee. They're right. I should straighten up. Be a good citizen. I am so happy that stranger taught me this valuable lesson. Made my day. Maybe I saved a life. My life or somebody else's." 

Right. Sure.

Surprise.

The driver stopped. 

As I reached the other side of the street, clearing the crosswalk, the driver, through a half-open window, half-shouted, not aggressively, more informationally, pleadingly, said: "I'm sorry, buddy. I thought you were going to stay on the sidewlk."

"No, no. You're fine. Have a good Thanksgiving, have a good day." 

I didn't exactly say that. But close enough. That was the best I could summon, off the cuff.

Still, I felt like a fool: for my assumption, for my misreading, for a lost opportunity.

As I walked toward West Genesee Street, I wanted to turn back and tell on myself, a confession, the works; tell the driver what was what: the lesson, the surprise, the gratitude for this act of human kindness, this one act of one day in which someone was better than expected or anticipated or imagined.

But he was gone. The car was gone.

My Interrogative Mode (21)

 

 

How do you think you will die?

My Interrogative Mode (20)

 What is your favorite word and your least favorite word?

My Interrogative Mode (19)

 

At what point did you realize that: (a) this is what it's all about (b) this is not what it ever was about (c) all of the above (d) none of the above? 

My Interrogative Mode (18)

 

If not here, where?

My Interrogative Mode (17)

 

If not now, when?

My Interrogative Mode (16)

 

What if [fill in the blank] didn't happen?

My Interrogative Mode (15)

  

If "I was wrong" or "you were right" are not the hardest words to utter, what words are?

My Interrogative Mode (14)

 

Listen: do you want to know a secret?

My Interrogative Mode (13)

 Do you like (love, hate, dislike, etc.) me?

My Interrogative Mode (12)

 What has been the hardest thing to change, give up, or accept?

My Interrogative Mode (11)

How -- by what series of intentional or aleatory clicks, events, or promptings -- is it that you came to be staring at (or listening to an audio transcription of) these words on a screen right now?

My Interrogative Mode (10)

What is your most intriguing (or gnawing, bothersome, frustrating, disappointing, jaw-dropping, providential, mysterious, etc.) what-if?

My Interrogative Mode (9)

Considering that "enough" is also a superabundance (given a certain perspective), have you (or I or we or they) had enough, and enough of what more than anything else?

My Interrogative Mode (8)

 What do you regret?

My Interrogative Mode (7)

 

Whom do you forgive?

My Interrogative Mode (6)

 Whom do you resent?

My Interrogative Mode (5)

 When did you last weep?

 

My Interrogative Mode (4)

 When is your favorite part of the day, and why?

My Interrogative Mode (3)

 Who has most inspired you?

My Interrogative Mode (2)

 

What is your earliest memory?

My Interrogative Mode (1)

 

Where would you go if you could go anywhere right now?

one door closes, another one something-something

--This is the end, my friend.

--That's The Doors, right?

--Right.

--Beautiful friend.

--Right again.

--The end? Fuck, I thought it was the beginning.

--Me, too.

--End, beginning, what's the difference?

--Now you sound like T.S. Eliot.

--What did she sing?

--He. He's a he. A love song.

--Is that what this is?

--A he or a she?

--No, a love song, or something else.

--You're something else.

--You, too.

--Hello, goodbye.

--You say yes.

--No, I say no.

--Sometimes.

--Drive.

--Where?

--Drive, they said.

 

 

in a white room with no curtains

Stoic, severe, Scandinavian. Appallingly clean and neat. Sleek. Sunlight streaming in from industrial loft windows. Yet somehow warm and inviting. Was it the brilliance or the offsetting curves: a sofa, a spacious enveloping futon, an armchair, a bureau, an S-shaped marble counter, curvilinear lighting sconces. A white zigzagging banister leading nowhere. One floor. Open plan. One long and deep closet with a sliding glass door. Jeans, sweaters, dress shirts, dresses, one gown, coats, scarves, fedoras, trousers, pants, a single bathrobe (black). Posing as a museum, featuring an installation of nine lambent votive candles and Gregorian chant intoned from Bose speakers. 

Footsteps, the soft rasp of a key in the lock, the jiggling of the door handle.

uneasy rider

I could do it. I've done it before. I could. This time, I could roll out before she comes to a rolling stop. How cinematic. For you in the peanut gallery wagging your fingers and saying, 'Why? What are you running from?' I say, 'Be infinitesimally original, for fucksake.' Or pretend to be original if you can't do better than that. Spare me. Point taken, okay? I'll nibble on the piece of cheese placed on the floor, if it makes you happy. I am running from my wounds, self- or other-inflicted, running from the self I don't have and never will, from pain, ecstasy, misery, and mystery. Got it! Mystery, that's it. I can't bear not knowing the ending. But who ever does? So juvenile. Running from her, her, and her, and every her imagined or real. Stop. This is fuckin' me up. Stirring the ashes. It's stupid. Speaking of mysteries, she's just that. Mysterious, inpenetrable, inscrutable. And that's exactly what gives me a boner. And precisely what enrages me, its denial, its blinding ignorance of me no matter how much I wave my semaphore scrawny arms. I could jump. To go where, do what? It didn't matter with 'her,' and look where it got me. Hold it. It got me right here, right now, in a new and different passenger seat, a freshly re-upholstered soliloquy. Not moody Hamlet's grandiose and silly 'to be or not to be.' Gawd, no. How gaudy and unseemly. To go or stay. To stay or go. And I don't even have dice to toss.