there was a man
who loved black cats
and ferocious dogs that roared
like wolves
he put them in a book of
three hundred sixty five
even though—
he hated capturing the animals.
he himself was in a cage everyday.
this man also broke a piano,
in half.
they all cried, "for god's sake!"
the man did not cry.
he played the piano some more.
the green smoke curled out from beneath the bathroom door.
later at the party:
where is he? where is he?
he is here, in the corner,
gatekeeper of the door.
he is sad, and grumpy,
and after he performs,
he sulks and retreats.
he is the one.
the saddest grizzly in the forest.
I wonder what he dreams about at night.
here, I dream of ghosts, and—
recompense—
and—
rep-ar-a-tion!
at the party he blocks the door.
I want to leave, to disappear.
I did not want to see him anymore.
no more Stravinsky,
no more Charles Mingus’ Clown,
no more recompense,
no more sad trousers.
no more sad green trousers in the sand,
no more of the shore.
he is drawn in,
anchored, and blank.
withdrawn, bound, and sunk down.
It was Valentine’s Day. He mentioned something about forgetting to buy roses in the past but then buying them in exchange for sex.
It was strange. I wondered if what he was saying was true or if it was something that he thought he should say on Valentine's Day to a girl who he maybe doesn't like or doesn't even think about liking or maybe he is so closed up and doesn't think about what he's saying that he doesn't think about anything like that at all.
It was after this that we fought again. The next walk to the east side ended badly. I didn’t see him for a month then, after this fight. I recently saw him this past Friday. It started up the story again. The bears are growling and snarling; their teeth are bared. It is almost the end of March.
And once more a meeting on the Lower East Side, which has become a shithole of bars and young whores, drunk stupidity and carelessness. Or maybe I am just older. No, I think it used to be something else. East 1st St., and First Ave. The tip of the Lower East Side. The burgundy awning outside says twenty one in cursive script. The apt entrance is sandwiched in between a tattoo parlor and a glass-faced bar. I ring the buzzer, it is number twenty three.
Before I arrive, I eat a small drinker’s meal (a butter roll) since I hadn’t eaten very much that day. I felt faintly feverish and nervous, my cheeks bore a slight flush. I ate the roll out of a brown paper bag on the street. I drank the pomegranate juice that I had bought. The empty juice bottle later turned into an ashtray since there was none; ashes were scattered all over the rug.
He let me in, I think I bounded into the room, somewhat. I didn’t really greet him, but more so swept inside and then turned around, to remember a forgotten hello. Since it had been almost a month. Actually, more than a month, but who’s counting. The apartment isn’t his; a woman who he went to Bennington with rents it. I think they work together at the publishing company. I wonder if they have dated in the past. I wonder if they’re still together. He sleeps on the couch for four hundred dollars a month, but this week he’s just staying there since she’s gone until Friday, he says. It seems impossible that he could be with someone, but I am sure that this woman he stays with must care about him.
I arrived sometime around 10:37 p.m. I stayed until one or so. We watched Monk and then Art Blakey concerts from the mid sixties, although the footage appeared to be older than that. They were in black and white. They seemed like late fifties recordings, they were filmed in Europe. Monk wears a large pinkie ring that is topped with a jewel. He plays the piano with the ring on. The ring is slightly loose: the jewel slips down to the side of his finger while he’s playing. He adjusts it once. The documentary cuts to close-up’s of his hands at the piano. It’s good to watch his hands on the keys. His hands shake once near the end of the set. I wondered if he was nervous or if his hand were tired.
I drank scotch. I should have looked at the bottle, but I didn’t. It was good, it had a good finish. He spilled it later on, on the rug. He said he’d been drinking all day, that he had to call his father. He said the only way he could talk to his father was if he’d had something to drink. That way he could take the insults. His father is eighty-two. He’s married to a woman named Fran who has been married twice before with divorce settlements. John says that Fran wears too much make-up. I wonder how old she is.
When I’m there I try not think of myself as a girl or woman, but I can’t ignore it completely. I try to act in a way that’s appropriate for a girl-woman of my age to act around a man who’s ten years older than she is, but I don’t really know what’s appropriate. Somehow the way that we interact doesn’t seem to fit together quite well. Over-friendliness is not encouraged. I think we are both tigers ready to pounce sometimes. For John, it doesn’t take much to push him. I have to be very careful in what I say, so I don’t say much. I think I am more of a student than anything. But I don’t know what I’m trying to learn.
