This was a status on Facebook (yes, aren't you glad you're not friends with me?), but I haven't posted in a while, so I figured I'd throw this up here. I"m thinking of scrapping this blog and starting a new one, with a specific topic in mind. This, once again, seems to have run its course.
Ahhh, a balmy Monday morning in Ithaca. Sunday's trash, which has been sitting on the sidewalk for 18 hours, still sits, rummaged through by nocturnal creatures that stand on both two and four legs. The sullen dog owner across the street must be done with his chore of owning, yes owning, his pet.
The forecast calls for heat and humidity, which should bring chants of a second summer. As poets and their prose counterparts write tales, with their thinly veiled allusions to a return to the womb. Mother replaces the youth they lust for, or vice versa, depending on their audience. The delusions of mass acceptance, more important than the words.
I sit, with hot food and cool coffee, wondering if I can use the microwave and the toaster at the same time. My friend staring at me, wondering why I slept at night. A trip to the central New York Mecca of middle eastern delights, returned only frozen falafel, but the mighty Wegman's apparently had a finer chick pea spread.
It's only Monday, or as they call it here in Ithaca, Trash Day. Still an outsider, I haven't let on, that every day is, this is just the day they make room for more of the same. I feel like this is groundhog's day, with the Indian couple fast walking, the short guy with the big dog, the tall guy with the little dog and the ever present sounds of crickets, reminding me of their existence, like a fluorescent bulb, buzzing and flickering, waiting to die, but hanging on, for what seems like forever.
Is it nighttime yet? I need a movie to take me away from here.
Ahhh, a balmy Monday morning in Ithaca. Sunday's trash, which has been sitting on the sidewalk for 18 hours, still sits, rummaged through by nocturnal creatures that stand on both two and four legs. The sullen dog owner across the street must be done with his chore of owning, yes owning, his pet.
The forecast calls for heat and humidity, which should bring chants of a second summer. As poets and their prose counterparts write tales, with their thinly veiled allusions to a return to the womb. Mother replaces the youth they lust for, or vice versa, depending on their audience. The delusions of mass acceptance, more important than the words.
I sit, with hot food and cool coffee, wondering if I can use the microwave and the toaster at the same time. My friend staring at me, wondering why I slept at night. A trip to the central New York Mecca of middle eastern delights, returned only frozen falafel, but the mighty Wegman's apparently had a finer chick pea spread.
It's only Monday, or as they call it here in Ithaca, Trash Day. Still an outsider, I haven't let on, that every day is, this is just the day they make room for more of the same. I feel like this is groundhog's day, with the Indian couple fast walking, the short guy with the big dog, the tall guy with the little dog and the ever present sounds of crickets, reminding me of their existence, like a fluorescent bulb, buzzing and flickering, waiting to die, but hanging on, for what seems like forever.
Is it nighttime yet? I need a movie to take me away from here.
OK Marcel, I have an idea for your new blog. In Search of Lost Time, but instead of Proust, it's Hop! You try to fall asleep but instead start thinking about your childhood in Brooklyn and writing sentences 19 lines long, about having a really good cookie or something when you were a kid. I'm a genius. You're welcome.
ReplyDeleteIt's my next endeavor....but 19 line sentences, seems a little much. Maybe Haiku....or some other sushi place.
DeleteOK Marcel, I have an idea for your new blog. In Search of Lost Time, but instead of Proust, it's Hop! You try to fall asleep but instead start thinking about your childhood in Brooklyn and writing sentences 19 lines long, about having a really good cookie or something when you were a kid. I'm a genius. You're welcome.
ReplyDeleteI think you also need to write about how our childhoods were traumatized by having nothing to watch on the TV on Sundays other than "Small Wonder" the worst show ever to be created with the three most annoying children to ever be born. Gah! I just had a flashback of the redhead. I need to lie down now.
ReplyDeleteSmall Wonder was a creepy show and those kids, especially that little ginger freak were terrifying. I think I was waiting for Punk Brewster to grow up when this was on....Poiv!
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