Shake the Dust - Anis Mojgani

=>

Come to the

window,

girls!

Uncertain legs rush

to scale the couch where

slender baby fingers

press flat

against the glass.

Here it

comes.

She smiles.

They look up at her - jubilant, expectant.

The rUMble starts from behind -

west.

It builds slowly until:

it is here!

The windows of

the two family house

vIbrAte

as the mighty train

thunders past

on ivy covered tracks

that dead end

the tree lined block.

From their perch,

the girls shake with the pane

and laugh at

the pOWer of sound.

=>

BLACK SCREEN WITH SOUND OF HEART BEAT - THREE BEATS

-

.a t-rex

crashes down the hallway,

trailing shattered

hardwood footprints.

cornered in the light blue bathroom

cowers aurora behind

.prince phillip.

staY back, my love.as i draw my sword.

.the GREAT Stand Off.

the dragon whips her tail and

- ROARS -

stamping her mighty claws.

fracturing light blue tiles.

with one spectacular stab,

i lunge.green sparks flying.

sword sinking into chest.

enraged, the beast bellows. falls.neck trailing out

the shattered bathroom's door.

.safe.

-

BLACK SCREEN WITH SOUND OF HEART BEAT - THREE BEATS

-

(long corridor of many

colored doors)

the last door slowly opens

.a fearsome snout appears.

T-REX

wearing joe.cool shades sniffs and snorts.

nostrils flare.legs scuff the ground.

.prepare.

react too slow.i stumble.

trip.i turn to run.

she THUNDERS after me

.and then.

- AWAKE -

(have - AWAKE - be it's own screen - two beat flash - small font for the first beat, larger font second - automatically go to next screen - pachelbel's canon will start with she's safe)

She's sAfe.

.just a drEAm.

She lays still for a moment.listening :

running perpendicular

to the right - the rumble of

the train,

a distant siren wAils,

closer soft.even breathing -

sister slumbers soundly

in her bed across the way.

She unhooks her raccoon

from the crook of her arm,

rolls back toward the wall,

hugs him close.close.close

and breathes in.dEEp.

.deep.

.asleep.

(have pachelbel's canon in the background of the part out of the dream - play through picture of ricky)

=>

=>

(circle of life starts playing at presently playing)

Past the light blue.with little pink flowers.wooden arms.chair to the TALL black stereo.big bulky headphones hanging from the swinging.glass door presently playing :

.ahhHH.

.sahVenIa.

.hanaMIshimama.

.shmenshmen.

.shimama.

along the bottom.white floorboard leading to the

OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY

box set.weathered blue case.

little metal knobbed drawer

- open -

.rectangular magnifying glass.

sits squat.prOUd beside

the TALL white bookcase

- her mother's -

barely a book from Before.Conversion.

crowned with an overhanging spider plant

to the picture windows.pitter.patter raindrops

spit through screen to splat on glass.drop drips into drop -

together.fatter.faster -

to the wide.white couch

with thick.white throw.big red and blue embroidered flowers.

bordered in blue fringe

lit from behind.above beside two bins runneth over with toys.one wayward.

trailing

slinky spills out.

across gleaming hardwood through to the kitchen with its round wood table.four wood chairs

.rich brown cabinets.corner window.

clunking white fridge

through to peer down long.dark hallway with its

door

door door

doors

through to the den where futon faces television set.

in the space between two girls.one straight, one curly.

stand on either side of an easel

.drowning in crayola smocks.

straight hair paints a happy cat.pointed ears.big yellow.almond eyes

.rOUnd to curly girl.tongue peeking out right corner.eyes narrowed.head cocked.

painting a triangle body.circle face.red lips.curly black hair.woman against deep.drying blue.

She steps back.considers.

paints green ground.grass.

stalks.leaves.

dip.dip brush.

.stir out the green.

then add red.tulips on either side.

.finishing touch.

A red arch above.then orange.yellow.green.blue.purple borders each below.

.rainbow.

=>

(first art class at new school)

Okay, class -

we have these New crayons.

I want you to fill the page

with all different colored shapes.

Just have fun with it!

Supplies are evenly distributed among tables where little legs dangle twitching.anxious feet.

little bodies dive over friend and foe to reach with greedy.

grabby fingers.steal better.best.est crayon set.

She looks down at the blank page before her with a frown.

.different colored

shapes?

That's it?

ANY shape?

.please.

She starts to work - picks up

a light blue.green with specks of silver

and draws a line at

.center page.

Quick she makes a shape

of three(tiny)four sides

and color.color in to fill.

.alright

what's next?

MarOOn with hints of deeper purple dragged from starting line and squiggle.squiggle make a little.crAzy.little nonsense shape that borders at the last.

Color for color

she builds out from the start.

forgets her classmates around until -

(little breathy)

.wOw.

from the girl to her left

You're such a good -

drawer.

(and the TITLE stuck)

The cry is raised.

a small crowd forms.fawns.

.really?

they're just

shapes.

Lonely little she thinks

.hey.

I'll take it.

and beaming tucks back in

to blow them out of the water.

(what a tiny pond)

Beside her to the right sits the New.International.Student -

silent and withdrawn behind his language barrier.

Past huddled limbs.

bowed furrowed head,

she sneaks a peek to see

rows and rows of precise.tiny tanks

rolling on to empty space.

.wOw.

=>

(sitting in a place of pride

on grandparent's bookshelf :

her father's Honest Abe)

=>

Gathered round the kitchen table.blank page in front of each.pencils at the ready,

father and the girls tuck in to

Drawing Time.

Old enough at last

to see

the third dimension,

FATHER explains his unique.technique :

Do you see the shadows?

Well,

I just see them

as shapes that connect -

and then

I draw their outlines.

He scribbles on his page as he speaks

.eyes flitting back and forth from cover to page - capturing a gesturing King.

Lear.

=>

Grandmother's bony.knuckled fingers.each with precise pointed tip.grip pencil and pad.

She sits perched beside her on the couch - leaning in.

peering over arm to watch her

Work.

