Keep My Words

Years ago at the Wreck Room I encountered a street magician.

“Think of a friend’s name, any friend, and concentrate on that person,” he said.

I did as he instructed. However, I had two friends by this name, and both spelled it unconventionally. Images of them both occupied my mind. “Okay,” I told him as I awaited his next move.

He seemed confused. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something’s… unclear. Do you have two friends by this name?” he asked.

I was shocked, but not yet impressed. “Yes,” I admitted.

“Concentrate on one of them,” he advised me.

And so I did. Immediately I pictured only one of the friend’s faces in my mind, and I held it there. “You’re thinking of your friend Bryan,” the magician said.

He was right.  Now I was impressed. Not long after that I went on a date with him. Honestly, I wasn’t very attracted to him. It was the magic. I longed to know how he did it. He told me that I could do it too, and that I just had to start small and practice. I never went out with him again. Maybe I was partially frustrated that he wouldn’t tell me his secrets, and in some measure I didn’t really want to know how he did it. It would be like finding out that Santa Claus wasn’t real or that David Copperfield couldn’t fly. I am naive regarding strangers’ illusions and leery towards peoples’ intentions. The wall I am building unintentionally started before I can remember. It provides innocence for art and skepticism about motives. This may or may not hinder me in some way.

In any case, I decided to amputate some of the magic in my life, so I researched lightning bugs and the theremin. It turns out, neither are the products of enchantment. The bio-luminescence of lightning bugs is simply the effect of enzymes and oxygen.  They use it to attract mates.  The males fly around and flash in search of females.  The females do not fly, but instead they sit and glow in response to the males.  I wonder how many human lives would be made easy by this method of copulation.  Any question of interest would be answered by a tiny shimmer fueled by the unavoidable company of oxygen.

Then there is the theremin.  The instrument makes music without any contact from the player.  It’s as though the performer is playing the air.  His/her hands must accurately touch the nothingness between antennas in order to create song.  This is made possible by electric signals and a person skilled in pitch and precision, not spells and sorcery.  Still I want to play the theremin, and I want to tell everyone who is unaware of its inner workings that magic controls the device.

And like the magician told me, I will say that they can learn.  It just takes practice.  Maybe those who I tell will decide that sometimes, bewilderment is better; sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

We were at the duck celebrating Braden’s one year anniversary of living in New York. It is so Brades to celebrate that. I know this about him, and I haven’t even known him the entire year. Additionally, I was thrilled to be the only non-Omahaian on the email chain discussing this celebratory event.

“You haven’t heard about Brades typing ‘tonight’ into Craigslist? Brades, explain to Ashleigh why you do this,” Mitchell said.

“If you type ‘tonight’ into Craigslist,” Brades began, “you can get tickets for all kinds of things, like Knicks games and stuff. Just type it in the general search on the main page and-”

Q interrupted. “Do NOT type it into personals. You’ll just get cocks. Big black cocks. Real big. Mid-thigh. I saw it. It was real.”

And then he walked in. We didn’t say hello. I’m sure we both saw each other. Of course I know why I didn’t say hello. Clearly there is no way for me to know why he didn’t acknowledge my presence. Does it matter? Depends on who you ask, I suppose. The non-greetings made me think of two people who are very close but never talk. Both will claim that the other never calls, but the phone lines go both ways, so who really isn’t calling who? I can go ahead and be upset that he didn’t say hello, but I didn’t address him either.

The real tragedy here is that I had glued myself back together, but the glue didn’t hold. I’m broken. Actually, it’s partly the glue and in some ways the reassembly. I’m pretty sure I dropped a few pieces of myself down the storm drain, and let’s be honest – who the fuck knows what to do when that happens? Call 3-1-1? Talk to the closest business owner? Ask a construction worker for help? I figure I’ll just let the rats have that bit of me. I’d rather be incomplete and creative than whole and dispassionate.

I spoke with Ian about it tonight.  “I’d say this whole thing has made you a much better writer, and shown people how well you can write,” he said. “Most people I know around your age and mine can hardly manage a complete and logical sentence most of the time, written or spoken.”

This seems a fine opportunity to make clear that this blog is not a diary.  At times I am altering my reality into what I hope is entertaining. It may seem more often dismal than blithe, but I am far from misery. (Those who know me best understand this to be true.) However lately, despondency has been dominating my life. I told Ian I was tired of feeling sad. “When these emotions come up, put them in writing, get them out of your head, and bury them on the page,” he said. “If people don’t like it, they don’t have to read it.”

Although I do hope you keep reading. I am confident that there is an audience for my bleak and ominous words. (My Grandma would be so proud. Morbidness runs in my family, I assure you.) Undoubtedly, there is always a public for macabre, sorrow, and all monstrosities of the human world. Hence why Mitchell and I finally got around to seeing Halloween 2 last night.