Ojos the cat has green eyes. She sits on my bag. She is a large, soft cat with tiger stripes. She sits by my legs. She likes me. She is very furry and soft. What is there to do about cats.
The exchange is made; I leave the money on the couch and go into the bathroom. I come out and the money is gone. I put the ziplock bag into my backpack. The pretense for the meeting is over. I wonder if I should have left earlier, gone to the party. I wonder if he thinks that there is no party. There was a party, but I didn’t go to it. This isn’t important. He walks me out; he says he has to buy potatoes. Out on the street he swears, mutters under his breath. He has been doing this the whole night. He says he can’t help it. I think I’ve noticed it before but always ignored it. I think it’s affected. I’m not sure of the intent of it. We say goodbye on a familiar corner: East 3rd and 1st Ave. I manage to say thank you. I think there is a small connection. I walk to 14th Street. I feel like this is the last time that I see him for a long time, but it is not so long as now.
I still wonder if I have inflated him into this gorgeous, dark human character; I wonder if he is a small, depressed man who smokes so much pot that his mind is a feeble compressed snack for a snake.
I went to a monastery in Japan last February. There were white-tailed deer everywhere...their white tails fluffed in the east wind. In Japan, they don’t kill overpopulated deer, so the deer are superfluous, they run over into the cities and parks. The Japanese monasteries are beautiful, the stacked roofs topple over each other. They ascend in a graceful manner towards the clouds.
I returned from Japan to New York in April; I didn’t venture into the city at all... I didn't feel prepared or ready for the traffic, subways, dirt, people. I went upstate to visit my old Russian teacher and friend, Borah Bergman. Borah lives in an old farmhouse that he converted into several small apartments and his teaching studio. He owns a Frivioli piano, a large piano made in Italy in the 1700's, whose body is embossed with a gothic border and whose feet end in claws. There is no damper pedal, because the Frivioli was made before dampers existed, before Chopin. The music of Chopin’s precursor, Johann Sebastian Bach, is played with the sustain pedal because he wrote music on the harpsichord. Borah's favorite music to play is Bach's 'Well-Tempered Clavier'. Bach wrote twenty-four preludes and fugues in every major and minor key. Borah's favorite is the twenty-second.
Borah also loves to play Scriabin, who he calls the "Russian Master of Colors". Scriabin associated a certain color with every key: for instance, he saw red when he wrote or played music in A Major. Scriabin was called a "synaesthete". Borah also sees music in colors: he plays Scriabin's pieces that are in minor keys, such as f minor (4 flats) or c# minor (4 sharps). These keys are maroon boats and purple ships that sail across the ocean to Russia.
I could listen to Borah play Scriabin for hours.
One day during my visit, I lay underneath the piano on his old oriental rug. The rug itself is a thing to behold: the rich burgundies, greens, and blues complement the lush harmonies. This day that I lay under the piano, Borah chose to play a piano sonata by Scriabin, the tenth (X) in f minor. There are four separate movements. The first is full and fast and swift with notes and harmony. The second I love and have played; it starts in c minor and ends in a picardy third in C Major, ascending. It is slow and sweeping music, like the ocean. The third movement is again fast and ferocious, like the first; I think of a tiger when I hear it. The piece builds towards the last. The underbelly of the piano shakes and thunders with the fast rhythms of the third movement...it intensifies with thick chords and harmonies until....the slow plodding bass of the fourth movement starts. The left hand bass comes in s..l..o..w..l..y...in the low, low end of the piano; it enters in a slow march. It builds, again. It builds, ascending.
It stops.
It ascends. The bottom drops out.
I have played this, before. I experience the music beneath the piano as if I am above it, floating. The music itself is written in miniature notes in the score, as small fingerprints of Scriabin. I think of stars. I think of small boats floating with tiny sails across the ocean in the sky. Borah stops. He does not finish the piece. He suspends the piece in space, and I realize that I am beneath the piano.
Is this a dream?
Marina and I went to his room after midnight. I called and he came to the door. We went inside. We drank warm sake. Erin came to visit. Marina left. Erin wanted to dance. She asked me if I wanted to dance. I wanted to dance, but I didn’t want to leave. Erin left.
We finished the sake. There was marijuana. This was a good thing. We listened to music. I demanded scotch. We talked about jazz and interviews. I reread the letter that I had sent him. I used the bathroom. I love looking at his bathroom. It’s a whole different side to someone, what you see in his or her bathroom. I didn’t smoke in the bathroom or at all that night.
