Imagination is a quality given a man to compensate him for what he is not, and a sense of humor was provided to console him for what he is.
-Oscar Wilde
Sometimes when my eyes are red
I go up on top of the RCA building
and gaze at my world, Manhattan-
my buildings, streets, I've done feats in,
lofts, beds, coldwater flats
-On Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
walking the size of specks of wool--
Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,
sun go down over new jersey where i was born
& Paterson where I played with ants--
my later loves on 15th Street,
my greater loves of Lower East Side,
my once fabulous amours in the Bronx
faraway--
paths crossing in these hidden streets,
my history summed up, my absences,
and ecstasies in Harlem--
-sun shining down on all I own
in one eyeblink to the horizon
in my last eternity----
matter is water
Sad,
I take the elevator and go
down, pondering,
and walk on the pavements staring into all man's
plateglass, faces
questioning after who loves,
and stop, bemused
in front of automobile shopwindow
standing lost in calm thought,
traffic moving up and down 5th Avenue blocks
behind me
waiting for a moment when.......
Time to go home and cook supper & listen to
the romantic war news on the radio
....all movement stops
& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,
tenderness flowing through the buildings,
my fingertips touching reality's face,
my own face streaked with tears in the mirror
of some window, at dusk--
where I have no desire
for bonbons, -- or to own the dresses or Japanese
lampshades of intellection
Confused by the spectacle around me,
Man struggling up the street
with packages, newspapers,
ties, beautiful suits
toward his desire
Man, woman, streaming over the pavements
red lights clocking hurried watches &
movements at the curb--
And all these streets leading
so crosswise, honking, lengthily,
by avenues
stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums
thru such halting traffic
screaming cars and engines
so painfully to this
countryside, this graveyard
this stillness
on deathbed or mountain
once seen
never regained or desired
in the mind to come
where all Manhattan that I've seen must disappear
-Allen Ginsberg
"Allergic To Lingo"
-Leon Botstein
Wednesday, August 04, 2004 It was Mr. Katz, in the Dining Room, with the Sleeping Pills and Vodka.
In the past week, the focus of my mind has been on a topic that I’ve done very little talking about. Actually, it’s something that nobody from Bard, save for a very few people, know anything of. This isn’t so much because I’m reluctant or embarrassed about it, but more that finding a way to fit the statement "So my dad lost his ability to work and is going to get a prison sentence" into daily conversation is somewhat tricky. Plus, while it’s no doubt news for other people, thanks to America’s slow legal system, I’ve been able to mull over this for almost three years, and so throughout last year the shock of it had already gone for me.
However, lately everything has changed, as tomorrow at 9:00am we’ll enter a room knowing that when we leave we’ll finally know the outcome we’ve been waiting for. Suffice it to say life in my house has had a weird feeling to it lately. The situation with my dad has been something that, after the initial period of shock, we all pushed into our subconscious for the most part. Now and then it would get brought up, but not that often. Now it’s constantly there and alluded to, just like the humidity. Last night while celebrating my Dad’s 58th birthday, as he paused before blowing out the candles (a giant question mark and of course a candle to grow on (for good luck)) my mom said, "Alright, now make a wish" and then with a wan smile added, "and I bet I can guess what you’re going to wish for."
And it was certainly there Wednesday night, when I came up from the basement after watching The Daily Show to find what at first seemed to be my dad reading the newspaper. It had been a particularly stressful day for him, so I said in my best cheerful voice, "Hey Dad, how are you doing?"
No response.
It was then I noticed how his head hung, it’s weight tugging at his neck muscles, and how his eyes were shut. "Hey," I said a little louder, giving his shoulders a gentle shake. After a rough shake, he finally came to, if you could call it that. His eye lids were puffed up and covered the edges of his red bleary eyes in a way that made them seem entirely without focus. The first thing he said was, "Where are we?" except as the words all got slurred together in the execution it was more like "whererrwe?" "The dining room." "Reeally? Hoaw diwe get heer?" With that he tried to finish off the drink in front of him, but failed, dropping the glass almost as soon as he picked it up. I went to get him a glass of water and was able to convince him to take a small sip, but afterwards he declared he didn’t think he could drink any more, his stomach felt too sick. I decided against telling him mine did too, albeit for different reasons.
At parties, I’ve seen my parents at various stages of intoxication, but always in times of happiness; at birthdays, new years eves, weddings. At those times, I always saw a vital energy behind their slightly unfocused eyes and loose smiles. All I saw last Wednesday night was a pathetic void.
After thirty minutes of what was a mostly one way debate, in which, not wanting to leave him alone downstairs, I tried to convince him to go to bed, I realized he didn’t want me to see him struggle to get upstairs. As soon as I turned my back on him to go into the kitchen, I heard him start to lumber up out of his chair. Fortunately, he would remember none of this the next morning.
As I laid in bed trying to sleep I listened to the steady rhythm of the shower, followed by the sounds of one of the first authority figures in my life emptying out their entire stomach. When the noises finally stopped, I got back out of bed and opened bathroom door. He stood with his back to me, naked, looking about the mess that he managed to spread over almost the entire bathroom. He turned his head to me and said dully, "I made a mess." "Yeah" I sighed, "I’ll get a sponge and some soap."