“I just don’t get why some people don’t like horror movies,” Mitchell was saying on the walk back to 14th Street. “Maybe the gore…”

“Obviously I agree. The horror movie genre is my absolute favorite,” I told him, as if he didn’t know that about me. “I guess I do understand how, like, when Michael Myers went into the strip club and bashed that stripper’s head into the mirror over and over again as she screamed until she finally died. Maybe that would disturb some people?”

“Maybe? I like that though, I think it’s entertaining,” he admitted.

I couldn’t agree more. “Me too,” I said, “me too.” Thank god I have Mitchell to go to movies with.

In conclusion, if anyone knows Rob Zombie, please let him know that I adore his films and would be honored to work for him, even if it entails mopping up fake blood on movie sets.  And I promise my next blog will be about something other than my stupid life, like the theremin.  I want to write about the theremin and lightning bugs, both of which I consider magical.

I want to burn the buildings down.  I want to spread gasoline on the sidewalks and throw Molotov cocktails into the business fronts.  I want to shoot flame-tipped arrows into the windows of every apartment so that the neighborhood ceases to exist.  I want to light the match.  Anything to not have to see him.  Anything to shut him up.

His voice carries.

To say that I am very excited about this weekend is a massive understatement.

Also, Rona left for Greece today.  I was supposed to go with her, but that changed when I quit my job.  I think it was she and I who were talking recently about people we went to high school with, now on Facebook and married with children.  A less than desirable situation for me, but those people seem comfortable.   “Maybe we’re not ready to be comfortable,” she said.

I agree with that statement on the grounds that it is impossible for me to be comfortable as long as the mechanics in my head remain a complete fucking mess (for lack of better words).  However, and although my feelings on the matter could change, I don’t think being married with children will ever be my idea of contentment.

In any case, those who know me well know that I have little patience with children.  (I also have a hard time tolerating pets.)  Months ago RLD and I went to the Mütter Museum in Philly.  They have an amazing collection of deformed fetuses.  Additionally, the museum boasts a large collection of skulls, cataloged drawers containing 2,000 objects extracted from people’s throats, and a set of sliced sections of the human head.  I was most impressed with the fetuses.  Afterward, we went out to eat.  There was a child at the table behind us making various irritating noises that children often make.  “I like them better when they’re in jars,” I commented.  RLD shushed me.  And he laughed.

Aside from that, I saw another dead bird last night at Prospect Park.  Change.  The other day I was talking with one of my favorite people to converse with, Ian (a.k.a. Ferdinand Bardamu).  He is also the character “Boy” in December 3rd, 2008 at 1:49 p.m.. I asked him what he thinks the most normal thing that people do is.  He said change.

My priorities are changing.  Maybe that’s what this bird died for.

Prospect Park bird (above)

I was at the bar by my house the other night, and I met a boy named Matt.  We were having a lovely conversation, and then…

“I have to leave.  I’m going to my friend Mike’s house for dinner,” I said.

“Why don’t you ditch your friend Mike and come to my apartment and make out with me?” Matt suggested.

“Does that really work on girls?  I just met you an hour ago.  I don’t make out with boys that I just met an hour ago,” I replied.

He looked shocked.  “Really?  You’re a prude.  I’ve given head to people I just met an hour ago.”

“Oh, well that’s really nice of you.  I don’t consider myself a prude.  But I’m still not going home with you,” I told him.

“You’re so cute,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Last night I went to see Evil Dead 2 at McCarren Park.  The band was playing before the movie and I was on my second plastic cup of wine (poured from a 2-liter Sprite bottle) when my phone rang.  It was Allison  “Is that your blog?  Devin says that’s your blog.  Did you quit your job???”

I suppose it’s more appropriate to say that I resigned.  Mike says “quit” implies that I am not working from this point forward.  I gave a month’s notice.  Four more weeks of corporate slavery.

In other news, I am on the road to casting all of my care away.  Not my responsibility, just my care.

care (noun) – a state of mind in which one is troubled; worry, anxiety, or concern; grief; suffering; sorrow

It’s easier said than done.  Stifling my ability to be carefree are the thoughts that plague my mind after last Friday.  It’s not just how you always think of better things to say after the fact.  It’s the plans that you made that you realize aren’t going to happen now.  It’s the inside jokes.  It’s the tangible reminders that you want to throw away or hide, but you don’t.  And it’s thinking that the other side of the equation doesn’t care about any of it.

care (verb) – to feel concern about

These kids were outside of Bar Matchless Sunday after the Pool Party.  Future heart-breakers: