We meet in the dingy office kitchenette
At the ergonomic center of cubie-land.
Pouring a coffee from the communal pot
You ask me how I'm doing.
Terrible, I answer.
This stops you in your tracks.
It's not the answer you expect.
Fine, OK, not too shabby,
Maybe a shoulder shrug, a grunt—
But terrible?
Yes, terrible, I hold firm.
Your hands fidget around your cup,
Not sure what to say next,
Or if you want to speak at all.
No worries, I'll talk.
I begin to tell you my tale of woe:
Too much, too little time;
Unfair expectations, rampant stupidity.
Your eyes begin to darken.
Layer upon layer of detail
I weave so that you might understand.
But you have gone someplace else.
I can see straight through your pupils
To a dark wall at the edge of your being.
Rods and cones are moving about
Like a miniature inflatable bounce ride
At the fair.
Then I see you in there, too,
Floating, bouncing, laughing.
Seems like I could shout
Or snap my fingers—
Bring you crashing back—
But you seem so damn happy
In that place you go.
So I continue with my ranting,
Tell you about yesterday's meeting
That went on for hours
Led by that idiot in finance
All the while looking deep into your eyes
As you do one somersault after another
Gliding in slow motion up, up, up...
—HEY!—
Are you waving to me?
From in there?
I think you are;
I think you see me.
That's very rude.
2/17/08
2/6/08
PRL
Every so often the New Yorker runs an advertisement near the back of the magazine for a “perfect reading lamp.” The ad itself is not very imposing, a small box sitting in line with a few others that together make up a single column of the three column page. And yet this ad for the perfect reading lamp (henceforth PRL) always catches my eye. I don’t know why. Well, yes I do: it’s perfect; or so they say. A perfect reading lamp. Who couldn’t use one of those?
The advertisement in the New Yorker for the PRL includes an inset photo of the lamp. It’s attractive enough. Truth be told, the look of this lamp doesn’t knock me off my feet. But appearance isn’t everything. It’s function, not form, that matters more in an argument for perfection. Appearance is subjective; the real factors here are the optics and ergonomics of the lamp. Optics and ergonomics: that’s science! And on this matter, the ad states that “the Double Swivel Action places light correctly for a high or low chair, desk or a computer.” Note the capital letters in Double Swivel Action. I didn’t put them there; the advertiser did. Everybody knows you don’t go around using capital letters in a reading lamp advertisement unless you can back them up with science.
I have come to know the PRL in my life, even though I don’t actually own one. My familiarity with this product has grown over time such that I imagine I do possess a PRL, and that it sits proudly next to my favorite reading chair. Not only that, but I also imagine myself sitting in that chair reading a good book under the glow of the PRL, a warm throw on my lap, a tumbler of whisky on the end table, a log crackling in the fireplace. It’s a peaceful place within my imagination. Perfect, even?
Actually, no. Quite the contrary. It wasn’t long after my imaginary PRL was out of the imaginary box and my imaginary self was enjoying the latest edition of the New Yorker under the lamp’s perfect light, laughing out loud at the funny cartoons, that the real me became a bit, well, jealous. Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous. I mean, why would I be jealous of a scene out of my own head? Theoretically, I am in charge of my own fantasies, right? Why not just push these thoughts away? Believe me, I tried. But I would no sooner throw the switch controlling the PRL to the off position when my imaginary self would turn it back on again and commence reading. Once my imaginary self even smirked at me and jiggled the ice cubes in his whisky tumbler indicating that he could use a refill. The nerve!
I told my therapist about the struggle I was having with my imaginary self over the PRL. He said that this was a very normal situation, that the rational brain sometimes collided with the irrational subconscious on issues of expectation, desire, insecurity. Underlying all this fantasy and cerebral playacting, he said, was a deep-rooted disappointment, probably related to some childhood incident – a much ballyhooed toy that didn’t live up to expectations, a real dud of a family vacation, that sort of thing. According to my therapist, the jealousy I felt toward my imaginary self stemmed from the irrational notion that he possessed what had eluded me all my life: perfection. The next time I saw my therapist, there was a warm radiance about him. Something was different. Was that a PRL beside his chair? Yes, he admitted it was true. He purchased one after he heard about it from me, and he loved it. Especially the Double Swivel Action. He motioned for me to give it a try. “Come bask in the glow of perfection,” he said. Instead, I got up and left, calling him an opportunist and a traitor.