Okay, so -

she looks around for an Object.eyes fall on her husband.snoring softly.

.just resting

his eyes.

- do you see

the shadows?

Just shade

the shadows -

turning pencil to the side, she focuses on his ear.

shading fold and crevice.

cave and curve.

Without a single.defined.drawn line, an Ear takes Shape.

=>

Today

.we're drawing faces.

She itches.twitches.

anxious to begin

.desperate to dive in.

eyes first.

Not a single page passed out. She must wade through

INSTRUCTION first.

The head

is divided

- into sections -

as a circle.drawn on the board.

is sliced in half.

line extending below

its bottom curve.

Now we draw

the jaw -

See?

the tip of the line

forms the chin.

Almond shapes are drawn.

centered.each.in east/west hemispheres - eyes.

Then quick

dash

along the center line denote the place for nose and mouth.

You want the

features

to fit

the face.

Not

the other way

around.

.yea.yea.

.just

let me

at it.

At last she has before her -

all the right Tools.

She looks at her Object.excited at first.glance by pursed.pink lips.beneath a pointed dip :

and settles in.breathing in.to the spaces of the shapes.

A shadow falls across her work. A new page is

offered.enforced.

Why don't you try it

again?

The right way.

=>

=>

I don't know

how I feel

about this -

huffs flustered.mother from the front seat.hands grip wheel tight.lines frown.

.down.

.it's just a Body.

You're just

too young.

Yea -

sister agrees.

you're just

too young.

Can we just

try and if

we're

uncomfortable,

then

we can leave?

She huffs and puffs.

I'll sit in

the car and

wait for you -

as she pulls into a spot.

The girls wrestle big sketch pads.drawing supplies from trunk, tucked under arms.

Can you go to

the bathroom

and pretend that

you're sick?

I really can't

do this with you.

I'll just start

laughing.

.that's pretty

immature.

but she sees her discomfort.

lightly coloring her face.and.

ashamed -

she retreats to the nearest ladies.room to await her fate.

=>

(the next class)

They sit in the back of the class.she keeps her head down.

avoids any.all eye contact

with the teacher.

Her sister sits.unabashed.

beside, flips through her pad to first clean page and

settles in.

A young man

.privately nicknamed Trinidad.and.Tobago.

takes the seat on her other side.

He too flips through.spying

her hungry eyes.pauses

- Opens -

sketchpad to last week's nude.

Too bad

you weren't

here for

this.

said with raised brow.

She nods.

.mutters something.

.incoherent.

.greedy.jealous eyes soaking in

the rolls of fleshy.fat,

the curve of leg to hip,

the weight of sagging breasts,

the pink of soft.plump nipples.

(feeling guilty.frustrated)

.I could have

done much better.

as.with another flip.

her lost nude.muse is gone.

=>

Okay class -

teacher calls for attention.palms out.

- tomorrow is

our field trip.

I've asked for

a heavy model -

(sound of alarm escapes)

- more to draw.

Skinny models

are boring.

I trust

that you will

all be

your most mature.

She passes a slow.and.steady gaze around the room.

=>

=>

ARTIST bAlks.STUDENT applies :

'An education isn't how much you have committed to memory, or even how much you know. It's being able to differentiate between what you know and what you don't. What don't you know?'

I don’t know what I don’t know. How can I? I don’t know it. But I need to respond in some fashion. So perhaps you want an answer that is in the academic vein. After all, the question you pose follows a quote on education. Academically speaking, I know a lot.

At the very least, I know enough. I stand at attention when called upon and allow the rules of math to trot out from the confines of my mind: ‘Cherry pie’s delicious! Apple pies are too! Sir!’ At ease, my mind wanders and I begin to wonder. What is pi? How did it come to be? Why do these rules even work? Much the obedient sheep, I nod and type numbers into the calculator without a word. I don’t bother to ask. The answer to 'why' would most likely be convoluted and I would probably get lost along the way. And being an adult, my math teacher is completely allowed to merely say ‘Because that’s the way it is’ or the even more annoying ‘Because I said so.’ But it has occurred to me that although I can do what I am told, I have never really come to fully understand what I am doing.

But maybe that is not the response you want. No. You want something bigger. Grander. Alright. I’ll bite. I don’t know how to believe in God. I tried. Oh goodness, did I try. I went around for a year asking everyone I know why they believed. I got answers that intrigued me and answers that befuddled me but I did not get MY answer. And so, I hit a wall of logic and fact and of the inability to wrap my head around the concept of belief. Was that example of non-knowing too bold? I will digress if it pleases you.

Maybe it would be more fitting a response to declare that I don’t know who I am. That is accurate, is it not? Why, up until yesterday, I was THE GIRL WHO DRAWS. However, yesterday, I hit yet another wall, this time, one of ‘Wow. You conformer. You continue to be

- THE GIRL WHO DRAWS -

purely out of obligation. Everyone expects you to go to an art school. YOU don’t actually want to go.’

To be sure, this wall hurt.

I presently have a headache and a knot in my stomach that can attest to that. I have spent my whole life with this nice little label. I am what I am and what I am is an artist. It’s not a bad label at all. But it came to a screeching, rude halt when I realized that I see it as an ability. Not as a passion but merely something I CAN do. And so now, stripped of the one thing that defined me, I feel naked and exposed. I’m vulnerable and scared. Who am I anyway? Am I my resume? What defines me without my pretty perfect label? The answer? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

--

Describe the greatest risk you have taken in your life to date and share the outcomes.

I straightened my hair. By definition that’s hardly a risk. At best it’s a chance. Maybe even a venture. But you see, despite the superficial overtones, straightening my hair is indeed a Risk. Curly hair is the envy of many women. Some pay good money to look the way I do when I leave my mane untamed. But they easily wash the curls out of their systems and return to their merry straight-haired lives. You lucky, fickle ladies, you! Hair defines personality, you see. The crazier the hair, the frizzier the disposition. The more expressive the locks, the curlier the actions.

