Wednesday, March 10, 2004
...and he's so desperate to win the next election he tried to rub a n*****'s head for luck...
and if you're thinking, 'oh cagney got jokes!' or 'he crazy', then read the opening paragraph in this article.
(Shakes head mournfully and logs out)
3:43:17 PM --
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
i talked with one of my cousins, BeBe (yes-- remember BeBe's Kids?) last night. After moving out of Berkeley, I'd lost my phone book with her and my aunt's number in it. Only this year have I gotten back in touch with them, and last night was our first conversation in about two years. Just as she picked up the phone and heard it was me, she said: "Hold the phone a minute, I gotta whoop my child." And then I heard screaming and 'why you do this and why you do that and shut yo' mouf'. And then, she says into the phone sweetly: Baby James! I miss you! We caught up with all the bullsh*t from the past. I learned one little cousin, a teenager now-- I remember when he was born. And yeah, he was bad. Well, he's offically gay and out (interesting since his dad is such a philanderer and chaser of females and as my mom use to say: ass-hound). Yet another got into an abusive relationship with another girl after her baby's father was prisoned. But the big news is about another of my cousins, her nephew, who was shot and killed. His funeral was last week. That hurt.
We called him June for Junior. My favorite memory of him was when he was like, 6 or 7. He sat on the front porch and laughed while I danced for him. I took the label off a large bottle of soda and made it into a long streamer and played with it like those gymnasts in the Olympics. I was maybe 14, or 15. I made up some crazy nonsensical chant and played and danced and he watched me and laughed. It was evening and the sun was setting. After a while, the only thing you could see was the streamer glowing in the dark. When he told me he had to go to the bathroom (did he drink most of that soda?) I remember having to carry him under his shoulders to get him back to the house in time. Then there was this famous family moment (and he was no bigger than his afro, which was huge. He looked a bit like Rodney Allen Rippy.) when he tried to get me to beat up his mom's boyfriend. "I'mma sick my big cousin from Oakland on you." I didn't.
So he grew up to be a gang banger.
The last time I saw him he was maybe 20, 22. On the porch, with me and his step dad, he told us about his time in Juvenile Hall. I remember him saying how everybody loved his ability to tell a story. Sometimes folks would grab him and get him to stand in the rec room and just talk about something that happened to him, something he remembered. BeBe said his funeral was packed. More than 100 people she said. And his gang family represented, of course and was very respectful.
Much love to you, bruh. I'll miss you greatly...
10:14:44 AM --
Friday, February 27, 2004
Somehow, every morning KFRC is on my local coffee shop's radio, and seemingly every morning they play Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.
No, I had no idea the song orginated from a movie
...No-- not THAT movie...
Nor that the song has a considerably long history and that there's been over
700 recorded versions of it... And as fate would have it, it was never recorded by the dude the writer apparently tailored it for-- Bing Crosby.
Going over the lyrics, its obvious the song was born out of heartache and unrequited love... I just never realized how serious it was until reading about it. And I must say: despite that culturally the song makes everyone think about the Righteous Brothers, my mind goes to Jimmy Scott who, for me, truly nails the songs emotional pain.
3:05:04 PM --
Monday, February 23, 2004
Hot Buttered Buscuits!!!
1) 50 Cent vs. NIN 'In Da Club' & other collected works of MC Gary Busey
2) Kung Faux (with thanx to Nephew Josh!!)
3) Gang Tapes!!! Lots of brilliant, brilliant moments and well worth peeping.
4) The White Stripes Elephant. Especially Ball & Buscuit. Phuck!!! Oh and I'm also hella feeling I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself, and Seven Nation, and Black Math and-- oh hell, this f*cking rocks.
5) Like Spinning Plates off I Might Be Wrong
6) Ahem, Kisses-- The Sexy Urinal.
7) And much love, good karma, and a dozen HBB's to whomever returned our stolen purple Orchid. The real orchid thief doesn't need to stand up. Just watch it, sucka.
8) Dave's Knockin Mix CD's!!!! You really hooked a brutha up!!! Any mix tape that has Also Sprach Zarathustra by Diodado & KRS-One's P Is Still Free is... oh! There's no words...
4:13:55 PM --
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
With all the controversy, debate and discussion ONE BLACK TITTY done caused, you'd think they found the Weapon of Mass Destruction.
