bridging the minor gap

Astonishing proof of our gleeful (again, shocker) presence at the Bridgeport Sound Tigers hockey game last Sunday 02-22-2015. My warmest thanks to all the Amtrak Conductors with which I conversed. The queer (or so it at first seemed) amalgamation of an early Sunday, Southern Connecticut, steady stepping, train station picnics, testosterone snarling minor league ice kings – losing by one, Russia, Canada, Columbia, America, America, America, ‘merica, burner phones, Murphy’s Stout on draft, snakeskin, and early afternoon to late-night dance moves yielded a Monday morning soreness only because the party was over.

BridgeportBridgeportBridgeportBridgeport

young and earnest – HYPE!

HYPE!

Tuesday, February 24, 2015Keep Calm and Hartford On6 pm to 8 pm  City Steam Brewery’s Richardson Room, 942 Main Street, Conn. 06108 FREE Registration kindly encouraged – do it do it do it do it

HYPE’s Civic Engagement Committee invites you to Keep Calm and Hartford On, a Family Feud-style event where the differences between perception and reality on transportation in the Hartford region will be addressed.  The game show will begin at 6:15 pm, and after the game show ends, participants will have the opportunity to break into smaller groups with the expert of their choice to ask direct questions and have conversations!  Complimentary hors d’oeuvre will be provided, and there will be a cash bar. Parking is free on the street after 6 pm, and there are garages nearby. Use the handy-dandy parking map.

Speakers:
Mr. Russell McDermott, CTrides
Ms. Sandy Fry, Greater Hartford Transit District
Ms. Lisa Rivers, CT DOT

We can’t wait to see you. :D

versus verses (and to looking into peoples’ houses)

Charles Bukowski “To Lean Back Into It”

like in a chair the color of the sun
as you listen to lazy piano music
and the aircraft overhead are not
at war.
where the last drink is as good as
the first
and you realize that the promises
you made yourself were
kept.
that’s plenty.
that last: about the promises:
what’s not so good is that the few
friends you had are
dead and they seem
irreplacable.
as for women, you didn’t know enough
early enough
and you knew enough
too late.
and if more self-analysis is allowed: it’s
nice that you turned out well-
honed,
that you arrived late
and remained generally
capable.
outside of that, not much to say
except you can leave without
regret.
until then, a bit more amusement,
a bit more endurance,
leaning back
into it.
like the dog who got across
the busy street:
not all of it was good
luck.

Denise Levertov “A Clearing”

What lies at the end of enticing
country driveways, curving
off among trees? Often only
a car graveyard, a house-trailer,
a trashy bungalow. But this one,
for once, brings you
through the shade of its green tunnel
to a paradise of cedars,
of lawns mown but not too closely,
of iris, moss, fern, rivers of stone rounded
by sea or stream,
of a wooden unassertive large-windowed house.
The big trees enclose
an expanse of sky, trees and sky
together protect the clearing.
One is sheltered here
from the assaultive world
as if escaped from it, and yet
once arrived, is given (oneself
and others being a part of that world)
a generous welcome.
It’s paradise
as a paradigm for how
to live on earth,
how to be private and open
quiet and richly eloquent.
Everything man-made here
was truly made by the hands
of those who live here, of those
who live with what they have made.
It took time, and is growing still
because it’s alive.
It is paradise, and paradise
is a kind of poem; it has
a poem’s characteristics:
inspiration; starting with the given;
unexpected harmonies; revelations.
It’s rare among
the worlds one finds
at the end of enticing driveways.

12-03-2011 High Advances

When I lived in Queens, I got the hots for an art dealer named Damon. It was an attraction that came mostly out of boredom and lack of money. He had great hair, wore sharp jackets, and packed at least $300 cash in pocket change. I found his swagger sardonic and amusing enough, so I accepted his offer for a night out.

He plucked me from the Upper East Side in a dented Porsche 945, bumper scraping the curb as he tucked it into park. Lighting a cigarette, he emerged, looking uncomfortable, fucked-up, and well dressed.

I walked to the car wearing a men’s pinstriped Burberry shirtwaist over tights, and looked at him in vain attempt to decipher the deviousness I was about to firmly grind myself down into.

We drove first to SoHo and pulled off onto a cute cobblestone side street. He chain smoked and condemned various auction houses.

“Bloodsuckers, every one of them.” Grumbling, he smoothed his hair back and stared into the dark at the street ahead, then towards me.

I laughed. “Oh, forget about it for now.” Smiling, I was for the time being amused, but knew there was no heart to the evening.