As you may have guessed by now, I was not graced with straight hair. If Shirley Temple were to sleep in her curls and then dance the foxtrot with an over-excited prepubescent boy, her resulting hair would begin to resemble mine: a hot mess. With each flyaway strand, I feel myself separating from my center, poised to burst out into a jazzy rendition of ‘Oklahoma’ at the drop of a hat. Boing! And suddenly, I can no longer sit still :

I MUST DANCE!

But for the moment my hair is straight. I sit calmly in my seat, occasionally running my fingers through the soft cascading hair that comes to rest over my shoulder. Have I lost a part of myself in this transition? With every tug of the straightening iron, did I flatten out the person these 17 years have made me become?

It starts to rain. My perfect straight beautiful hair is hit relentlessly with the pelting rain.

MAN DOWN!

. . . Boing!

I am back to where I started, kicking at the puddles : singing at the clouds.

--

haikus are meant for nature

I'd be a fool

to think that I compare

to the whispering of leaves

(crossed out)

haikus are meant for nature

I'd be a fool

to think that I deserve

words writ for majestic trees

=>

Hello and greetings from NYU Undergraduate Admissions!

First and foremost - congratulations on your acceptance for the Fall 2010 semester!

.yada.

yada.

yada.

=>

All dressed up and ready to go.

a family outing to the city.

Centripetal force forces

the girls closer.and.closer together in the back seat

of their silver.tercel.

They realize their closeness.

- nose.to.nose -

giggle.wiggle back to place.

Where were we?

She wipes off half

the make up -

When will..

Right.

When will my

reflection show

who I am

i-inSIDE?

- sideways look.nod -

When will

my reflection show

who I am

inside?

Then she sits

on the bench under

the tree.

.and then her father.

My, my.

What beautiful blossoms

we have this year.

But, look,

this one's late.

But I'll bet

that when it blooms,

it will be

the most

beautiful of all.

Look, girls -

.father's voice sounds from the front.soft.murmuring.

- you can start

to see the city.

Now their huddle is deliberate as they strain to center to see as the city - suddenly - peeks up from the horizon to poke.hold up a clouded sky with peeks of blue and light.

=>

VIDEO - rhapsody in blue - rush hour traffic montage

=>

Flakes flutter to the ground and melt instantly on contact.

The air stirs and the breeze builds suddenly - rousing the trash from its rest, sending a parade of crumpled paper and plastic cups dancing along

the sidewalk. A whistling wind whips along Broadway - breaking into weaker tributaries along the side streets.

The cardboard tower teetering on the edge of the ledge sprouts an arm, groans a small snore, and rolls toward the window. It is a mass of darkness tucked snug up against the warmest vent on 13th Street.

Enviable real estate.

The wind reaches through the slits between the flattened boxes seeking out the thinnest material, piercing the gabardine of his worn pants. His body curls into itself and the top box shifts and falls.

He snores and rolls -

too far this time.

He tumbles to the sidewalk below, snuffles snorts, then throws one arm above his head.

MAN

slumbers on.

A foul heat rises from the vent beside him.

=>

Down.

Through the vent, through the concrete, through the street, to the track.

A rat is sucking on a napkin.

A moment ago there was a morsel of something tolerably edible but it has long since been devoured and now the rat

is nibbling at a hope.

Another rat approaches.

Tension rises.

EEp! EEp!

The intruder is confronted and immediately repelled.

Our hero goes back to his meticulous mastication.

A moment later the other has returned. He considers the scene a moment. Then on light scurrying feet, he skims around the trencherman and takes up a spot along the trailing napkin. His competitor quietly accepts the company.

There’s a rumble from the tunnel.

- ALERT -

Run.

They disappear into hidden holes leaving their sorry excuse for a dinner to fend for itself.

=>

There is a rat on the platform.

He knows that she knows it and still he creeps - cautiously - eyeing her from around the pillar, whiskers trembling.

He makes it to one pillar. Scurry.

Two.

Scurry.

Three.

One resounding smacking stomp! was all it took.

He runs in fear this time -

tail whipping behind.

He slips into a hOle beside the trash.tUrns back around to

glare at his offender.

An innocent bystander, she challenges him to a beady.eye staring contest from which neither relents.

=>

sCUFFle.sCUFFle.

sQUEAk.scRATch.

- CRASH -

She scurries past overflowing garbage cans - feigning

blissful ignorance.

She bounces along the street humming Yellow Submarine

quietly to herself. She teeters along the curb -

living dangerously.

skirting around car mirrors. Emboldened, she begins to whistle.

We all live in

a yellow submarine

tooted through

pursed.chapped lips.

As she licks her lips

to wet her whistle

the answering refrain floats

on the raw winter wind.

A man sits with sloping shoulders on a ledge nearby. His eyes bore into her.

Polite smile.

Nod of acknowledgment.

She continues on her way.

His eyes follow her down

the block until she disappears around a corner.

=>

She turns a corner and

emerges from a covered expanse of scaffolding out into

the blinding sun. She squints, tucks her head in toward her chest and forges ahead.

‘Excuse me, miss?’

She pauses for a moment.

‘You dropped your smile.’

.what.

Backpedal. Burning, embarrassed.

She nods, halfsmiles toward the voice - never looking up from a fixed spot on the sidewalk -

as she scurries into the

underbelly.

=>

(on the subway platform)

She stares dimly across to the downtown bound.

A beautiful man in her periphery makes eye contact. She notes a button - large and holding a place of prominence - pinned to his lapel.

She cycles through the green, the gender, the children,

the rights representatives.

She doesn’t want to sign a petition, donate a dollar,

feel

g.u.i.l.t.y.

He approaches with intent.

H

She exhales - relief - as an express train rOArs past - a viable excuse for deafness to his greeting. She is determined not to see him -

-

- she sneaks a

sideways peek.

Hello!

Dammit.

The face is tilted toward her

and close.

I like

your glasses.

A lovely lilting accent shapes his

words.

A smile brightens a face she doesn’t know.

She nods and smiles -

lips tight.

