Thursday, November 12, 2009
I'm doing a reading on Saturday, in Brooklyn: 298 Eckford, Apt. 1R off the Greenpoint G train, 8PM being the time. The bill looks as such:
...and many more....
There's this facebook invite, if you like that sort of thing.
I've made a fair number of copies of a book. It looks like something I would have made when I was 17. I can't stop laughing everytime I look at it. It's called Electric Blimp. Four poems and one story. Here is a piece of that story:
No hay una pena más grande que una casa sucia
He swung the hammer down and porcelain shattered. Again. Again. Again. The hammer fell and shards of glass leapt up then fell in arcs onto the counter, the floor, and the hammer rose. Again. Samuel swung from his heels. Came off his feet on contact. Hand thrown across his face to shield his eyes.
When it was done the kitchen lay littered with small sharp glass. Every dish in the house smashed except: 1 plate 1 bowl 1 glass 1 mug 1 fork 1 knife 1 spoon 1 pot 1 pan. These were dripping dry, freshly washed.
Samuel stepped back. Let the hammer fall to the floor. The sink: full of broken glass, bent and twisted silverware and knives. How would he get it out of there? He began to question his decision.
It had taken time to find the hammer. From thought to deed, no mere instant. He had searched, drawers and closet, before finding it. There had been a moment: on his knees rummaging violently under the sink, he had thought perhaps this is not the best idea. He had ignored it. But now he was certain: this had not been the best idea.
But it had been necessary to do something. The dish situation, a long standing irritation, demanded to be solved. He would wash them. Then dirty them. Then put them in the sink. And they would gather there birthing a strange grey sludge that filled all small gaps, those between fork tines for example, and clogged the drain. All dishes would need to be removed, the drain cleared, before washing could rightly commence. This would disturb the insect’s nests. The air would grow thick with them. Some sort of gnat or fruit fly in mass exodus toward the sky, their homes destroyed. Clear the drain. Clean the sink. Wash the dishes. Then make dinner. After dinner: dishes in the sink and Samuel would think: he didn’t want to wash them today, he had already chored today, and anyway he had just eaten, wanted to relax, read a book, smoke a few cigarettes, etc. In a matter of days the insects were again laying eggs.
This had often bothered him. He had often felt powerless against it. But today a simple question asked itself: why did he own so many dishes in the first place? There was no answer, and the way forward was thereby glimpsed.
First thought: Donate them to a thrift store.
Problems: The dishes would have to be cleaned. They would have to be boxed up and carried. There were no thrift stores nearby. There was no one to borrow a wagon from. This meant taking the subway. Taking up two seats or the entire aisle. Disrupting the already harrowing commute. For this becoming an object of scorn universally loathed.
Second thought: Put them out on the curb.
Problems: The dishes would have to be cleaned. They would have to be boxed up. A sign would have to be made. Free dishes. This would attract the scroungers. They constantly combed the city in search of just such a windfall. He had seen them. Sad and lonely men, on bicycles with unnatural payload capabilities, in haggard pick up trucks, pushing jalopied shopping carts. They would swarm and return every day, believing the best place to find something free was a place where they’d already found it. If they were out there, milling about, Samuel might feel guilty. He might begin to give away things he needed.
Third thought: Throw them away.
Benefits: The dishes would not have to cleaned.
Problems: In the dumpster, anyone might see them. Garbage pickers, yet more sad than scroungers, or anyone else. They would see perfectly good dishes in the trash and wonder: what kind of a jerk just throws dishes away, why not donate them to a thrift store, or put them out on the curb, why throw out perfectly serviceable dishes? Unbroken dishes?
Fourth thought: There was a hammer somewhere.