January 24, 2010 7:22 PM
Web-Less in Manhattan
How do you write it when it's writing you and others are writing on it too?
That's my question, I think.
Which pencil do I use? Or is it a pen or a crayon or a bright piece of chalk?
You get the idea, do you?
Which one is it and what if I ruin it and I used the really messy one that's missing the eraser?
There are other papers, right? Ones that I can use? Different kinds, colors, weights?
Yes, there are, I know this, but it doesn't make it easier.
I read a writer recently who talked of getting rejected by Columbia and forging off
to Mexico to learn to paint and to find how he wanted to live in the world.
Lots of things happened, but he's around now, older and with a semblance, the kind that's understood.
But me?
How long can you keep returning, sorting, grabbing, trying, taking home, declaring, discarding, and starting again?
Many would say "there comes a time . . ." -- the time for you to include specific chapters
that need to make it in, or it becomes something else, a shattered tablet for the old dustbin.
So after all this time, what's your genre?
Depends on the day or what I see in passing, which will either affirm or negate --
that is, if I notice anything at all.
Listen! Listen or you might miss it!
Talk! Say something, anything, or they'll miss you!
Which one is it? "Balance," right? Yes, that's a word I've used!
But then maybe you'll just be swooped up for good in that tired old book that nobody reads because it's so darn big no cover could contain it -- the shading, the background, the corn lending weight.
And would that really be so bad? What's this all about?
What do you have against corn?
How do you want to look, because that's important too, right?
Right?
Nobody likes a gray, ghostly girl -- show us that smile!
You can do it -- the teeth, and all that --
It's there, but you've stashed it away and you're so, so scared-- right?
You think the moments won't pass. You think that time will freeze for good,
for you only of course, for nobody else except sad, frozen, decided little you.
Judgment rendered. Folks, it's not even a tragedy!
It's only fair.
Fair as in mediocre,
Fair as in just,
Fair as in comely,
depending on your definition.
Are you an optimist? That'll impact the choice.
How long until you fall out?
How much longer can you take?
How much more can you weather 'til fissures appear -- the ones that become a permanent part?
And when they do why don't you welcome them instead?
What if you did, because you could, right?
You know it's a choice because you've said it before. You've told others, I've heard you, but --
These are just my questions on a rainy winter Sunday.
So I walk up to Riverside Park at twilight
and pause at the sculpture of Eleanor Roosevelt,
and tell her that I don't know either.
And I take off my earmuffs
because I want to hear the Hudson swishing
and then I tell myself to watch out for killers and thieves
and then I have to keep reminding myself to hear the Hudson swishing,
because I keep forgetting that listening is slippery and hard, at least it is for me.
And I relish the cold air shooting at my ears
and the squish of my boots in the blackened puddles
and my lucky penchant for skipping.
And yes, now I'm here! Because I see the rows of bobbing boats in the basin and their little lights
and I note that the one that looked like an early 1980s wreck room is still not back.
And I wonder if it will ever come back and if I'll remember any of this many, many years later, you know, when I'm older and writing about it and have a semblance, the kind that's understood.
And I walk past the trees, numbered with gold labels
and take myself for pizza near the comedy club,
and have my very first Grandma slice,
and it's really freakin' good
and the owner gives me a really nice smile and
and I see me in the mirror and I like my eyes and
I treat me to a Ritter Sport and San Benedetto iced tea
from a fishy store with overpriced soups
and the chocolate tastes a little like fish, but I dismiss the thought
and say it must be something to do with the hazelnuts.
And I hear the traffic and the doggies' paws and a little boy
sings in a squeaky voice and some teens decide they will go to Bowl-o-Rama
to celebrate the birth of a friend.
And a dirty-faced busker outside Gray's Papaya tunes his guitar and gives me a blessing
and an old Spanish couple kiss as they walk past a store full
of black and white pricey things, and a girl with smart glasses is there trying on.
"Save your money!" I want to say, as she inspects her reflection, giving herself a sideways glance.
But who am I to talk?
And I come home to an email and feel the light return,
And now I'm thinking of a couple of things, and I'll number them
so I won't forget and they're #1 There is no writing alone;
and #2 My genre may change like the winds, but will always be subject to the larger one,
The Cliff-Hanger, always, always . . .
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