What’s your

name?

His body moves - a preliminary motion for a handshake.

(wispily)

Me?

Beat.

You don’t talk

to strangers,

huh?

She looks at him and swallows.

Look,

I’m a nice guy.

I’m from Africa

originally,

grew up in France.

I go to college

here?

The proof’s proven.

Mathematical doubt drips away

like buttah.

The button tells her only that he loves the eighties.

She smiles.demurely.tucking

her face into her chest.

The air between them shimmers with wasted opportunity.

He lets the matter drop -

falls back behind the muddied yellow line.

The next uptown train

to Pelham Bay Park

is now approaching

the station.

Please step away

from the platform edge.

The train arrives - graciously.

They get into the same car - she stands across from him who sits in the corner seat at the local doors.

He leans forward and - from his bag - produces the sixth edition of

The Cosmic Perspective.

The semester almost through,

he flips to the end and

begins to review.

=>

Beep boop Beep.

All systems go?

Roger that.

Standby for takeoff.

Beep boop Beep.

Twenty tiny fingers poke out through oversized weathered workout gloves.

Four hands tap out

the computing necessary

for the launching of

a cardboard rocket to the moon.

The sounds of ongoing packing provide percussion to their

- BLAST OFF -

Ready to land?

Ready.

Slowly.Slowly.

- POP -

.hiss.

The two girls abandon their posts.don their space suits.

.whirr.

.hiss.

and take small.earth.steps for

womankind.

Sticky.rIP.cuT tape seals the final box. With a soft grunt, their father had stooped.

hooked hands beneath box and straightened.back braced

with worn work.belt.borne

the contents of his bare home

.office.solace.

.Ahnold.

.hasta la vista.

He stands a moment

longer.longing

looking out

the window

before stacking

his last bits

higher on the

living.room

pyre.

=>

One dark and stormy night,

the girl and her father

stayed home from temple.

She was sick.

He was tired.

They huddle together

on his office chair

staring out the window.

waiting.

A - flAsh - the whole sky

lights up.

.whIte.purple.

the rUMble follows.

close.

Have No Fear!

Daddy's Here!

She only smiles at the sOUnd.

They wait in silence.watching

the black night sky.

- crACK! -

a jagged bolt splits.

rips through the sky.

perfectly framed.

by the window.

=>

She follows her babysitting.

landlady into the blue bedroom.

deep mahogany dressers.mirror.

soft cool breeze through

the half open windows.

(the best light

is natural light)

She tiptoes to see the jewelry.

trinkets strewn across the top.

Hello!

She jumps.a head appears.close.

(outside the window)

Her landlord's happy face.

bulbous nose.wide wrinkled smile.large wire frames.

big droopy ears -

warm.kind

What are you

doing up here?

Harvesting

peas.

(with a widening smile)

Want one?

.a hand extends through

open window.

She accepts the gift and nodding, he returns to reaping what he's sown.

=>

=>

Sandwiched between her parents on the velvety.red pews,

the girl fidgets. Too young

to read, the book held open in her lap is just for show.her mind is elsewhere. Foot dangles.

shakes.

Father's hand provides gentle pressure.

.relax.

Attention redirected.

She focuses on the sacred fringe that borders his tallit.

She separates out strand

and strand and strand.

Cross the right to the

center space -

cross the left to the center space -

cross the right to the

center space -

cross the left to the center space -

and repeat -

until the end.

Father shakes his tallit free and gestures -

it is time to stand.

She pops up and off -

can barely see above the pews.

All around.tip up to toes -

she stays on hers and peers through body body

window

to watch the familiar.friendly faces.dressed today in pure.white robes.arms cradling the Torah.bob through

the congregation.

As it passes, arms.books reach.

brush.touch passing scrolls.

congregants bring

spines to lips.

eyes closed.

kiss.

She.bookless.is left in

the emptied center.finally

a clear line of vision to

the altar where the morning sun glows through the stained glass panels. She tips up three times as woman.man.returning.person pass to block her view.

A song is sung.she moves her mouth.imitates sound for sound. In prayer, she is a parrot.

The song is through.scrolls

are returned to their spiky metal arcs.

.that look a lot like

roaches.

=>

In the back corner of the basement.college.dorm laundry room, she watches a cockroach.

Unsuspecting.unaware, he scuttles across the floor, round the washers, toward the dryers -

into a collecting dust bunny of lint and hair.

His frenzied legs keep twitching.

skimming the surface.

sealing his fate.

.trapped.

=>

THE STUDENT GETS ENTANGLED

the revelation at 1:10 on a thursday night

i am above all petty human bullshit. take your dramatic relationships and shove it. take your fear and your lust and your hatred and your ignorance and your guilt and tell it to someone else. i am no longer interested. no man is an island. but i am realizing more and more that nothing would make me happier than to be an island. my euphoria is a small apartment that i share with an aging dog who sits next to me as i write or draw or gaze out the window and who is willing to while away the hours with me in a park or a backyard or a mountain range. i want nature. this city counts. there is nothing more primal than this city. we are a jungle and i love the chaos and the commotion. my euphoria is meeting the people that you meet along the road that goes nowhere by going everywhere. it would be having no deep ties to anyone. no connections strong enough that i get pulled in any which way. just good acquaintances that i can talk to lightly. i don’t want anymore of this bullshit. i want to be me. by myself. you’re absolutely right. i don’t think i’ve been real a damn day in my life. i don’t want to be. real me is boring as fuck. but real me is pure. and honest. and tired of the me that i am right now. honestly? real me would tell you all to stick it where the sun don’t shine and go home every weekend. real me would watch hour upon hour of sports with my dad and i love lucy on repeat until forever with my mom. real me would sit down. and learn. because that is what i’m capable of. and that is what i used to be like. but then people started to say i was too smart so i dumbed down. and stopped caring. but now all i really want is to undo all those stupid little hurts that amounted to this person that i am and start over. i’m not entirely sure how to do that. i feel like i just need a break from extraneous human interactions. at least for a day.

and that my friends. is how i feel.