For a long time after that, my imaginary self and I didn’t communicate. We learned to coexist. What choice did we have? We were kind of stuck with each other. I got pretty good at ignoring him, though. Whenever my imaginary self was around, I would purposely and completely turn my attention to something else. Something pleasant: a good meal, my favorite Sopranos episode, sex, roller-coaster rides. It got to the point where I became comfortable enough to be in the same room with my imaginary self as he sat reading next to the PRL. I could even tidy up around him, gathering up old magazines and depositing them in the recycling bin, removing the empty whisky glasses from the end table, vacuuming the Cheez-It crumbs on the carpet – my mind a thousand miles away. In this manner, I was able to return some normalcy to my life. Really, I had let this PRL business get out of hand.
For his part, my imaginary self was happy to ignore me as well. He stopped grunting when I walked too close; the frequency of taunts and smirks decreased and then stopped altogether. Without the expenditure of energy spent annoying me, my imaginary self became more and more lethargic. He started looking sickly and seemed to nap more than he read.
Nevertheless, I was still having serious pangs of jealousy. I hadn’t sat on my favorite reading chair since the imaginary PRL showed up and my imaginary self parked his ass there. The worst was at night. As I lay in bed propped up on my lumpy pillow under the diffuse, yellow, inadequate light cast from my bedroom reading lamp, I couldn’t help thinking of my imaginary self downstairs dozing comfortably under perfect light. I was even bothered by the waste of imaginary electricity from the PRL burning bright. Money doesn’t grow on trees, not even in the world of make believe.
I couldn’t envision this situation getting any stranger than it already was, but that’s just what it did. Late one night, long after I had gone to sleep, I woke to a faint thumping sound, like a finger tapping on the skin of a drum. At first, being groggy and disoriented, I couldn’t place the noise. Then I became aware that it was coming from downstairs. So, I got out of bed and walked in the dark by feel – first through the bedroom door into the main hallway, and then down the stairs, carefully holding on to the banister and avoiding the squeaky steps. From the foyer on the first floor, I could see that a light was on in the living room. Surely it was the PRL. I quickened my pace, the thumping noise growing louder as I got closer.
When I reached the living room, I found that the PRL was indeed switched on, but there was no sign of my imaginary self. The chair was empty. I reached down and touched it with my hand. It was cold, indicating that no one had been sitting there for some time. (Does an imaginary person give off body heat?) The thumping noise, I quickly determined, was coming from the PRL itself. I bent down and looked up under the lamp shade. There I discovered the source: a moth, frantically drawn to the light. The poor thing was alternately bouncing off the light bulb and lamp shade with alarming frequency. When the badly beaten moth finally stopped to rest momentarily on the edge of the shade, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Involuntarily, I sat on the chair and stared up in disbelief. The moth had a face. My face. Or my imaginary self’s face. Whatever! The distinction was irrelevant. More importantly, my imaginary self had metamorphosed into a moth. And now it was being taken by the light of the PRL.
This was it; this was the end. Despite my jealousy and feelings of misplaced animosity, I could never have wished this fate on my imaginary self. I looked up at the moth as it leaped again from its perch, ready for another round with the PRL. Horrified, I reached out and grabbed at the moth repeatedly until I had successfully cupped it in my hand. I could feel that I had it there in my closed fist. It was moving, attempting to open its wings. Thankfully, I hadn’t squished it. With my free hand, I found the switch of the PRL and turned out the light. I brought the fist holding the moth close to my chest and sat back in my comfortable reading chair. Breathing deeply. In the dark. In the perfect darkness.