8:42:06 AM --
Thursday, January 29, 2004
WHAT'S IN CAGNEY'S MAILBOX (Special Edition)
Once again I'm dumping out old messages from my email box, but was drawn to save this section from a teacher-friend who just returned from yet another visit to Hawaii. Never been myself, but her words are making me anxious:
"...New lava sparkles in the sun and crunches like glass underfoot... it's hot (from sun; the lava's very much cooled), though there's usually a breeze off the ocean, and if you walk out far enough, away from people, you feel like you're alone in the blackest desert, very far away from your own life, awed by the enormity of this world being created literally only a few miles from where you stand. It's quite humbling.
My other favorite thing... and I gotta write an essay about this.... is walking on one of the world's newest black sand beaches. Pele (and in Hawaii, you have to know, they think of her as a breathing person!) sent lava that took out one of the cutest villages (Kalapana) and its correspondingly, postcard-perfect beach (Kaimu) in the mid-90's. Wiped out the whole village and a national park visitor center and sent new lava a half mile farther out into the ocean, covering the palm trees and the beach.
Well, as nature does, the ocean's been wearing away that lava almost from the moment it landed a half mile away, and consequently, there's a new little black sand beach forming not all that far from the old one. Great story: a local woman who was dying of cancer began an informal program of planting coconuts near the new, emerging beach. Many, many other people have done so since (Dick and I planted one for my late husband, Cliff, the last time we were there, and left some of his ashes in the hole with the palm tree-to-be). It's a wonderful sight: literally hundreds of baby palm trees emerging from this new lava and black sand. The woman died of cancer, but her concept lives on... and in a few decades, there will be gorgeous tall palms over the new Kaimu beach."
10:19:12 AM --
Monday, January 26, 2004
An As Yet Unanswered Open Letter To N'erCity:
Peace and Blessings to you and Blue, bro. Thinking about you. Hoping you're well. i'm spending my work day writing this. a few moments at my computer now-- then i'm up and running, delivering office supplies, moving boxes of white binders, double checking inventory... Chatting with my coworker about taxes and death-- litterally. Carlos is this cranky, older Spaniard who periodically grabs me for words in the newspaper he doesn't quite understand. Interesting: attempting to explain a word or phrase already so close to you, how to define it? Explain the word 'Non-exempt.' Last week, it was 'shovel.' Today, the phrase 'crack down'. Death and taxes came up because one of the partners of the law firm we work for, one of the names on the company's masthead, died this past week. Funny-- my boss asked me to deliver something to his hospital room because she didn't trust couriers. (yeah, I thought about that keep this nigga running story, too... while I was riding around with this Russian cab driver, angry that a friend of his financially stiffed him) The man lay on the bed like he was mummified in his own skin. Oxygen mask slipping off his narrow face. His wife stood at the window, watching the rain, while I remained at the door willing her to see me, since throat clearing didn't work. As the man wriggled, she spoke on the phone about making arrangements for his funeral, returning his body to Canada. I stood there, listening, watching for seconds that felt like days, until she saw me and sniffled a thanks. So, Carlos and I talked about funerals and the family that we'd lost to the grave. We talked about how dying is a privilege of the rich. And taxes came up because of payday.
I'm so thankful 2003 is over, I don't know what to do. Dude, I almost didn't make it. But sitting here now is a blessing. I'm a survivor. How've you and Blu been surviving? I heard about the cold snap back east, so I'm sending you warm thoughts and memories: Sunlight so sharp your skin tingles. Driving through Texas in summer and watching my dad's bald head peel. I'm wishing you fireplaces, steaming tea, and thick comforters.
How was your holiday? I went to Sacramento for Xmas week. Mom wanted to throw a huge dinner for the family-- all my brothers and sisters were required to show, and did. In the past there'd be a couple of no shows, but this time everyone was there-- including my recently-released-from-prison older brother, Kenny. (Think I had issues adjusting to family-- that was probably nothing in comparison) Mom rented out a VFW hall-- set up a command post in the center's kitchen, then lined tables with huge pans of sliced turkey, gumbo, crawfish bisque, greens... more... For me, the time spent there was great. Beyond great. Hadn't seen many of the family in more than a year, pretty much. '03 found me mostly broke. But that week left me feeling awesome. Redeemed. Hopeful. Though not much happened beyond watching TV ('Scream, Blackula Scream'. 'Finding Nemo.' and, naturally, 'White Heat'), stomping through Arden Fair mall with one of my sisters (we wandered into an A#$ & F#$ outlet and were startled and appalled to find every item on sale there wrinkled and washed out, like they were collegiate artifacts. A desperate 'everything must go' garage sale. It was too ridiculous to be amusing.) and just kinda hanging out.