8 MONTHS AGO

Okay. so you’re in the forest. no. scratch that. you’re in the desert. and you decide that now’s as good a time as any to dig that blasted hole to china. so you take a shovel and you get to work. and you quickly discover that sand doesn’t shovel very well. not this kind anyway. it’s light and airy and fine and as soon as you take the shovel out, the battalions of the sand army swarm into the tiny hole you just created. you just really want to get to the other side. all you want to do is see the smoggy light of beijing. or the crisp cold of the himalayas. but you can’t even break ground. your feet have sunk lower in the sand than the shovel is even able to get. you thought it was a fine way to pass the time. dig a hole to china. can’t be too hard. it should be fun. bypass the tsa. skip the layovers. make airplane food a thing of the distant past. just fall straight through. but then you fuck everything up and that’s the end of my metaphor.

i thought i could do the whole friends with benefits thing. it’s such an overplayed cliche at this point. but the point is. i thought i could do it. surprise surprise. i can’t. and it’s not because i’ve fallen for him. it’s because i feel nothing outside of the physical ‘oooh that feels kind of nice.’ but now i got myself so deep into the labyrinth that i can’t find my way out. i would cut all ties but oh that’s right. he’s my best friend. so here i am. in my safe little metaphorical desert. with a shovel and a plan and the goddamn sand won’t fucking stop refilling the damn hole. i understood this metaphor when i began but alas. once again i lost the point.

10 MONTHS AGO

what the fuck was that?

you were right. gawwddddammit. you were right. it hurts me. it physically PAINS me but i have to accept it. you were. right. right as rain. opposite of left. the pioneers of flight. (w)right.

i only wanted you because i wanted to feel needed. i wanted to feel liked. i wanted to feel as though i belonged with someone to a greater extent than a measly little ‘friends.’ i wanted you because you wanted me. i fought to keep you because i couldn’t imagine not having someone who would care. because i had finally gotten someone who cared. and you didn’t even care that much. let’s be real here. there were extenuating circumstances but of course. you had just been hurt. why on goodness’ green earth you chose to rebound with me is absolutely beyond me. no. but actually. why on goodness’ green earth did you choose me?

my argument is unraveling. i’ve completely lost my point. i think i was mad. i don’t remember why.

i’m too tired to deal with this. i think i will put this particular meltdown into a box and pack it away for another day. because i am spent. and i have nothing left to give.

10 MONTHS AGO

“i could write a blog.

i have thoughts.”

i really wish everyone would just stop.

stop trying to make me feel. stop trying to make me be.

i call for a world wide halt with me just standing in the middle of the frozen mayhem, taking a deep breath. i’d like a moment to collect my thoughts, a moment to be free of you and, yes, you too.

i’d like to wipe the word ‘sorry’ right out of the dictionary and come up with new ways to express that incredibly. stupid. sentiment. perhaps a way to express how much people matter so that ‘sorry’ is just unnecessary. maybe i could start all over. i could start fresh right now. just shake everyone’s hands and introduce myself anew. begin again. i wish. i want. i need. and i want all over again. who am i when every new person i become becomes that person i once was?

i said i wouldn’t do. what everyone thought i would do. and freak out. but alas. here i am. at the end of the race. close enough to the end to see that beautiful light. and i am unraveling. don’t YOU dAre make me feel small.

i wish this still felt the way it did in the beginning.

=>

On Rosh Hashanah we reflect,

On Yom Kippur we consider.

Who shall live for the sake of others,

Who, dying, shall leave a heritage of life.

Who shall burn with the fires of greed,

Who shall drown in the waters of despair.

Whose hunger shall be for good,

Who shall thirst for justice and right.

Whose tongue shall be a thrusting sword,

Whose words shall make for peace.

Who shall be plagued by fear of the world,

Who shall strangle for lack of friends.

Who shall rest at the end of day,

Who lie sleepless on a bed of pain.

Who shall go forth in the quest for truth,

Who shall be locked in the prison of self.

She keeps her head down : focusing only on the tzitzit she runs through her fingers. She fidgets inside

her tallit.readjusts and

settles deeper in.

She separates out strand

and strand and strand.

Cross the right to the

center space -

cross the left to the center space -

cross the right to the

center space -

cross the left to the center space -

and repeat -

until the end.

Let us proclaim the sacred power

of this day :

it is awesome and full of dread(s).

'Awesome' in the

'old sense of the word.'

That sentence could still be said -

.about a music festival.

You write and You seal, You record and recount.

You remember deeds long forgotten.

You open the book of our days,

and what is written there proclaims itself,

for it bears the signature

of every human being.

Why 'every human being' if

WE are the CHOSEN PEOPLE? 'Chosen' implies inclusion/exclusion - can EVERYONE be CHOSEN?

It assumes that this You and his WORD are an essential HuMan TRUTH.

.I call bullShit.

Man's origin is dust,

and dust is his end.

Each of us is a shattered urn,

grass that must wither,

a flower that will fade,

a shadow moving on,

a cloud passing by,

a particle of dust floating on the wind,

a dream soon forgotten.

Man's origin is MOTHER.

.at least I know mine is.

Why such a dismal focus?

What brightly colored flower?

What beautiful kind of cloud?

What fantastic drEAm?

Move the focus from end to NOW.

* * * HERE IS A SMALL FACT * * *

You are going to die.

I am not AFRAID to DIE.

I am TERRIFIED to LIVE.

* * * REACTION TO THE * * *

AFOREMENTIONED FACT

Does this worry you?

I urge you -- don't be afraid.

I'm nothing if not fair.

DEATH doesn't kill PEOPLE.

GOD doesn't kill PEOPLE.

PEOPLE kill PEOPLE.

.and often in HIS name.

All rise

We sanctify Your name on earth, even as all things, to the ends of time and space, proclaim Your holiness; and in the name of the prophet we say :

Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts; the fullness of the whole earth is His glory!

Tip up three times to tippy toes - HOLY HOLY HOLY - rocks congregants up.closer each time to GOD.

