monday monday

I figure I will start typing now and stop when I am not so annoyed at my own existence.

So, I'm good with offerings
not so good at anything else.
Expect nothing -- and that is exactly what I get. Often, really.
I suppose it is my own fault for not asking for more.
But who the fuck wants to ask? Right?

This is rubbish and it doesn't belong here, but this is the only safe place I have to post anything anymore. So ------- here it is.

It is Monday. I don't generally hate Mondays. They are the natural start of the week. It is Tuesday that depresses me. It sits in the middle and goes nowhere until finally Hump Day smiles it's grin at you and reminds you the week will end eventually.

Ok, so I don't normally hate Mondays. I hate this one. I should have stayed in bed.

Maybe I should have gone to the parade in NYC, found me a nice guido to fool around with until I got bored, stumbled drunk to Penn Station, and passed out depressed and embarassed in my bed tonight.

Maybe not.

At least it would be better than what I have to show for my day so far.

I'm not really bitchy. I'm just worn out. I am tired of trying.

lost in Central Park

Somewhere between the Delacorte Theater and Belvedere Castle it dawned on me;

I had vinewarped into a strange and different world. There were no people rushing to meet the next rush to meet the next wait, and the sound of motors and angry cab drivers honking rage at their colleagues was gone.

Beneath a bridge I fell in love:

an anonymous saxaphone player
stalked me with his maniloquent music.

I had stumbled over some invisible line between now and when; the clickclickclack of horse-driven carriages made me feel like Amy March traipsing through Europe in 1868; sipping the hands of dandies and sketching her home away from home.

The hookah smoking caterpillar slipped off between the trees on the Literary Walk; I heard his grumpy harumph - his New York 'fuck you' - while I daydreamed of Shakespeare plotting to steal my heart and poison it for the sake of art.

Lady Liberty accosted me; pointed her finger knowingly:

'You've given up hope.'

I plodded past her on pudding knees;
eager to discard cynicism
& find a new nightmare.

There was a narrow sidewalk. At six-foot intervals I watched as people sneezed their essence onto sketchpads. Each one ended up with the same 'anywhere but here' smile stamped onto their blank expressions, the artists' calling card, their claim to fame.

Snippets of radiochatter conversations bubbled through & tripped me back into reality. There were cell phones there and women who were worried about getting their chicken at the best price. There were men who asked for directions; a clear indication that they had fallen through the same rabbit hole as I had and were blundering their way back towards sunlight with out-of-character ego swallowing.

In the blink of an eye the world started again. I could taste the rind and smell the backwash of humanity as it sloughed its way into the bowels of New York City.