We talked about Winged Migration, the nature movie about birds. The whole movie is one suspended shot of wings in the sky. After we talked about this, I decided that I wouldn’t leave. I put my feet up. I laid down on the couch. I put my coat over me and closed my eyes. John came out of the bathroom and protested fiercely. He was very angry, and did not want me to stay. He grabbed the bottle of scotch and retreated into his room. During the entire scene, Stravinsky Rite of Spring, part II, ‘the Sacrifice’ was blaring in the room and out the open windows. It was a cold night. I passed out.
I woke up early, at eight in the morning. It was Sunday. I walked around the place, looking at cd’s and books. The Chaos book was on the mantle as always. I found a cd of Messaien, ‘Vingt Regards pour l’enfant Jesus, and put it on the stereo. (F# G flat, enharmonic). I told him my secret about Clouds. He went back to sleep. I went into the bathroom and then came out into the bedroom. I noticed that he took off his jeans to sleep. He lay on his stomach. I sat on his bed, on the edge near his feet, and talked to him. He was turned away from me. I talked, gradually moving towards his torso, and then I laid down next to him.
I rubbed his back through the white blanket. I felt his lower back and the vertebrae of his midsection through the layers of fabric. I wanted to touch his skin. I moved towards his neck, and almost grabbed the scruff. I felt his curly, dark hair. He turned, quickly.
“Marie, if you don’t move, I’m going to hit you!” He yelled.
I ran into the bathroom. I came out some time later and put on my coat. He was dressed. I opened the door. He placed his hands onto my shoulders before I left. He didn’t push on my shoulders, he gently placed his hands on them. He lifted his hands. I ran out the door, and didn’t look back. I rode a bike far away into the horizon, over the rocks, into the morning.
The next time there was a fire in the fireplace. I drank scotch. He fell asleep on the sofa in front of the fire. I remained awake. He woke up some time later, and said, “You can stay here if you want.” I washed the dishes and made coffee the next morning. Marina and I went to get brunch at the market in North Bennington.
I haven’t written about this. This is before what I told Marina, before all of the above. Back in the fall of 2005. It was the last night of the term that we could have hung out late into the night, a Wednesday. There were many other people around; it took them a long time to leave. There was a fire in the fireplace. There was one log that burned for a while. Once everyone left, I placed my chair in front of the fire. I kept drinking.
John was drinking. He started in, like an animal attacking a piece of meat. He dug into me but I remained quiet, not speechless, but determined. The insults flowed out of his mouth. “This is like talking to a brick wall.” I think I was somewhere far away; his voice sounded muffled and strange. I stared into the fire. I remember hearing words and being appalled, but I wasn’t sure if I what I was hearing was really what was being said.
It ended late, around four. I hadn’t budged, hadn’t moved a muscle. I grabbed the last beer on my way out, and asked for a hug. It was a drunken terrible hug; it betrayed everything I was trying to conceal. I remember he had no smell. Or maybe I just couldn’t smell anything. It was a terrible night. It wasn’t quite the end of it all.
After that I accidently wrecked my car during Christmas vacation.
It’s May now, has been a month since the venture to the Lower East Side to collect the rent, and I haven’t spoken to him since then. He sent me an email a few days after the meeting, it was short, and written in a run-on style, almost telegraph-style, as he writes his emails. He told me where I could find a copy of Prokofiev’s ‘Visions Fugitives’. [sent a copy of op. 22 ‘Goodnight Music’, and Murakami’s ‘Norwegian Wood’ in August]. Those of us who are trapped in our cages in offices cannot go to Europe or Mexico, cannot escape the city frequently or impulsively. His cage door had been opened, he was done with the cat and dog calendars for the year. The year opened up for him, for ventures to Mexico, for gigs in Europe with old friends.
I haven’t spoken to him. The last meeting ignited old feelings. It destroyed me. It gave me fire again where perhaps I shouldn’t feel it. I want to remember all the terrible things he’s said, and then I realize that I stood up to the terrible things, that I thought myself strong in the presence of the terrible things, when perhaps I shouldn’t have even have been there to have heard the terrible uttered.
In any event, I miss him, and he’s been in Europe since at least the twelth of May, almost two weeks ago. I want to call, but cannot bear hearing his voicemail. I want to hear his voice. And I do not. I do not want to hear his voice now. This is later, and I do not want to hear it.
Saw him at the Vision Festival the week before Joyce died. Ironically, I called him on the Sunday afterwards and told him what had happened. I remembered walking down First Avenue and trailing my hand on leaves that were on bushes on the the border of a fence. I remember talking to him on that block. “Four blocks away,” I said, “four blocks away from hearing Louis Mahalo play”. I called and let him listen to the drummer through the phone, but it didn’t work because the temple was too large a space to conduct the sound evenly into the cell phone’s small speaker.
