(no subject)
And at some point walking east along 125th, a few blocks past Broadway, she was attacked in the gut. A fistful of intestines and other internal mess was yanked out of her midsection by a hand she could immediately feel but the voice that was its partner seemed so far away. The sour of vomit and utter revulsion started its steady ascent up her throat. First it felt like a hummingbird attempting to clamor its way out of her esophagus with a steady, frantic flapping of iridescent wings. Then it morphed into a tennis ball, larger but rounder and she swallowed it whole...because one must keep up appearances, especially in public.
And at some point walking east along 125th, now only a few blocks from Lenox, she died.
Looking back, she thinks it was a beautiful day--the kind of day where the sky is painted an aching and searing blue. The simple kind of day where she can almost believe in God. She remembers she was going shopping to prepare for a big night out. She might have even been humming a little and swinging her purse. She knows that vision of herself is bullshit...she never really swings her purse, she rarely hums on the slate streets of New York. However, this vision fits the surreal sheen of it all. And really, when she consciously tries to remember, all she can conjure is a steel grey palette of fog and rain. That's the kind of day it really must have been. An utterly miserable day would only seem fitting for the day she died.
A few days later underground, she paused from her reading and in the steady thunka-da-thunk womb warmth of the subway, she dogeared a page while she bit her lip and a tiny pink nub of her tongue rested in the corner of her mouth. She tried to numb the memory. But proclaiming there, on page 336 of her well worn Kerouac, three words shouted at her and begged for her attention.
A beast of immense stature came tearing through the doors that connected the train, swayed with the rhythm, grasped poles in the green flourescent glare. His unwashed clothes and needy hands and desperate pleas and general presence fueled an initial staccato of internalized anger and irritability...Why are you interrupting my reading and my bright, pleasant day?!?...LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE YOUFUCKINGSTUPIDASSHOLE! I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU REPRESENT THE WORST OF WHAT COULD BE ME AND I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU REPRESENT WHAT I HOPE TO NEVER BE AND I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOUR WORLD DOESN'T CONSIDER ME IT ONLY CONSIDERS YOURSELF, YOURFUCKINGSELFISHSELF.
He continues to sway through the car, this monster of Reality, and if he talks too much he is dismissed because he has already announced himself for what he is. "I apologize because I am a bum and because I smell foul and have matted hair. I apologize for the ugliness that is me. I apologize because I place my burden of ugliness upon you, you innocent quiet commuters to work and play. I place my burden of ugliness upon you because I myself feel guilty and ashamed about my ugliness. If I can release this burden of mine and give it to you, my load will be lightened and I can sleep peacefully knowing that you have witnessed the holes in my socks."
And the biggest lie of all is that he does this all for your benefit. Forgive and you can later walk the streets of 125th knowing that you have strolled the unselfish path. You have distributed your coins to the bum of Reality and you are a sympathetic and good human, fat and contented on the nourishment of your charity, blessed with the virtues of forgiveness and "turning the other cheek" platitudes that make us all live in a world of flowers and clean, shiny hair and sterile moments that smell pleasant. Continue to be angry and ignore him and you are the shameful one, unsympathetic to the plight of man, unrelenting in your views, tightfisted and hard-veined with the cords that strangle your cold, dead heart.
And rain sleeps.--Kerouac, Visions of Cody
Your hate for him--for the him that is Reality painted in the broadest and most crude strokes, Reality painted in greys and dim blacks--this energetic and most thorough hate has melted into apathy. And although you didn't anticipate, didn't see the bum through the greasy window pane tearing drunkenly through the previous car, you've still witnessed him all so often before. Same scenario, different bum. Same contentedness shattered by similar careless, grime-tinted hands. The hate becomes useless, too active, too full of energy.
So you become apathetic to what is now just a passing shadow. If you wait long enough, his cumbersome and obtrusive existence will pass into someone else's sphere, ride someone else's train and taint somewhere other than the plastic, orange seat you sit upon.
And then you remember that none of it really matters because you died days ago.
And at some point walking east along 125th, now only a few blocks from Lenox, she died.
Looking back, she thinks it was a beautiful day--the kind of day where the sky is painted an aching and searing blue. The simple kind of day where she can almost believe in God. She remembers she was going shopping to prepare for a big night out. She might have even been humming a little and swinging her purse. She knows that vision of herself is bullshit...she never really swings her purse, she rarely hums on the slate streets of New York. However, this vision fits the surreal sheen of it all. And really, when she consciously tries to remember, all she can conjure is a steel grey palette of fog and rain. That's the kind of day it really must have been. An utterly miserable day would only seem fitting for the day she died.
A few days later underground, she paused from her reading and in the steady thunka-da-thunk womb warmth of the subway, she dogeared a page while she bit her lip and a tiny pink nub of her tongue rested in the corner of her mouth. She tried to numb the memory. But proclaiming there, on page 336 of her well worn Kerouac, three words shouted at her and begged for her attention.
A beast of immense stature came tearing through the doors that connected the train, swayed with the rhythm, grasped poles in the green flourescent glare. His unwashed clothes and needy hands and desperate pleas and general presence fueled an initial staccato of internalized anger and irritability...Why are you interrupting my reading and my bright, pleasant day?!?...LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE YOUFUCKINGSTUPIDASSHOLE! I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU REPRESENT THE WORST OF WHAT COULD BE ME AND I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU REPRESENT WHAT I HOPE TO NEVER BE AND I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOUR WORLD DOESN'T CONSIDER ME IT ONLY CONSIDERS YOURSELF, YOURFUCKINGSELFISHSELF.
He continues to sway through the car, this monster of Reality, and if he talks too much he is dismissed because he has already announced himself for what he is. "I apologize because I am a bum and because I smell foul and have matted hair. I apologize for the ugliness that is me. I apologize because I place my burden of ugliness upon you, you innocent quiet commuters to work and play. I place my burden of ugliness upon you because I myself feel guilty and ashamed about my ugliness. If I can release this burden of mine and give it to you, my load will be lightened and I can sleep peacefully knowing that you have witnessed the holes in my socks."
And the biggest lie of all is that he does this all for your benefit. Forgive and you can later walk the streets of 125th knowing that you have strolled the unselfish path. You have distributed your coins to the bum of Reality and you are a sympathetic and good human, fat and contented on the nourishment of your charity, blessed with the virtues of forgiveness and "turning the other cheek" platitudes that make us all live in a world of flowers and clean, shiny hair and sterile moments that smell pleasant. Continue to be angry and ignore him and you are the shameful one, unsympathetic to the plight of man, unrelenting in your views, tightfisted and hard-veined with the cords that strangle your cold, dead heart.
And rain sleeps.--Kerouac, Visions of Cody
Your hate for him--for the him that is Reality painted in the broadest and most crude strokes, Reality painted in greys and dim blacks--this energetic and most thorough hate has melted into apathy. And although you didn't anticipate, didn't see the bum through the greasy window pane tearing drunkenly through the previous car, you've still witnessed him all so often before. Same scenario, different bum. Same contentedness shattered by similar careless, grime-tinted hands. The hate becomes useless, too active, too full of energy.
So you become apathetic to what is now just a passing shadow. If you wait long enough, his cumbersome and obtrusive existence will pass into someone else's sphere, ride someone else's train and taint somewhere other than the plastic, orange seat you sit upon.
And then you remember that none of it really matters because you died days ago.