New Years was quiet and I spent it alone. New Years Eve (I had to work, believe it or not) I became possessed with the idea of eating greens. Had to have it, no compromise. I can't explain my need for it-- it was like following some kind of spiritual instruction-- that some deep need was trying to satisfy itself. I made a big pot, flavored it with a hot link and a smoked turkey wing. Cornbread. I ate like my foster mother would-- using the bread and greasy fingers as utensils. Only then did it feel right, only then did it feel spiritual. Watching her do it when I was a kid, it never occured to me how African it was. So I ate, watching S.W.A.T., thinking about the folks in Ghana and Ethiopia. Then, I slept for 12 hours. Historic, since I'm a closet insomniac. But there you go. It may also be the first New Years in my life that I didn't hear any gun shots outside my window. Usually it sounds like Beirut-- this time, it was a quiet night in the Mission.
I'm still writing. I was inspired to read Song of Solomon recently, and I'm finding Toni's writing style creeping into what I'm doing. Structurally, I just kinda jump into the action-- maybe I'm more influenced by movies and screenplays that way-- but while reading her, I'm finding myself making these Morrisonesque digressions. I'm hoping when I finish typing it and hand it over for my group session, they won't be like: "Get on with it, Cagney! Cut out these first six pages!!! We only asked for the time, not the history of clocks!!"
I'm here, bruh. Feeling fine, for which I'm greatful. And hoping some of this positive energy I've been running on will touch you and Blu. Many blessings to you both.
holla
jms
12:39:48 PM --
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
So last night I finally saw the movie that goes too far. Others have come close -- nearly getting me to walk out. But this one... It not only pushes the envelope, it rips it up then burns the post office down. It is brilliant, the most stunning acheievement cinematically, an art film to whoop them all, and yet I can't in good faith recommend it. It's one of those films when, during the end credits, you just kinda sit there with your hand over your mouth and think 'Holy Phuck!'
And if you look over the rotten tomato reviews where many argue the backwards telling of Irreversible is just for effect with no purpose, I'd argue that there is a purpose. The "ending" (or "beginning" rather-- however you see it) is oddly hopeful and, like Roger Ebert notes, allows you an hour to come down from the horror in the firms opening 20 minutes.
No-- I'm not endorsing or recommending you check this film out, just warning you. Just because a film is good doesn't make it a pleasurable experience. If you see it on the shelf at your local spot-- feel free to pass it up. It's a ride you may not want to take. Just so you know.
8:56:22 AM --
With thanx to Metafilter:
“It was a perfect summer day and the birds were singing and the bees were humming. The husband had just discovered a pristine pond. The couple talked on their (cell) phones about going for a swim. They realized that their only child had been conceived the last time they had gone skinny-dipping.
“As they neared each other, both become enthralled by the thought of seeing the other naked in the sunlight.
“Tragically, they were so caught up in their cell conversation, the wife did not see her husband walking down the shaded road and he did not see her hurtling toward the back of his head in her five-ton SUV.
“The woman ran over the man she loved and killed him deader than a doornail. The impact of the collision drove his cell phone deep into his brain so that not even the most skillful mortician could restore his face and the wife had to have a closed coffin at his funeral.
“That woman was me.”
2:46:55 PM --
Friday, January 02, 2004
well, damn. I woke up new years day at 1:30 in the afternoon-- historic for me. It felt like awaking from a hangover, despite I didn't have any alcohol. The hangover was from the that miasma of miserable days. Can i just say i'm glad 03 is over? that as i sit here at work, in a terribly silent office, with several minutes available to burn, there's not much worth remembering from my trek through 03. Phuck it, knawmean? I mean-- I survived it, which is positive, because I nearly didn't. But it was hard. Money, pain, war. Even thumbing through my modest journal-- there's little of 03 I even want to acknowledge or recall here. Christmas Eve, while I was at work, some of my coworkers got a front row seat to a suicide who leapt from the nearby Hyatt balcony. He apparently sat there for a long time before... you know. In the end, I have to say, I feel him. No pity, here. Empathy. I would be the wrong person to talk him down. Maybe, if I'd sat there with him long enough I would've joined him. Let me just say though that with all new years come with new promises. Promises to start over from, if not scratch, at least a clean enough slate to give yourself a bit of hope. New Years Eve found me in the kitchen stirring up a pot of greens, cornbread, fried fish, fruit smoothies. And yeah, dinner was awesome. Spiritual, even. A gift.