She rocks up too.reaching.

.I believe I can fly.

After their song of praise

Please be seated

for a silent prayer.

She sits in a pinched.tight pose as all around heads bow

in meditation. Prayer from

the heart or written imitation?

She fidgets uncomfortably.

forcing her mind.

.defiantly blank.

Who among us is righteous

enough to say : 'I have not sinned?'

We are arrogant, brutal, careless, destructive, egocentric, false,

greedy, heartless, insolent,

and joyless.

Our sins are an alphabet of woe.

. .

Now may it be Your will, O Lord God of all the generations, to pardon all our sins, to forgive all our wrongdoings, and to blot out all our transgressions :

With each sung sin,

the congregants bEAt closed fist to chest.repenting.

Squirming in her seat,

she pinches the meaty flesh of her scarred jelly.rolls.sets her jaw firm against

collecting tears.

- NO -

.only I DECIDE to LIVE or DIE.

.I have nothing to REPENT.

.I hold MYSELF acCOUNTable.

.I LIVE with my.SIN.self.

.I WRITE my own STORY.

.

She fixes her gaze on her fingerspelling hands.

dAncing in her lap.

=>

Her chin is trying to burrow into her chest.

the rOOm is

.white.

The cOUch is burgundy and lush and suspiciously lUmpy. It sags sadly - weary from supporting sopping quivering shells of cRumBling souls.

There are tissue boxes strategically located on end tables. They are tired of the constant tug at their heartstrings.

A lone fern survives in the corner -

it despises the harsh fluorescence :

the ventilated stuffy air that wafts lazily around the room.

Smack!

She flinches.

So

why are we

here

today?

Smack!

She winces.

She gulps.

She tUnnels

deeper.

Magnified watery blue eyes blink slowly at her.

Overly glossed lips purse and

smack!

She shudders.

A pencil is poised above a yellow legal pad - eager to document discernible progress.

The eyes are blinking at her. They are waiting.

I am.

.Depressed.

The word falls from her lips.

into the stale air : circulates slowly around the room : escapes through the vent.

She follows its pilgrimage. careful not to match any gaze. She wonders if she can fit through that rattling vent.

Smack!

Right.

Okay.

And why do you

think

that?

Her eyes snap up to meet the blue eyes now. She remembers the safety of her chest and returns to contemplating the cuff of her sleeve.

It’s beginning to unravel.

What a curious question.

.curiouser and

curiouser.

Her father coughs from his perch across the room.

She freezes :

(TUnnel.visiON)

We are in

a safe space.

You can talk

here.

Smack!

Sometimes

I cry

for no reason.’

.gUlp.

There is a reason.

An accumulated reason.

Not a good enough reason.

I cry myself

to sleep.

Sometimes

I want--

No that’s

not right.

I wish--

Not quite.

I feel--

Sometimes :

I don't want to

exist.

The pencil scribbles across the pad - now propped precariously on crossed legs.

A high heel dangles loosely - bouncing as the foot jiggles.

A foul scent rises and hovers until it is

whisked away

in a cross wind.

Okay.

Good.

ScribbleScribble.

Good?

She lifts her eyes enough to see her mother shift uncomfortably in the chair

next to her father.

They cannot be reached.

And have you

ever

hurt yourself?

Smack!

*Cough*

Uh.Gulp.Yes.

Emphatic nodding.

More scribbling.

And what

have

you done?

Pardon?

The scribbling and the jiggling and the smacking stop and wait for an answer.

Pursed lip judgment looks all too eager for the answer.

How to answer.

Uh.

Cut myself?

It comes out as a question.

It is not a question.

More nodding and scribbling.

Okay.

With what?

.nail.scissors.

She sneaks a peek at her father - a mistake.

He holds her in his gaze.

His tears seem magnified through curved lenses.

She realizes numbly that

this is the second time she has ever seen her father cry.

She hates herself that

she is the cause.

=>

RETURN to ORIGIN

‘Titles Are Important,’

Said She.

Math recitation is the biggest waste of my time and being in a bad mood doesn’t help

although I am glad I was able to provide exotically beautiful ‘Sue’ with a pencil.

Let’s evaluate this, shall we? Why yes, yes we shall.

YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT?

Too bad. Suck it up.

Grin and bear it.

ROMANS! COUNTRYMEN! LET ME ASSAIL YOUR EARS!

WhOa.

How awesome the power of being the one to talk. How majestic. How...pOWerful.

Oops.

I’m not supposed to make this much noise.

I’m suddenly shy.

I’ve lost my resolve.

I’ve misplaced my gall!

Look away! I didn’t mean to disturb your slumber!

I hopelessly straddle the line of BOLD CONFIDENCE and

crippling fear.

Do I spill my thoughts out

onto the page? Do I admit to that stupid thing I did?

Do I confess to the way

my chest tried to protect me from myself? How it contracted into its cavity and hasn’t

breathed since?

NO! NO, I TELL YOU! NO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME SHARE, HORRIBLE WRETCHED PURSED LIP JUDGEMENT!

(You don’t know my life...

bitch.)

But you do, don’t you? You have my life down to a science.

But you.

No, not you.

Other you.

Yes, you.

You’re new. We’ve just met. Our eyes have locked across a crowded room.

Our night has just begun.

We’ll waltz. You’ll lead. We’ll flirt. You’ll let me be someone I’m not.

And that will be enough.

And you’ll never know.

Or will you?

DUN DUN DUNNNNNN!

And I’m back. Joking off a serious thought. Jutting out a hip, striking a ridiculous pose and flailing my arms at what I was.

At who I still am?

When you are having an identity crisis everyday, you feel light and breezy and full of potential. But you are crushed by what you are running from.

We all run.

It’s just a matter of what mile mark you hit...

.The Wall.

My wall was three years ago. My wall is tomorrow. My wall is I am le tired.

That’s it. I’m done. I’m emptied out. And you. I’m so sorry you had to be here for this.

