I'm writing to you for the first time on my new iMac. The keyboard is very, very strange, and I keep missing keys. What is it? It must be smaller. I don't know. Q will. He'll give me the answer. I have a track pad instead of a mouse, too, but that is similar to the Power Book, so. . . .
I've cleaned and organized for three days now. I've bought organizers and shelving and still the shit is everywhere. I've thrown away a giant garbage can full of things including old hardware and software that are outdated. And still I haven't gotten to the floor. And when I get to the flotsam and jetsam--35 mm and 6 cm negatives--I don't know what to do. I've been cutting and sleeving for an hour. I remember how much I hate it.
I cooked dinner for my mother tonight, and as it was New Year's Day, I made beans and rice and pork. The beans, I mean. Good luck, right? So we ate and drank and watched a movie. When she left, I got back to work, which is where I am now. I've got my Nikon Super CoolScan 9000 hooked up to an old laptop which will still work with it and am scanning negatives for a friend. And while that is going on, I am loading new software onto the big computer. Professor Gadget. I'm pretty sick of it.
Going through the "junk" today, though, I came across a box of old letters, stories, poems, and letters. And oh, how my heart was pulled. Not by my writing which was naive and jejune, but by the letters. Get ready. Leave or stay. But they will be making their ways into the cafe soon. There are letters and notes and little gifts and cards and talismans and I can't bear to throw them away. And so it is that over a lifetime one can collect enough pieces of paper and old photographs that there is no place to put them.
Used to, at least. For a newer generation, it all fits on a couple of hard drives. Good for them. . . maybe.
The days have worn me out. I am only beginning to recover, but like you, I must return to work this week. And then. . . .
I love the word jejune.
ReplyDeleteJejune the lightning bugs
Major Tom seemed distracted
sitting at the table alone.
Mrs. T, as silent as always
watched TV, religious essays
mostly with holy commercials
for books and CD’s,
they forgot to mention
the country estates and Purple Cadillacs.
At Christmas Major Tom
wore a silly hat
surrounded by red and green
said it’s not about that,
it’s really not.
He said that every year.
the Fourth estate didn’t say a word,
He said he thought about Lot
alot if it was not hot,
Mornings he’ll drive by the Row houses
past the city parking lot
looking for pretty girls,
that’s not something he talked about
under the willow in the evening with his tea.
Mrs. T retired in a flannel gown.
Major Tom they said
didn’t sleep at all
gazed at the night sky
right through the upstairs neighbors floor~
There were preparations for the war
vast liners loaded with fresh meat
and ayatollahs were born.
Video tape was cheap,
dvd 11000 was the one they played most days,
but Mrs. T continued to watch religious Porn
and Tom didn’t care anymore.
He would often call for bug spray
from his lawn chair
He loved to watch the flies twitch and die,
she wouldn’t hear though
so he’d go look for himself,
rummage in the garage
where it never was. Some days
the police would roll by pretending
they were looking for dope, when
they were just avoiding work.
A personal choice.
Martyrs play cards in the green room
waiting to go on,
As if they had one,
what with credit cards, cars,
and new homes
with drives leading to the main road,
some used brooms
but most, piling up debt
had vacuums attached to tiny tractors.
Tom let the leaves lie
believing God was in every one
so he said,
Most Sundays.
There was an old radiator by the fence
the neighbors said it would have been worth
twenty-five dollars at the salvage yard
but Tom said
the squirrels used it for storing nuts.
Most things Tom Did
he did in Homage To The Lord,
or for free rides to the liquor store.
They said there were murmurs of discontent
but that was just talk,
there was always a new Cd
or a Movie to see.
If things interfered with
Consumer confidence
they put the president on TV
which only irritated Mrs. T,
since the preachers got covered up
by electronic snow.
Afterwards
jejune the lightning bugs
at Uncle Harry’s Barbecue
Major Tom trotted out his paper jars
but no-one was amused.
Leisurely the flight of the cigarette,
the second finger and thumb,
flicked
through the gathering twilight,
towards the pool.
Tom sighed.
Nothing’s easy anymore,
just a list of things.
Tom said,
there not being much in the way
of poetry in those days.
by a favorite pote of mine.
And then...
ReplyDeleteI burned some old letters...thought it would be cathartic but instead it was a lot of smoke and stink.
L, Needs be given credit. I'm still puzzling.
ReplyDeleteR, So did I. Read about it today.