So-- The end of the year is a milestone. Praise God I made it. Now, what's next?
3:40:25 PM --
Monday, December 15, 2003
I woke up at 2:30 am Sunday morning to the sound of water. Not rain, let's be clear, which was what I expected. All last week I anxiously waited to sleep in and even more promising was the prediction for rain. Come on now: rain, a warm bed, a weekend?? But on my way back to bed, I had to look out the window-- why water and not the slosh of rain and tires on wet streets? I stood at the window and was startled by what I saw. The sidewalk and the first two lanes in the street, were submerged under a good two feet of running water. The water was coming so fast (my street has a slight, unnoticable incline) the waves were nearly cresting. In the farthest lane, a huge U-Haul truck slowly lurched by in the only lane not covered in running water. Where was it coming from? I still haven't figured it out. But it wasn't a dream: the next morning, the streets appeared swept, trees looked as if they'd been dug around and roots were visible, leaves were piled beneath car tires as if the cars hadn't moved in a season.
The brief river brought to mind a book I crossed paths with in the 80's. Click that link if you wish, but the entire point is this paragraph:
"Of all the elements, the Sage should take water as his preceptor. Water is yielding but all-conquering. Water extinguishes Fire or, finding itself likely to be defeated, escapes as steam and reforms. Water washes away soft Earth or, when confronted by rocks, seeks a way around. . . . It saturates the atmosphere so that Wind dies. Water gives way to obstacles with deceptive humility, for no power can prevent it following its destined course to the sea. Water conquers by yielding; it never attacks but always wins the last battle."
11:54:03 AM --
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Despite all the trash I talk about not wanting to perform poetry-- I keep doing it!!! Hardheaded, I guess. Like the attention or something... If anything, the reading last night I did for my neice, Nicole, who hadn't seen me perform on stage much. And truthfully, I didn't seriously expect her to actually show up (in the past, so few of my invitees do) so I was startled when she and my other neice, Calena, walked up on me in the bar last night. I was bent over my notebook, scribbling a quick rewrite of a poem I started earlier that afternoon. See me huddled over paper using a red candle as light, alone in a booth in the back of a bar in San Francisco's Tenderloin. (Amazing name for a neighborhood-- Tenderloin) I think I was so flustered and surprised to see them, I shamefully, embarrassedly, drew a blank on Calena's name when I had to introduce her to another friend who arrived.
The bar, Edinburgh Castle, is a literary bar famous for full length readings of James Joyce and host to other big name book signings/readings. Since doing poetry, it's a place I've neither visited nor played, so several months ago when I was asked, I was like: why not?
The main floor of the bar is this huge, open accomodating space. It wasn't particularly busy when I arrived-- maybe because of the rains we'd been getting.
On the first level, there's a large pool table-- then a narrow set of stairs leading up to a darkened hall which in turn led to a modest stage and performance area with a blood red curtain (like in the infamous dream sequence in Twin Peaks) and a really great sound system.
I performed with Wordwind Chorus member-- poet and musician Lewis Jordan, and a highly gifted and very young vocalist, Simone.
Simone was running late, and Lewis didn't want to open so I started. The room was very small and not packed. The reading I gave was more tailored for my neices who sat dead center. So naturally there was a lot of vulgar language, a lot of utterences of the dreaded N word, a lot of 'openly black' pieces. But it was pretty much the same ole' song and dance as always.
Simone performed some acapella songs, including an old Sam Cooke love song, and Lewis got high marks for incorporating his sax and harmonica.
The show tumbled by quickly and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. My neices left to catch Bart back to the east bay. I wandered home and grabbed a late, light dinner with the money I'd made that night ($30-- some of which I gave to musicians I encountered on my way home. The trio doing bluegrass. The guitarrist plucking through a melancholy California Dreamin). Just as I arrived back home, the sky unleashed a torrent of rain worthy of a Kurosawa flick. I thought about putting some of my houseplants on the fire escape to soak up some of the rain, but it was so heavy and dramatic and the wind whipped so sharply, the planted bamboo stalk which was about to be the first outside began quivering, afraid, in my hands. 'Please James, don't make me.' No problem. I slid the window shut and watched the rain sweep along the streets with intensity and vengence. The road became a river and cars unwilling boats. It was beautifully frightening.