In any event, I miss him, and he’s been in Mexico since at least the fourth of July (fuck time and my measurement, or awareness of it)
The friend who died before us, the friend who extinguished in our twenties. I wish it were me, the one. The one who went away, the one who decided to leave. It’s not such a big deal, leaving, but it’s the biggest deal you can imagine. You don’t want to have anyone forget you, and they won’t. They won’t forget you dead or alive, if they know you. If they know your body, physical art, then it lasts longer. What is the body’s physical art, should I care more, or is it just real art, as in living art. What is this living art.
Twenties, thirties, forties. Hello.
Fifties, sixities. Decades of time.
Time, that old bastard. If time was a racehorse, I’d give him a feeble leg and ask him to retreat. If time was a frog, I’d give him a potato and ask him to swallow it, fast.
What is time but a measurement of space and feelings. What are feelings afterwards but a cloud descended on a space in your memory. What is a person but a projection of feelings and memories. What is John to me and is it him or the idea of a sea creature far away in the sea, far away, a trailing tentacle on the horizon. ?
Almost one week away from the werewolves of August. The hurricane has hit Mexico and have not heard from him yet.
Then, heard from him, received pictures of a red sky and a white and golden haired cat.
Time: she’s a mean old train.
Time, a bug that keeps on walking.
Time, that sinister and eminently sardonic character.
Insert TRAIN POEMS waiting for the train I am waiting for the train (space and time)
Is this time and memory, memoir, or fiction? Is this an exercise in writing or a remembrance of lost time?
Hello again! Hello hello hello! Need to write: up all night. Going to cook lentils, haven’t eaten all day, did not go to work at the café.
Reread di prima ‘what I ate where’ recently.
And later:
Omelette with mushrooms, yogurt cheese
baguette with greek
mozzarella with capers (one)
carrottes
tomatoes
A Major, orange and red
What color are mushrooms? I don't know. G Major
Mexican black beans with salsa, hot sauce, sour cream, cheddar, corn tortillas
I made a sweet pasta sauce, with balsamic vinegar, brown sugar -- what the hell happened, red peppers, onion, garlic --
It was a strange night, it was --
It was a G major night
revolutionary.
peace
bridge
?*
This piece is finally done.
Café: eggs eggs, salad, ratatouille, espresso, coffee, cream, brown sugar, muffins, bananas, blueberry, strawberry, chocolate bars
Apartment (‘what we ate’): chili, eggs, oatmeal, lentils, brown rice, jalapenos, coffee, always lots of coffee, garlic soup, wine, white bread and muenster cheese, blue corn tortillas, salad and carrots for the dinner party salad, wine, borscht, challah, oatmeal, quick oats, dates, almonds, pistachios, cashews, sesame. peanuts.
Milk chocolate and hazelnut. Charms and boxing gloves.
Rehearsal tomorrow. Dinner party, rehearsals, performances. I have to finish the piece. Regard notation.
Extremely sad, now. Want to talk to him, need to sleep. Want to talk to him while falling asleep. potatoes no more potatoes. But before I go I will record things for recording’s sake.
Same apartment. No knife at door. Coffee on 1st and 3rd. Goodbye.
Beginnings: it just really started out as an obsession that turned into a friendship.
It is this now and again, this, now, and again. This, myself, I believe that this is who you are and know it, this is who you are know it, this is whoyouareandknowit.
Shadows, she photographs the shadows of flowers.
To believe:
To know;
To know that this is who you are and know it.
Bird swoop and draw.
Breathe too much and not enough.
This is bird season.
Miss you, whoever you are.
Too many meanings. Not enough connotations.
Or is it not enough convolutions? To convolute, is to disperse the meaning. To connotate, to seek meaning through connections.
To make decisions, from meanings, to decide to know where to go, from here. Where to go from here.
If here is a place and time in continuum of space and time and memory. Meaning. Memory IS meaning.
The game of the pennies: heads or tails
This was a long game, we played this for days:
We played, head or tails
Tails,
Heads
Tails
Heads
Head or Tails
And it didn’t matter what the turnout was:
I ended up in the same boat.
I see a penny today in December and it doesn’t mean anything, anymore. I ignore it. I do not pick it up. I do not pick up a dime when I see it on the street. Dimes, or nickels.
I am not going to look for pennies anymore.
Today, I cannot rest until I find the penny. I am going to go look for the penny now.
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