The advertisement in the New Yorker for the PRL includes an inset photo of the lamp. It’s attractive enough. Truth be told, the look of this lamp doesn’t knock me off my feet. But appearance isn’t everything. It’s function, not form, that matters more in an argument for perfection. Appearance is subjective; the real factors here are the optics and ergonomics of the lamp. Optics and ergonomics: that’s science! And on this matter, the ad states that “the Double Swivel Action places light correctly for a high or low chair, desk or a computer.” Note the capital letters in Double Swivel Action. I didn’t put them there; the advertiser did. Everybody knows you don’t go around using capital letters in a reading lamp advertisement unless you can back them up with science.
I have come to know the PRL in my life, even though I don’t actually own one. My familiarity with this product has grown over time such that I imagine I do possess a PRL, and that it sits proudly next to my favorite reading chair. Not only that, but I also imagine myself sitting in that chair reading a good book under the glow of the PRL, a warm throw on my lap, a tumbler of whisky on the end table, a log crackling in the fireplace. It’s a peaceful place within my imagination. Perfect, even?
Actually, no. Quite the contrary. It wasn’t long after my imaginary PRL was out of the imaginary box and my imaginary self was enjoying the latest edition of the New Yorker under the lamp’s perfect light, laughing out loud at the funny cartoons, that the real me became a bit, well, jealous. Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous. I mean, why would I be jealous of a scene out of my own head? Theoretically, I am in charge of my own fantasies, right? Why not just push these thoughts away? Believe me, I tried. But I would no sooner throw the switch controlling the PRL to the off position when my imaginary self would turn it back on again and commence reading. Once my imaginary self even smirked at me and jiggled the ice cubes in his whisky tumbler indicating that he could use a refill. The nerve!
I told my therapist about the struggle I was having with my imaginary self over the PRL. He said that this was a very normal situation, that the rational brain sometimes collided with the irrational subconscious on issues of expectation, desire, insecurity. Underlying all this fantasy and cerebral playacting, he said, was a deep-rooted disappointment, probably related to some childhood incident – a much ballyhooed toy that didn’t live up to expectations, a real dud of a family vacation, that sort of thing. According to my therapist, the jealousy I felt toward my imaginary self stemmed from the irrational notion that he possessed what had eluded me all my life: perfection. The next time I saw my therapist, there was a warm radiance about him. Something was different. Was that a PRL beside his chair? Yes, he admitted it was true. He purchased one after he heard about it from me, and he loved it. Especially the Double Swivel Action. He motioned for me to give it a try. “Come bask in the glow of perfection,” he said. Instead, I got up and left, calling him an opportunist and a traitor.
For a long time after that, my imaginary self and I didn’t communicate. We learned to coexist. What choice did we have? We were kind of stuck with each other. I got pretty good at ignoring him, though. Whenever my imaginary self was around, I would purposely and completely turn my attention to something else. Something pleasant: a good meal, my favorite Sopranos episode, sex, roller-coaster rides. It got to the point where I became comfortable enough to be in the same room with my imaginary self as he sat reading next to the PRL. I could even tidy up around him, gathering up old magazines and depositing them in the recycling bin, removing the empty whisky glasses from the end table, vacuuming the Cheez-It crumbs on the carpet – my mind a thousand miles away. In this manner, I was able to return some normalcy to my life. Really, I had let this PRL business get out of hand.
For his part, my imaginary self was happy to ignore me as well. He stopped grunting when I walked too close; the frequency of taunts and smirks decreased and then stopped altogether. Without the expenditure of energy spent annoying me, my imaginary self became more and more lethargic. He started looking sickly and seemed to nap more than he read.
Nevertheless, I was still having serious pangs of jealousy. I hadn’t sat on my favorite reading chair since the imaginary PRL showed up and my imaginary self parked his ass there. The worst was at night. As I lay in bed propped up on my lumpy pillow under the diffuse, yellow, inadequate light cast from my bedroom reading lamp, I couldn’t help thinking of my imaginary self downstairs dozing comfortably under perfect light. I was even bothered by the waste of imaginary electricity from the PRL burning bright. Money doesn’t grow on trees, not even in the world of make believe.