3:49:30 PM --
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Seven Foreign Films
a) J’taime : Everyday a young couple stands at a pier over looking the water. They are very much in love. They look deep in one another’s eyes and whisper “j’taime,” “j’taime.” One day, there is an accident. The young woman slips, falls into the water and drowns. The young man becomes very sad. Years later, the former young man, now a gray haired man with a cane, slowly approaches the same pier where he lost his love so many years ago. He overlooks the water—which looks the same as it did when he was so very young and so very much in love—then a seagull approaches, lands on the railing next to him. The man regards the gull. The gull regards the man—then the gull whispers ‘j’taime’. The man weeps. Fin.
b) The Water Garden: A lonely janitor cleans up a fancy office building every night. See him now – a lone man buffing huge, empty marble floors. At the end of his shift, the man goes outside and approaches the huge water fountain out front. He sits, resting on its railing. While eating a sandwich, he runs his fingers in the water. He looks up at the statue and its majesty and beauty. He weeps. Fin.
c) El Homme, La Femme: A man carries a huge silver mailbox onto a subway platform. The train approaches. He enters cradling the mailbox on his arm as if it were an infant. He sits across from a woman reading a newspaper. She looks up at him briefly; kind, friendly. She goes back to her newspaper. Then, feeling his glance she looks up at the man again. He opens the mailbox and reaches inside. He quietly, slowly, pulls out a huge fish. He gives it to her, laying it across her lap on the paper. She looks up at him. He smiles. She weeps. Fin.
d) Bread: A poor, poor, poor French family can barely survive. An aging father and mother. A teenage son. A young daughter. The oldest son in the family goes downtown every day looking for work and usually comes home empty handed. One day, he goes downtown and a store owner gives him a chance. He hands him a broom and gets the boy to sweep the front of his store, which he does with great, methodical detail and focus. When he is done, the man inspects the work—taking out a white glove and running his index finger along the ground. He is pleased. He gives the boy very little money-- $1.25 American. With his pay in pocket, the boy goes into a bakery and considers all the fancy foodstuffs. He shows the woman behind the counter how much he has been paid. What can he afford? She directs him to her shelf of day old items. He looks it over, and buys a loaf of bread. He takes the bread home to his family and like a trophy, puts it in the middle of the dinner table. Everyone sits. The mother cuts the bread into four pieces and gives a slice to each person at the table. Each person takes a fistful of bread and puts it in their mouths. They chew. Four way split screen of each person, their expressions sullen, their faces impossibly dirty and smeared in soot, chewing bread. They weep. Fin.
e) The Latte Thief or Run, Paolo, Run: An 11 year old boy is taken by his father to his first coffee shop. The father buys the boy his first latte. They sit outside the café. Just as they are about to drink, a thief sneaks up behind the boy, swipes his latte and runs. The father appears shocked. He runs his hand over his knee indicating he can’t participate in a chase. The boy runs and runs chasing the thief. Finally, he corners the thief and gets his coffee cup back. The boy doesn’t want trouble. When the thief realizes there will be no fight or retribution, he flees. The boy quietly looks at the cup in his hands, then removes the lid. The cup is empty. The boy weeps. Fin.
f) El Homme: (El Homme, La Femme II): The man gets off the subway with a big silver mailbox. He walks up the night streets carrying the box under his arm. No one seems to pay him any attention. He arrives at his home—the place is dark and quiet. He turns on the light and looks around. No one has been here since he last left it. He goes to his bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed, the mailbox laying across his lap. He opens the mailbox and reaches deep inside. His faces shows deep concentration. At last, he has found something! His face relaxes and he begins to pull something out of the mailbox. It is a solitary fish scale that he holds on his fingertip like a contact lens. He weeps. Fin.
g) A Woman On The Verge Of Going To Work: A young woman catches the 8:41 train daily to work. One morning, she arrives at the same time she always has, only today the train was early—and as she steps onto the platform, her train pulls away from the station. She watches as it moves along the track. She weeps. Fin.