A burst of congeniality overcame him. “You care if I do a bump? I need something…to bring me up.” He took out a small bag of cocaine and proceeded to cut up on his MacBook in the driver’s seat.

I looked at him making no attempt to mask my smirk. “Nope.”

He returned the sentiment. “…You want some?”

I blinked, smiled, and felt delightfully emotionless. “Yep.”

We crashed a few clubs in the area, each one exactly the same as the last. I danced and conveniently ignored him, hit on men and drank Red Stripe’s on his generously wide open tab.

“Having a good time?!” He awkwardly cut through the crowd to inquire.

“Sure! Absolutely.” I took another sip of my beer and swayed my shoulders, strategically awaiting his next question. The lights blinked pink and green and silver and red.

“Ok!” He looked awkward; hungry, clutching his Heineken.

“Ok,” I said, and kept dancing.

He insisted we drive to Woodside – of all places – a dour, concrete-gray industrial part of Queens, and stop at a bar that happened to be open at early morning on a Thursday. Other than an older man passed out beside the jukebox, the two of us were its only patrons.

The bartender was a woman around 34 years old; an agreeable looking blonde who knew how to pour a pint, and after realizing we were alone, proceeded to light up a few cigarettes and, appropriately as possible, disregard our presence.

Strung out and slightly too jittery from free blow, I went on about how New York, the ‘city that never sleeps’ should ‘very well Goddamn take a nap by now’, insisting it were in dire need. He listened with a perplexed expression, and because I couldn’t think of anything else to put the evening in its grave, proceeded to kiss him on the mouth at the bar. The blonde was not impressed and continued smoking.

After we left, he drove me back to my apartment and double parked across from the building. “So…” He rested his hands on the top of the steering wheel. I heard the Porsche’s hazard lights ticking away in time with unknown rhythm; it was 5:25 AM.

“Yeah…well! Thanks for the ride and the beer. It was a fun night.” I lied.

He reached out for my leg and grasped my knee tightly. “Stay.”

“No…I’ve got to go, thanks.” I looked at him blankly. “Got to get up early.” More lies.

His hand reached up into my hair to pull my face into his but I resisted. “Come on!” He looked like he was on the verge of folding a painfully long poker game he thought for sure he’d emerge king of.

“Nah, I’ve got to go.” I paused then, and looked at him in the most bastardized version of an earnest expression I could come up with. “Work tomorrow, you know…” I sighed; the breath sounded horribly ragged, catching on unknown debris moving through my throat. “…if only the damn train wasn’t so expensive.”

His eyes glistened. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah, sometimes…I just don’t know what I’ll do…”

He reached into his pocket, hand still grasping my knee. “Here…” He pulled a fresh, crisp $100 from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. Instantly, and in slight disbelief I crumpled it into my fist.

“Thank you.” I was a robot.

He leaned closer, “Stay…”

I looked at him and grinned. “No, I’ve got to go. Thanks, though.”

He grabbed my hand as I attempted to exit the car. I whipped my head around.

“Goddamnit, come on!” I only stared at him, expression unchanged from an indistinguishable blankness – I did not care. His hand around my wrist loosened, then quickly dropped in defeat.

I smiled neatly, “Thanks for the ride,” and exited the car, shut the door, and crossed the street to my apartment.

Inside I leaned my forehead and placed both hands against the cold metal of the door. My breath came back at me hot, and clouded my eyes. Everything smelled of chemicals. After several minutes I hear the Porsche pull away. I slept on the couch, fully clothed, still in coat and shoes, and clutching keys.

The late morning was piercingly bright and I awoke much too soon. My vision adjusted to the dust in the air moving about the room, illuminated in sun and the color of butter. Still horizontal, I unclenched my fist and found the $100 still pressed into my palm, crushed into the size of a postage stamp. I grinned at the ridiculousness of the past cluster of hours, sat up and straightened my hair as best I could, which had tangled itself into what felt like a solid mass.

The stoop chilled my legs through the thin nylon but the sun was strong for late November. I lit one of the cigarettes given to me last night; I couldn’t remember from whom precisely, just that I wanted them more because they were being offered rather than having to ask. The city traffic whirred along, working itself into one constant noise and stream of people. All lasciviousness of the night passed had been dismissed, as easily as one would forget an evening in front of the television.  The day was ordinary and it was precious, and all were soothed by its familiarity like warm milk.

I stubbed out my cigarette, ground my heels into the pavement and started down the glittering sidewalk to catch the train to work.