I couldn’t envision this situation getting any stranger than it already was, but that’s just what it did. Late one night, long after I had gone to sleep, I woke to a faint thumping sound, like a finger tapping on the skin of a drum. At first, being groggy and disoriented, I couldn’t place the noise. Then I became aware that it was coming from downstairs. So, I got out of bed and walked in the dark by feel – first through the bedroom door into the main hallway, and then down the stairs, carefully holding on to the banister and avoiding the squeaky steps. From the foyer on the first floor, I could see that a light was on in the living room. Surely it was the PRL. I quickened my pace, the thumping noise growing louder as I got closer.
When I reached the living room, I found that the PRL was indeed switched on, but there was no sign of my imaginary self. The chair was empty. I reached down and touched it with my hand. It was cold, indicating that no one had been sitting there for some time. (Does an imaginary person give off body heat?) The thumping noise, I quickly determined, was coming from the PRL itself. I bent down and looked up under the lamp shade. There I discovered the source: a moth, frantically drawn to the light. The poor thing was alternately bouncing off the light bulb and lamp shade with alarming frequency. When the badly beaten moth finally stopped to rest momentarily on the edge of the shade, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Involuntarily, I sat on the chair and stared up in disbelief. The moth had a face. My face. Or my imaginary self’s face. Whatever! The distinction was irrelevant. More importantly, my imaginary self had metamorphosed into a moth. And now it was being taken by the light of the PRL.
This was it; this was the end. Despite my jealousy and feelings of misplaced animosity, I could never have wished this fate on my imaginary self. I looked up at the moth as it leaped again from its perch, ready for another round with the PRL. Horrified, I reached out and grabbed at the moth repeatedly until I had successfully cupped it in my hand. I could feel that I had it there in my closed fist. It was moving, attempting to open its wings. Thankfully, I hadn’t squished it. With my free hand, I found the switch of the PRL and turned out the light. I brought the fist holding the moth close to my chest and sat back in my comfortable reading chair. Breathing deeply. In the dark. In the perfect darkness.
1/13/08
Two views
A minivan is parked on the side of the road, hazards flashing. The driver, a man, visibly irked, stands outside the vehicle. Something is on the road. Something small. Still rolling. The man is looking both ways, waiting. No other cars are coming, just mine. He is waiting for me to pass. Whatever it is, wobbling now toward a stop. I slow, ease across the double yellow line. It’s a Mr. Potato Head. Wobble. Wobble. The man is uneasy, embarrassed. Why? Well, yeah, okay. I drive by, trying not to smirk. Mr. Potato Head is face up on the road, smiling. The man is not.
12/15/07
City Lights
I stopped in at City Lights bookstore, as I usually do on trips to San Francisco. City Lights fills me with wonderful feelings of literary history and pride in America's independent publishing houses. This is one great bookstore. The store itself has expanded a bit and remade itself over the years, but it is still essentially the same warehouse it was when in opened on Columbus Avenue in North Beach back in 1953. Founder, owner and renowned Beat generation poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti still works here, although, despite my many visits, I have never seen him. That is, until this time.
I was upstairs at City Lights. The upper floor is a loft of sorts with walled offices to the front that look over the main floor below and a small oddly shaped room to the rear filled with books of poetry. I had the room to myself on this visit. I picked up a copy of “City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology” and browsed through it. The air was warm and musty. The light dim, despite the incandescent lamps and a window that looked out on dead space in an alleyway.
The quiet of the moment was broken by a sharp ratcheting of a door latch opening and closing. I looked over and saw an old man, gray hair and beard, wrestle with the hook on one of those “store personnel only beyond this point” chains. The man was Lawrence Ferlinghetti. There are vintage photographs of Ferlinghetti everywhere in City Lights bookstore. No mistaking him.