I’ll clean up my mess and be on my way. And you’ll feel cheap and used.

I didn’t need you anyway.

I AM A STRONG, INDEPENDENT WOMAN.

And I don’t know a goddamn thing.

So just. Fuck. Me.

-

Let us open with a bold sweeping statement. It’ll cover us all, like a blanket in the fall. We’ll hide under it in the rain and cry out to the heavens ‘It’s not our fault! We are victims of our times!’ And we will be but just when do you think we become accountable for our own lives?

We spring forth everyday from our comforts and we enter the swelling masses, trickling into here and there, never resting, never stopping. We return none the wiser as

the sun sets each day just to repeat

and repeat

and repeat.

Is it any place I lay my hat? Is it with the one I love?

Did I put it down in some place where I knew I would remember? The string is tied, wrapped tight ‘round my finger and yet I cannot recall.

Here it is! Here it is!

Come one! Come all!

-

WE,

as a collective group of scholars and not-so scholars,

are trying to understand the HUMAN CONDITION!

Why aren’t you?!

Go forth country lads!

Go forth city slickers, fry cooks, maids, truck drivers!

All! Go to!

And contemplate all of life.

ALL OF IT!

Spare no experience,

overlook no moment.

For centuries, greater minds and not-so greater minds have contemplated this exact thing.

TODAY!

on the day, we take over the call of duty.

TODAY!

on this day,

we become explorers of our own minds, pioneers of our bodies, adventurers of our World.

WE are asked

TODAY!

on this day what the answer to HUMAN CONDITION!

is.

I say it is chocolate cake!

I say fresh air!

Cut grass!

Clouds in the sky

becoming unicorns!

Unicorns in their own right!

I say the answer to the question of HUMAN CONDITION!

is nothing more or less than being three years old and falling asleep in your father’s lap, lulled into a dream by the vibration of his voice rumbling in his chest.

HUMAN CONDITION!

is somewhere in the balance of liking an Orthodox Jew and not believing in GOD.

It’s never having smoked pot but wondering what kind of HUMAN EXPERIENCE it would be if you never tried it.

At least once.

But it is more complicated than that because

I spent this whole time

writing a speech to an audience that will never hear while I was supposed to be attempting to better understand

my essay subject.

It’s more complicated than that because the fella sitting next to me is wearing shoelaces as a belt which inevitably leads me on the mental journey that leads to

him

which leads to

‘I fucked her’

which makes me recoil

and makes me want to rethink every decision I’ve made leading to this moment sitting here next to the fella with the shoelaces belt and the lion tattoo.

And yet

I love him for all his stupid disgusting boyhood.

And yet

I will surely fail this class if I don’t start taking these assignments seriously.

And yet

my way is so much more fun.

This feels very important for US to consider,

because if we do not

consider our lives and once in a while look back and take stock of all we’ve done and who we’ve become,

we risk

ceasing to matter to all that’s around us and more importantly,

we risk

fading away and

disappearing

from

ourselves.

-

Identity

Two me’s converge in a wood.

How can I not try to be both?

I’ll go mad in my ill-fated attempt.

I wish I could stop butting heads with myself.

Why won’t I just let me be?

I’m suddenly homesick for something I never was.

Everything I want is forever battling with everything I am.

Outside my window.

Close enough for me to be.

Want meets my ears with a melody of the ages.

Want seduces me and beckons me forward.

Am holds me sway, stations me to my spot.

Am won’t let me go.

I know the truth of my situation.

I am what I say I am.

BUT

If only if only.

The mantra plays out

in my head.

If only if only.

I lack the courage.

The clothes. The confidence.

I wouldn’t make it out alive.

They aren’t like me.

I’m not like them.

The truth of my situation is that I am my own worst enemy.

But really who isn’t?

I am the only one stopping me from walking down there and forcing the confrontation of want and am.

If only I could be brave enough to allow the two to

collide.

-

I’m Ready. I Am.

I’m ready.

I am.

Here comes the punch line.

The apathetic fade.

There you go, disappearing past the horizon line.

You think I’ll be ruined?

You think I’ll just wither and falter and crumble and stumble and fall?

I’m ready.

I am.

I’m ready to be gutted and left gasping for breath and to come up only with bile and blood.

I’m the asexual joke.

The brother from another mother with all the implications and all the mannerisms you so chose. I am only what you have made me and therefore am What without you?

I guess I’ll learn.

But bitch please.

I’ll learn fast.

I’m halfway there.

I made a box of personalities after the last time.

In the hopes that there wouldn’t be a next time.

But this time...

I’m ready.

I am.

You want to watch me bleed? I’ll bleed redder than the reddest rose. I’ll bleed the crimson on Caesar’s robes. I’ll binge and purge and regurgitate everything that you mean to me all over this page.

Now give me a stage.

With just one spotlight

I’ll tell the world.

Or just myself.

That I will be okay.

IMAGES

=>

gravity

=>

On her third sleepless night in as many nights she lies on top of the covers staring up at

the ceiling taking stock of each muscle in turn feeling

a quiver a spasm rattle in

her chest.

She counts arbitrary things as she absentmindedly pinches the skin on her thighs.

A rIp -

success -

Her tired blood silently.sadly oozes away from its sanctuary. The skin under her nail yearns to return to its home.

She blinks.

She rolls over to lay on her stomach but freezes as she considers the blood stain potential - a risk she’s not willing to take.

She swings her legs down from the bed and sits shoulders slumped toward the earth :

head hung heavy.

A tear peeks out from the right duct. Angrily she detects it and swiftly quells its

progress.

The mOOn gently reaches into her window trailing fingers

of cooling.comforting light through the slits in the blinds across her bed coming to rest lovingly on her knee.

Wearily she rises and crosses to the window.

gOd.

dAmmit.

But the mOOn.

She could believe in the mOOn. They ask of each other nothing, save company.

A tear finds an unguarded

opening.

She lets IT

fall.

Lets IT come.

Body tighTens : BrAces.

NO

.

.please.

