Today On My Mind II

Oct 25, 2004 12:22

For minn, Today On My Mind II:
Minn's last TOMM: click!
My last TOMM: click!

Memories On My Mind

• Sam festered amongst a pile of bulging trash bags, peering at the colorful plastic buttons on his tape recorder. Punching them angrily he began shouting, "I don't give a damn about emotion" repeatedly.

• With a screech and a hiss, the rickety N-train pulled into the Times Square station. A long row of commuters gazed through the window at a lone potted orchid sitting in its own seat, which rolled past their eyes before the train stopped. I didn't know where it was headed, who its owner was, or what prompted its escape. But no one seemed to bother it. The train jerked and the orchid resumed its strange journey.

• I followed a little cat that slipped by in the corner of my eye. I followed it past the 7B bar, past the Earth School, past the Zips II deli where the clown shops, past the "East Village Thing". A few blocks later I was astonished to find it resting against the side of a building. Alas, it was not a cat, but a witch's broom.

• The satisfaction of saying one of my favorite words, "Ariadne," over and over again. Whispering it into my coffee, and stirring. Whispering it into the water swirling down the drain. Whispering it into secret places where sounds normally don't penetrate as offerings for an intimate darkness...

• I sat at a cafe, trying to concentrate on my work, while my neighbor shifted in his seat, quietly expelling gas. Suddenly I was overcome with a sting originating from my nose but spreading to my whole body. It was like walking through the fish markets in Chinatown on a hot summer day when the rotting, dried fish have been sitting out in the sweltering heat. The salty tang of rotting fish, moldy, crusted shark, the baths of squid parts gunked with beady, vengeful eyeballs.

• I walked out onto the street after having my hair cut. I decided to try out my newly manicured hairdo on the first person I passed to see if a good haircut gives a person an edge in life. I spoke to an old Jewish man selling hand-painted country signs on the street. He told me his history as an artist, introduced me to his friends, told jokes for quite a long time, and offered me a job whereby he would pay me with my own custom hand-painted country signs.

• I stepped out onto a deck with my early morning coffee to find a swirling romance emerging from the woods. Tendrils of light-splashed fog wound through the trees like delicate ribbons of veils, caressing the mighty trunks of silent oaks that sparkled from the perspiration of apparent arousal.

• Block after block of warmly glowing tents served up Italian food and pastries at the St. Gennaro festival as a slow-moving flow of wide-eyed and salivating visitors waddled up and down attempted rows. They bumped shoulders and squeezed through gaps to gawk at the mammoth, stuffed bears, grinning maniacally. Everywhere, people threw baseballs at targets, gnawed at colossal sandwiches, inhaled the sausage breeze, and danced a dance infused with garlic around saintly candles with wick-tipped crowns and crimson robes.

• A neighborhood circus set up their stage in the park down the street. I settled down with my lunch, as I prefer to take my sandwich while amusing characters twirl about, flaunting their kaleidoscope costumes. Small children were spread about the pavement, on their trembling hands and feet, gazing at the empty stage with greedy eyes. A sole announcer mounted the platform, shouting whimsied gibberish from a megaphone. The children spotted performers with large foam heads leaking from behind the stage, but they held back, adhering to an unspoken Law delaying the moment of impact until after the performers emerge properly from the flap at the back of the stage. Finally, in a moment of astonishing magnetism, the flap spewed forth jugglers, tricyclists, dancers, fire breathers, puppeteers, clowns, musicians, as the children rushed the stage in titanic merriment.

• At the end of my leg, nervously propped up most of the day while I sit back and work endlessly, I discovered a small example of revolt, significant nonetheless. My left big toe had constructed a small window in my sock, just big enough for my nail to peer through with an acute, anthropomorphic expression of disappointment aimed at me.

• A group of young students gathered at the cafe, joking about their day and sharing school gossip. Eventually, a haggard fellow wandered over and sat down in a comfy chair next to them. "Can you spare some change?" he said, "I'm homeless." The once jovial students went silent. One of them finally pulled out some change which turned through the hands of each student before landing hesitantly in the palm of the homeless man. The students nervously attempted to restart their conversation, but failed. Finally, the cashier noticed and came by. "You can't stay here," he said to the homeless man, "you've got to go." The students' ears perked up. Suddenly this was an ugly language they understood. Suddenly the homeless man was on their side. They bought him a muffin so he could stay. Immediately he was initiated into a world of high school gossip and reverie.

• I skinned some potatoes, chopped them into small cubes, then boiled them until semi-soft. I lightly dusted the potatoes with cinnamon, then sauteed them briefly in chocolate syrup, letting the sweetness become absorbed. This is how I practice making a culinary aphrodisiac for a certain potato and chocolate lover of mine.

• The fiery leaves, swollen pumpkins, speckled gourds, curious animals, hay rides, fudge, apples, pies, flowers, jams, Indian corn...

























Please, if you have the time, respond to any one of these memories...

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