Ferlinghetti walked right past as if he didn’t see me. In fairness, I purposely made myself small and stood out of the way. I briefly considered asking him to sign the anthology book I intended to purchase, but I am always wary of such invasions of privacy. They just seem wrong to me. Instead, I watched as Ferlinghetti shuffled slowly past. He is 88 years old now (I looked this up later) and impressively robust. Near the top of the steps, Ferlinghetti stopped and rearranged some postcards in the literary postcard rack. A few more steps and he stopped again to pick up a book that was lying backwards and upside down on the shelf. Did I do that? Before putting it back, Ferlinghetti, opened the book and read from its pages. It is amazing to me that this remarkable man, the last great Beat poet, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, friend and publisher to Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, Bob Dylan, was also a simple store clerk. Business is business after all.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Ferlinghetti walked slowly down the stairs. I listened as his feet made contact with each creaky wooden step. At the bottom of the staircase he stopped. There was a click. To save electricity, he turned the lights off for the upper floor. He turned the lights out on me! Before that thought could fully register in my mind, there was another click and the lights came back on. Ahh, so he had seen me, and remembered that I was up there. For one brief moment, Lawrence Ferlinghetti thought of me – only me and my need for light. Pretty cool. After that, I suspect, his thoughts turned to lunch.
I was upstairs at City Lights. The upper floor is a loft of sorts with walled offices to the front that look over the main floor below and a small oddly shaped room to the rear filled with books of poetry. I had the room to myself on this visit. I picked up a copy of “City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology” and browsed through it. The air was warm and musty. The light dim, despite the incandescent lamps and a window that looked out on dead space in an alleyway.
The quiet of the moment was broken by a sharp ratcheting of a door latch opening and closing. I looked over and saw an old man, gray hair and beard, wrestle with the hook on one of those “store personnel only beyond this point” chains. The man was Lawrence Ferlinghetti. There are vintage photographs of Ferlinghetti everywhere in City Lights bookstore. No mistaking him.
Ferlinghetti walked right past as if he didn’t see me. In fairness, I purposely made myself small and stood out of the way. I briefly considered asking him to sign the anthology book I intended to purchase, but I am always wary of such invasions of privacy. They just seem wrong to me. Instead, I watched as Ferlinghetti shuffled slowly past. He is 88 years old now (I looked this up later) and impressively robust. Near the top of the steps, Ferlinghetti stopped and rearranged some postcards in the literary postcard rack. A few more steps and he stopped again to pick up a book that was lying backwards and upside down on the shelf. Did I do that? Before putting it back, Ferlinghetti, opened the book and read from its pages. It is amazing to me that this remarkable man, the last great Beat poet, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, friend and publisher to Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, Bob Dylan, was also a simple store clerk. Business is business after all.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Ferlinghetti walked slowly down the stairs. I listened as his feet made contact with each creaky wooden step. At the bottom of the staircase he stopped. There was a click. To save electricity, he turned the lights off for the upper floor. He turned the lights out on me! Before that thought could fully register in my mind, there was another click and the lights came back on. Ahh, so he had seen me, and remembered that I was up there. For one brief moment, Lawrence Ferlinghetti thought of me – only me and my need for light. Pretty cool. After that, I suspect, his thoughts turned to lunch.
12/14/07
On Union Square
The view is spectacular
from my hotel room
from my hotel room
33 floors up
in this city that
randomly
quakes
The bay at dawn
Alcatraz shrouded in fog
33 floors down
I am awake early
San Andreas
sleeps
10/30/07
Uppity uppers
These old shoelaces go too easily untied
Failing even my best double knots
Oh Lord, believe me I've tried
Every trick in the book we were issued as tots.
So see here lace-ups, give me a listen
I'll take no more insolence from you
Shape up this instant or I'm switchin'
To a steadfast and tasseled slip on shoe.
Failing even my best double knots
Oh Lord, believe me I've tried
Every trick in the book we were issued as tots.
So see here lace-ups, give me a listen
I'll take no more insolence from you
Shape up this instant or I'm switchin'
To a steadfast and tasseled slip on shoe.
10/28/07
These dreams
Just so you know, I’m dreaming right now. That you’re reading this while I sleep has to do with my new dream-to-blog technology which allows me to transcribe my dreams real-time onto my blog. Pretty cool, huh? Oh, there are the electrodes to deal with. The fire wire. The cranial wifi router. It only hurts a little.
Bob Marley is here with me. He says that I'm stressing too much in my day life and it's affecting my sleep cycle. He can tell from all the tossing and turning I have been doing, the teeth grinding, the nearly indecipherable rambling on in my sleep about time lines and deliverables. Marley has pulled up a chair and is seated next to me. I am rubbing my eyes. Not to wipe away the sleep, but to clear out the smoke that has wafted over from his big fat cigar. He takes a hit and exhales. Funny, it doesn't smell like cigar smoke. Now he is singing to me. This is what he has to say:
Don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.
