Heat From Flickering Light

One too many times I fell over you
Once in a shadow I finally grew
And once in a night
I dreamed you were there
I cancelled my flight from going nowhere

I keep my renditions of you on the wall
Where holiday romance is nothing at all
Once in a moment it all comes to you
As soon as you get it you want something new

Partial Eclipse

In the shadow
of a tree I stand
leaning
against the trunk
static in the path
between lightness and
dark

we

she is not we
she is
I
Id
Idiot,
cold as vishiswa

Mermaid Parade..this mermaid's got legs!

The sun came pouring down on the Mermaid Parade this Saturday. Even if the day had been overcast, all the glitter and abundance of shiny human skin were blinding. This is the annual parade at Coney Island that celebrates summer, surf, and the free spirit of the sea in full freakdom.

I spent most of the day in the parade holding area, a block long section where the marchers, bands, and floats wait penned-up until their parade number is called. Our group, the Arctic Mermaids were #278 which meant... a lot... of waiting... Our pen was closed-off to the public, save for the photographers and paparazzi. There must have been close to a thousand professional cameras there from all global sources adding even more to the brightness of the day. The Coney Island Mermaid Parade is a feeding frenzy for pictures – it might be the last great place for people to let their hair-down in the form of a public display in America. It is an equal-opportunity freak-fest running the gamut from beautiful topless nymphs with crowns of seaweed adorning their gorgeously stacked hair to senior citizens in wheelchairs dressed in grass skirts holding tridents while pushing-off to gain momentum down Surf Avenue. Of course the real treat is everything in between…from a take-off on the entire cast of “The Sopranos” called The Seapranos (something like Tony Sop. meets King Neptune in fishnets) to a school of human Seahorses, sculpted in a full-body covering of briny spiny MetroCards.

As the parade numbers got into the mid-200’s, our group pushed ahead anxiously to get released into the parade. Once freed out of the pen and onto the boardwalk, we made a mad samba march down the path in a rhythm fueled by the thousands of spectators on either side. It was like being lost and found all at once in a sea of understanding.

Mental Migration

Psych flight.
My therapist informed me that she will be taking her three-week summer break in July. “Oh, it’s something that we all do; most therapists take off the entire month of August you know?” “No I didn’t know. This is all a new scene for me. So you all go on this kind of psych flight huh”? She laughed at the phrase I came up with and I thought I should trademark the thing under cute, esoteric terms.

I can just imagine… the entire eastern end of Long Island bends about five extra feet below sea level in August. As shrinks sleekly dive off diving boards in their backyard weekend home pools, New Yorkers left without them in the city do desperate half-gainers off the highest floors of office buildings.

The stock, conciliatory leave-behind is, If you need me for an emergency, just call me on the cell. When that call is placed however, the shrink is talking from the midst of a beach bonfire with sand, surf, and their kids arguing about whose turn it is to use the boogie board as the background of the call to help talk you off the ledge. “Jump,” she says into the phone. “What, doc, is that the ultimate answer?” “Oh, no sorry, I was just telling my 12-year old Kip to keep his damn walking cast from getting splashed. He’s getting too close to the water. Broke his foot at the equestrian showcase you know. I’m out of minutes.” “Your cellphone plan or your billable hours,” I inquire as she quietly hangs up the phone.

What the f@*k does Woody Allen do in August and does he only stay at sea level? This vacation from the therapy scene can be good. It’s easy to rely on as a habitual thing and not depend on yourself or other people you love to be there for you. I’ll call my mother. Wait, shit, that’s one of the reasons I’m in therapy!

Ah well…beaches and nature hiking paths are therapies in themselves (and they accept United Healthcare with NO co-pay).

Motorcycle Diary

I’ve had a motorcycle on the brain for a couple of weeks now ever since I talked to my friend Dave in California. He was calling me from a pizza place just after finishing an audition and told me that after we got off the phone, he was going to ride his bike home on this gorgeous route through hills, valley and nature that one can’t imagine existing in LA. “About 20 miles” he said. “Dave that’s a big workout after a hard day of work - is it a mountain bike or roadie", I asked. “It’s a Harley”. Then it hit me. It is a bike, but better. Two wheels still but speed, freedom, and the potential for a speeding ticket. No space for groceries yet can still get to where you need to go and make it count. Yes, Yes, this is an answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.

My last experience on a “bike” was in college back in Indiana. I was being throttled around on the back of a speedy Japanese model (they all look alike) down fraternity row by my friend Troy, indeed a golden boy. We cruised past Troy’s fraternity house (don’t think of saying “frat”…you wouldn’t call your country a count, would you?) One of his brothers saw us from the intensely green front lawn and kicked a soccer ball at Troy and his waist-grabbing buddy on the back. It must have been a frat thing (whoops!). The ball literally rolled right under the Japanese machine behind the front wheel like it was scripted to just miss catastrophe and elicit a collection of laughs from the brothers on the lawn. I took it as a sign, a free pass to getting out of quadriplegia or brain damage or both (no helmet law in Indiana).

Dave in California had a bike (bicycle) for the past two years which he used to get around La La Land while his wife Heather had the one car. This December, he graduated from the Trek to the Harley; bike-to-BIKE that fast. Part of me likes the utilitarian aspect of owning the bike. If we move to Cali, Suz can have the car and I’ll have the bike. (one car – two people reeks of headaches and more speeding tickets) The bike also appeals to my green side. Why buy a hybrid when you can get even better mileage, feel nature all around you, and wear a cool 100% organic cotton tee while riding past traffic between lanes. Dammit, I am the solution to both the environmental problem and the traffic problem!

As for me, the ascension will be rapid, even more so than Dave. I will matriculate from having no car in the last eight years and the kick scooter I commuted cross-town on the last year (no, it was the cool one and not the Razor) to a BIKE. It’s more of a comfortable sidestep. When life kicks a soccer ball at your undercarriage, KICK BACK! Of course with a helmet – it’s the law.

Booking on the Train

On the uptown 1 Train tonight headed up to see my therapist, I initiated a conversation with a guy who intrigued me with the book he was reading. It was a dog-eared paperback copy of Treasure Island that resembled a slightly burnt piece of challah french toast in his hand.

I saw the book first, not the person. But eventually, the person became better than any book could ever be. From the first words I said to him which came without filter and backed with a smile, we immersed each other in hot conversation like two old buddies in "High Fidelity"- but about books rather than records. About the same age as moi, he told me that he wanted to re-read some books of his that he still had from 7th grade, this time using older eyes. Traveling on the local from 42nd St. to 79th St., we talked about... perspective in life, how fiction is necessary to help us make sense of reality which in turn is usually more unbelievable than fiction (to cannibalize the tired cliché), that Jules Verne was very much ahead of his time which is most evident in his books that are lost from the mindscape of the masses, that Henry Miller is seriously outdated, we agreed that a book should be read and then passed on to a friend (unless it sucks), and that if there were a moratorium on writing new novels, we would be ok living with all the body of work that exists to-date. Ok nothing super deep, but damn it felt good like a surprise breeze out of somewhere.

Descartes said, "the reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest men of past centuries." I know this because there’s a plaque embedded into the sidewalk on 41st Street leading to the New York Public Library with this quote that I walk on every day going to work.
This is only partly true because a book is only active in one direction, from author to reader. A story will always be that, as it should be. Hence, storyteller rather than…I don’t know, storydiscusser?

I ended up missing my stop at 79th Street because we were so engrossed in our discussion. Before I ran out the door at 86th, we both agreed that we were going to read more books this summer, AND have more conversations with strangers on the train.