8:47:43 AM --
I keep forgetting about this game! I'm so glad it's still up. This makes James quite happy. To paraphrase Lennon, Give Atrocity A Chance!
4:13:48 PM --
Friday, November 07, 2003
My friend Robert Karimi called and asked me to fly down to Chicago and feature for him. His group, The Guild Complex will pay the flight-- and he'll house me. All I had to do was show up and perform. I was actually on the fence until he told me I'd be featuring with Shappy, the only performer/poet I've ever met who genuinely makes me laugh out loud. Check out his website at your leisure:
I was picked up at the airport like someone would get kidnapped. A young, spiky haired Asian kid, Dennis, sneaks up behind me and called my name. He quickly puts a cell phone to my ear with Robert's voice in it. I'm given instructions and told to follow the Asian dude and get in his truck. I do.
The city is beautiful and unique-- I'm unable to compare it to any where. Dennis pointed out sites like a lazy tour bus driver. Soldier Field. Lake Michigan... the Fountain from Married With Children... Oprah's condo...
Robert lives in this small apartment around the corner from the theater where I'd be playing. Dennis dropped me off and Rob was home waiting. Turns out he was at work earlier that day and had another class to teach that night. I'd be given total freedom (i.e. no company) for a while.
When Rob came back from work, he had a rehearsal for a play in the basement of his building. He'd gathered a
group of Filipino actors/comedians to put on an 95% improv play about a cable access tv chef who dreams of getting on Iron Chef. The concept was much funnier than the run through I got to see (though at the cast meeting I sat in on after the rehearsal, they all confessed it wasn't quite 'there'). I liked the two Filipino brothers who's entire show consisted of 1) berating their neice 2) playing mah jong and 3) teaching a dirty tagalog phrase. And even though it's been done to death, I also liked the dirty minded old Latino lady (played of course by a young man) who has a unrequited sexual crush on Rob's character. My only out loud laugh was when the two hugged and the old lady impulsively started humping him. That night we hit up Rob's fave pizza place, then went to a rap cypher which isn't worth mentioning -- you've seen one open mic freestyle session you've seen them all. Although I found the glazed pool of sweat at the rappers feet unexpectedly beautiful in the dim club light.
Robert had to work the next day so I was given access to the city and a map. God, I've grown to hate my own company. I've been depressed for quite a while now, and oddly even being out of my own element for a while didn't fully help. I felt so alone walking downtown Chicago I almost broke out in tears. That plus my foot ached from a long bout with a plantar wart, which was killing me. I limped through Marshall Fields, so familiar to me by name... While waiting for the train back, I came across Malcolm-- this mature artist sitting in the subway who draws quick pencil portraits for 8 bucks. Watching him was fascinating. Look at his hands and arms: his hand is like a bee investigating flowers. It hovers midair aimlessly, then somehow lands on the paper and creates a strikingly accurate portrait. My only 'souvenir' and I ended up giving it to Robert later that night when we chatted about how I spent my day. He promised to put it on his Wall Of Visiting Poets.
The show was cool. Small, but enthusiastic audience. Toni, who worked the door, deserves a shout out for her stories of coincidence about people who survived 9/11 and the infamous Squirrel Cop story from NPR.
The audience was small. I made 100 books for this event and told maybe four. But Shappy was funny and the band, the Polkaholics were cool. Yeah, I expected an accordian too, but the band consisted of a bass, guitar and drummer taking polka rhythms and rocking them out with a passion. The guitarist, the dude who looks like Roberto Begnini would do his solos while walking on the empty chairs in the room.
The only other person I knew in Chicago is the Notorious B.O.B. whom I met last year through Afro Solo and who befriended me when I tried getting into Cave Canem. His donation was startlingly large for someone whom I didn't know, but he was instantly chummy and insisted I call him Uncle.
He came to the show and I arranged with him to do some touristy stuff since Robert was tied up with work. We left the performance together and drove out to an Ihop for dinner, then to his house in Shaumberg, Ill.
I slept well in his guest room and awoke to the sound of migrating geese, as opposed to how I usually wake up--boistrous traffic.