When I came back upstairs, he hadn’t moved from where I had left him. "I don’t know what to do about this," he said looking at me with a hopeless expression. "Maybe I’ll clean it in the morning." "Here," I said giving him a glass of water, "just try and drink some of this and I’ll take care of this." There are some things nobody should have to wake up to. It’s funny, I made it through an entire year of living in Keen without ever so much as seeing vomit, but not three months of summer at home with my parents.
Though I must confess to having sold my soul (at least for the summer) to fake Irish casual dinning. Specifically, the sort that usually comes with a side of tartar sauce. In other words, really, really, fake Irish food.
Those who are aware of my employment history know that I have a tendency to apply, (or, as in the case of Hooters, "try" to apply, as they claimed to be out of applications) to restaurants where I would never actually want to eat. So, more or less this is how I ended up working at Timothy’s. Beyond the name and the color of the staff uniforms there is nothing Irish about the place, except that soups are served in crocks, not bowls.
The managers of Timothy’s see places like Apple Bees and Friday’s as the pinnacle of the food industry, and aspire to one day be the next big franchise. As the one manager Tony put it, "They’re the best for one reason: they’re consistent." I think that pretty much sums up the sort of place it is. To top it off the managers are the worst of sorts. I know prick managers are common, but I’d like to think that managers who yell at you for wasting money when you use a paper napkin to avoid burning yourself are something of a rarity. The funny part? The manager in question’s name is none other than Andy.
[On that note: a few weeks ago, I had a vivid dream where I went to work in the scene shop. It was like a mandatory weekend call, except there were no "$40" worth of duncin donuts, or any notable occurrence for that matter. Still, it was with great reluctance that I woke up that morning. This is about as nostalgic as I get.]
In addition to the bad management, there are the customers. My least favorite are those of the weekday lunch hour, as this includes the worst of all: the educated professional who validates themselves by making cultural allusions. Example of an actual conversation:
Man 1:Look at all those pigeons flying at us.
Man 2:"The Birds! The Birds!"
Woman 1:"ALFRED HITCHCOCK!" Man 3:"It’s just like Tiananmen Square!" Let me assure all those not present, it was absolutely nothing like Tiananmen Square.
Thursday, May 27, 2004 Well, maybe you can go home again
I see coming home after completing a year of college as somewhat like coming down with a severe cold, not because I find it to be unpleasant, but because I see it as a temporary free pass. For these first few days back I have a minimal amount of expectations of myself. Yesterday was spent lying around listening to my dad’s Robert Johnson records and reading about Russian émigrés, and the day before that on a couch in Hannah’s house, grunting between bites of watermelon. It’s not that I personally see completing a year of college as really much of an accomplishment, but my parents and their friends seem to anyway, which is enough for me to pretend to believe in my rationalization. Of course it’s not as if I’ve ever required a lot to justify bouts of inactivity. The other day, after staring at the ceiling for awhile, I turned to Hannah and explained, “If I was just doing this at home alone I’d feel restless and bad about myself, but with you a few feet away this seems somewhat justified.”
Perhaps the best movie I’ve seen since being home would be “Dog Days” in which the director only filmed when it was extremely hot because, “Heat changes people. It either makes them aggressive or apathetic.” I’ll take the time now to pledge allegiance to the latter, except when I’m driving.
It only took till Saturday afternoon to run into a Bard student from Baltimore. He’s another rising sophomore, we even share a mutual acquaintance, which admittedly is a bit of stretch, and all ties between us end there. We had the obligatory “So, we’re back in Baltimore” talk, complete with references to our re-found allergies, and of course who could forget the 17 year cicadas! It was the sort of talk we’d both find awkward if either of us cared about the outcome.
Monday, May 24, 2004 Before I forget it, the last week or so of my first year of college:
1. What Leon Botstein said as he turned to me to put his hand around my shoulder:
“Today I talked them most wonderful ignoramus.”
What I said to Leon Botstein as I got up to leave:
“You should give Andy Champ-Doran a big raise.”
What Leon Botstein did not say, but I’d like to pretend he did:
“Sure thing, I’ll make room in my busy schedule and do just that.”
What Andy did say the next morning over black coffee:
“What? You did not fucking say that. Well, I’ve been here long enough I guess, I suppose I better get packing…Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you said that.”
What Leon Botstein had really said, with an expression of surprise:
“Oh…um…well I don’t know who that is. But really, your thoughts matter a good deal to me. You should write me an e-mail.”
2. Something I like about the end of a semester is that my room starts resembling the Green Onion. A week before it would close for the year I bought over $70 worth of groceries and still had over $30 Bard bucks to my name.
3. I spent the drive home floating in and out of sleep. At one point I woke up while on a bridge that spans over the Potomac River in Maryland, but for a moment the view tricked me to thinking I was on the Kingston Bridge, and this made me somewhat sad. Sure, the year wasn’t perfect, and there are people and places in Baltimore that it will be wonderful to spend time with again, but the truth is that it’s been a good year, and I know there’s a lot I’ll miss over the next three months.
Imagination is a quality given a man to compensate him for what he is not, and a sense of humor was provided to console him for what he is.