That’s really nice, Bob. Thanks for dropping by tonight.
Singin' don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.
I appreciate the concern, Bob. I'm going to work on reducing the stress. Hold on...what's this? There are three little birds on Marley's shoulder, swaying to the music. Cute little things. In unison they come in for the refrain of his song:
This is my message to you-ou-ou.
Such beautiful voices. Beautiful plumage, too. I applaud. Perhaps too vigorously because I’ve startled the birds. They've taken flight. One of them has crapped on my bedspread. But that’s okay. This is a dream. There’s nothing to clean up in a dream, right?
Bob Marley looks like he is getting ready to sing again. Here it comes:
Ooh, yeah! All right! We're jammin': I wanna jam it wid you
Yeah, mon. And I want to jam it wid you, too, Bob. Really I do! What exactly does that mean?
Bob Marley laughs. Apparently, I am amusing him. He reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. He tamps out what remains of his funny-smelling cigar on the nightstand. In reality that's going to leave a burn mark, but not in a dream! Marley is looking around for his three birds. They have perched on top of a book shelf. “We gonna go,” he says to them.
On his command, the birds are in the air again, flying low and fast circles across my bedroom, singing:
We're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin...hope you like jammin' too.
Then they fly right through the wall and are gone. Bob Marley vanishes with them.
And just like that I am alone again in my dreams. Not for long, though. Someone's coming. Is that… Yes, it is. It’s Groucho Marx. Groucho Marx has come to visit me in my dreams.
Come in, Groucho. Have a seat.
Groucho? What is this? Some kind of joke? I am Dr. Abbott your freshman calculus teacher. This is your final exam. Why are you naked?
Oh dear God.
Bob Marley is here with me. He says that I'm stressing too much in my day life and it's affecting my sleep cycle. He can tell from all the tossing and turning I have been doing, the teeth grinding, the nearly indecipherable rambling on in my sleep about time lines and deliverables. Marley has pulled up a chair and is seated next to me. I am rubbing my eyes. Not to wipe away the sleep, but to clear out the smoke that has wafted over from his big fat cigar. He takes a hit and exhales. Funny, it doesn't smell like cigar smoke. Now he is singing to me. This is what he has to say:
Don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.
That’s really nice, Bob. Thanks for dropping by tonight.
Singin' don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.
I appreciate the concern, Bob. I'm going to work on reducing the stress. Hold on...what's this? There are three little birds on Marley's shoulder, swaying to the music. Cute little things. In unison they come in for the refrain of his song:
This is my message to you-ou-ou.
Such beautiful voices. Beautiful plumage, too. I applaud. Perhaps too vigorously because I’ve startled the birds. They've taken flight. One of them has crapped on my bedspread. But that’s okay. This is a dream. There’s nothing to clean up in a dream, right?
Bob Marley looks like he is getting ready to sing again. Here it comes:
Ooh, yeah! All right! We're jammin': I wanna jam it wid you
Yeah, mon. And I want to jam it wid you, too, Bob. Really I do! What exactly does that mean?
Bob Marley laughs. Apparently, I am amusing him. He reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. He tamps out what remains of his funny-smelling cigar on the nightstand. In reality that's going to leave a burn mark, but not in a dream! Marley is looking around for his three birds. They have perched on top of a book shelf. “We gonna go,” he says to them.
On his command, the birds are in the air again, flying low and fast circles across my bedroom, singing:
We're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin...hope you like jammin' too.
Then they fly right through the wall and are gone. Bob Marley vanishes with them.
And just like that I am alone again in my dreams. Not for long, though. Someone's coming. Is that… Yes, it is. It’s Groucho Marx. Groucho Marx has come to visit me in my dreams.
Come in, Groucho. Have a seat.
Groucho? What is this? Some kind of joke? I am Dr. Abbott your freshman calculus teacher. This is your final exam. Why are you naked?
Oh dear God.
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