The first leg of our Chicago tour was the house he's having built. This house, is SO huge you can do a three point turn in his driveway. In an SUV. Which is not a metaphor, but WHAT I SAW HAPPEN CAUSE I WAS IN HIS SUV WHEN HE DID IT!!!!! There is, i swear to you, about as much square footage in his basement to comfortably fit both my old and new apartments!! Side by side!! The house has two stories-- not including the basement. Each floor had more space than the house I lived in in Oakland. The ceilings generous. A wild bird was stuck in the house while we walked around and kept banging his head against the windows. I watched it doing laps from the wall to the window, then back again, slamming into the glass then circling back again. We opened a window, briefly, and the bird left the room. I wanted to free it, (it seemed symbolic of me and how I felt) though he seemed nonplussed.
We then visited the Field Museum and met Sue. One of her guides was a knowledgeable woman I swore later was a ghost, because she appeared to us out of nowhere, and like a drive-by shooting, pummeled us with hot bullets of knowledge and history of dinosaurs and Sue's disinterment-- whether we wanted it or not. Then, she vanished. Dinner was at this great, family style Italian restaurant... As I write these, mere weeks later, the taste of soup and pasta and clams is still on my tongue. ohmigod! Yes-- I certainly would fly back out there just for food, and I would not be ashamed.
Ultimately, all the money I made doing poetry, I spent on food and the museum. That plus the money I felt I lost making more books was a disappointment. But the food was Awesome and it was good to be out of California for a while, even if it was only a handful of days.
At one point, while riding back to the airport, I'd fallen terribly quiet. The dark landscape of the city went by like waves of water. My mind was elsewhere. Bob asked me what I was thinking. The truth felt inappropriate. There were so many things... so many things. Where would I even start?
11:53:36 AM --
Monday, October 06, 2003
I purposely filled my calendar this past weekend with a lot of things to occupy my time -- then followed through on nothing. Accidentally stood up one friend despite having committed to that date a month in advance. Then I really wanted to see my hero Paul Mooney at the Punchline. (Nope. His last visit was the weekend around 9/11 and that show, much to my heartbreak, was cancelled.) Then, thought I might venture to Yerba Buena cause there was some spoken word events and maybe some ol' familiar faces I could see. (Phuck em. Never even bothered to look at my calendar to double check the time.) Then there was 'something' I heard about at the Victoria theater in the Mission, right there in the hood. Not even a 10 minute bus ride. Five if I took Bart. (Shit. No dice.) What is wrong with me?
Saturday morning I went out for coffee and to try to read the submissions for my writer's group meeting scheduled for Wednesday, (don't even ask about writing right now) but I couldn't concentrate or focus-- so nothing got read. I felt lost. I came home, rented Dreamcatcher (yawn) and did very little else. I'm gonna have to see a shrink. I am greatly bothered by how satisfied I am doing nothing.
Sunday I intended to go to the East Bay, but that too was aborted, of course. That morning, (8:30am) I lay in bed and hypnotized myself to get my ass up and vaccuum and shave and cut my hair and do laundry. I also needed new shoes (I think my arch collapsed, which is crazy cause I have flat feet anyway!) so while my laundry dried, i limped down to the shoe outlet which of course hadn't opened yet. Phuck!! Another half hour wait?!?! So, I hit up the neighboring Radio Shack because my dvd player just made its two year birthday and is starting to refuse cd's like a child refuses string beans. But I was ignored at the store and very unimpressed with their selection and wandered the street for breakfast. Despite how desperately I was hurting at that point, I limped over to the burrito spot I like for a juice (why am I having problems with mobility lately??? First my knee, now my foot-- whatthephuck?!?!) and saw this really young brother-- couldn't have been more than 20 or 22-- standing in front of the shop. My Latino neighbors swirled around him in vibrant colors, yet he was all I could see. It was like in a movie or video where everything around him was in color and he was black and white. His head covered monk-style under a plum hoodie, and he wore dark, ashy jeans. He wasn't dressed for the bright sunshine and warm weather-- he was dressed for the rain apparently happening in his head. He asked me for some quarters. I dug through my pocket since i was doing laundry, but didn't have any on me. When he saw I was headed into the shop, he asked me if i could get him a bag of chips. I said sure-- and after a few seconds he timidly followed me inside. He stood next to me at the counter bashfully. I asked: 'Would you like something more than just chips?' I bought him breakfast. A burrito and the same juice I bought (cantaloupe). When he found the courage to ask if I needed my change, I handed the three dollars over as if I'd owed it to him. Then while his food was being prepared, I left, so he wouldn't feel obligated to me for anything more than a thank you. This was the highlight of my weekend.
How was yours?
12:19:07 PM --