It washes over her :

consumes her :

embalms her.

She steels her body

against the onslaught -

nails digging deep

into palms :

jaw clenched :

face closed.

The tears come

regardless.

She sniffles.snorts.

nose burns.

drips.

Her chest

hEAves.

sTutters.

Her emotions

sUrge up in

an enOrmous wAve,

curving and rEAring,

higher and higher,

until it seems

as though

the wAve

must carry

EVERYTHING

before it.

.

- STOP -

.

.shuddering breath

follows

shuddering breath.

She reels herself in :

recOils.

.she WON'T own emotion.

Slowly.slowly her fists twitch open.claws releasing palms.

Unfurling, her fingers

fall to

rest.

.

.no.

Her hands keep her thoughts

.busy.

They lead her to the desk drawer, select a single blue orgami square from the stack and settle in to fold

- again and again and again -

.her cry.her prayer.

=>

Her hands are blue no matter how hard she rubs them -

paper palm rustling against paper palm.

She carries around a small air tank whenever she has to walk any distance - swinging low in its bag : knocking against her leg as she traverses her backyard.

Her long thin braid - gone completely white - swings delicately with each step.

The grass runs the length of the plot to greet the water.

There’s an overturned boat resting, rusting, rotting where the water meets the land.

A swan floats along in the distance through a forest of tall green stalks.

Inside -

the house wheezes.

There is a transparent tube that runs along the floor attaching her to her lungs -

a garrulous machine that sits in the back room.

She jokes that you shouldn’t step on it, I might choke - cross eyed smile, hand to her neck.

They sit on hard couches and talk about the weather.

=>

She steels herself against the winter wind that whips along the elevated platform.

She huddles in to book for warmth.

A cell phone rings in the lot below the tracks. Her head snaps down toward the sound.

A scene forms before her eyes. Her mind scrambles.

.solidifies.

.resolves.

.her hands know what to do.

‘Yo.

- Yea.’

A black shape forms below listening to a disembodied voice - illuminated by a fire of his own making.

He tends to this fire with a primal pride.

Hanging up and stowing

his phone in a jacket pocket, he rips the news in strips- feeding his inferno with the records of yesterday. Invigorated, the fire leaps and dances- launching its flames into the night sky.

It laps the rim of its green metal pail and dies down to a steady glow.

He throws the classifieds into the blaze then stands apart surveying his domain.

From the Broadway Junction platform, she can see the whole of his kingdom.

The boarded up warehouse at the front of his plot remembers the dead - a large yellow sign reads .CARBONE Memorials Inc, Since 1917.

Running along the side and spilling into the back lies a continuous line of toppled headstones in pristine condition. They have not been long forgotten. They settle into their grave unnamed, insignificant.

Across the street a heated conversation rises from the train yard.

It is going to be a

long cold night.

=>

The two sit next to each other on the twotoned blue seats of the train - bristling. They are of a solid stock - the kind of men who wear jeans and t-shirts and a simple gold band to work : who come home with dirt under their nails and paint in their hair.

The one closest to the window is redfaced - all the way to his ears which are pierced each by a gold hoop. His cheeks are tender and smooth -

the evidence of his day does not shadow his countenance.

He knocks back another tallboy barely concealed in a paper bag.

The flaps of his decidedly bulbous nose quiver as he consciously holds back their flare. Green eyes squinting to scan the rushing horizon, he quarter turns, brings the beer to a tilted back head and guzzles the last few sips - protruding adam’s apple bobbing.

He wipes his lips on his faded grey sleeve and reaches for another can lying between their feet - eyes focused now on a spot directly in front of him :

His companion in the aisle is a man of more angles - his jawline and cheekbones claim prominence - accented by the scruff which runs between. His hair - a distinguished peppered grey. Tonight he dons a pair of light blue jeans badly ripped in one knee.

.a Jets pullover.

He sits with his left and exposed knee protruding into the aisle and squints his steely grey eyes directly down the line.

He loosely holds a paper bag containing a tall Bud. It lays, for now, forgotten - resting at

a dangerous angle on his leg.

There is a woman in the center aisle - memorable for her derrière : perfectly round and lifted. It is dressed in clingy gauzy baby-girl-pink lounge pants -

a soft second skin.

At present it is reacting to the musical vibrations that are dancing into her ear.

It s s.

w g

i n

It sH-a-Ke-S.

She drops it

m.a.r.g.i.n.a.l.l.y

lOw.

Our Jets fan down the aisle keeps his face closed - not allowing for any moment to read as a comment.

He is just a MAN with eyes.

Turning his head out into the aisle, he tilts back and finishes the last drops in his can - never allowing his straining eyes to waver. He swallows a small burp as he returns to center and fumbles for another can -

: their hands meet with a warm grasp.

=>

Don't be afraid.

(hand extends)

.aladdin.

Just take

my hand.

She looks.considers.clutches

the first hand she's ever held.

Warm.smooth.soft and clammy, five fingers close around

her liney palm.meant to still.

excite her pounding heart.

She shakes.holds fast and nods.

Let's go.

They emerge from cramped.stone stairs.released :

- inner sanctum -

move along the plexiglass passageway barring flights of fancy from dome to fiore.floor.

She edges toward the ledge -

the dizzy geometry of the fall.

She lifts her gaze - the golden clouds of final judgement.

Comfort.safety.warm.held hand grounds her.pulls her toward a farther door to continue

their ascent.

(in the doorway)

.liminal moment.

she pauses.gazes back to see condemned.tormented men.dancing in eternal flames.

.heaven is static

by comparison.

She enters the worn brick stairs.high anxiety.forewarned that the walls

would soon be

closing in.

=>

photo montage from duomo

=>

THE LOUVRE IN TWO HOURS

.and --

GO.

Pair up quick with tall thin yellow.hooded him,

agree on a

Plan of Attack,

commence,

dive in.

She lets him lead

past Nike on the landing, through galleries under construction to Venus de Milo, past Oath of the Horatii

in a fantastic blur of

bustling bodies of the world and timeless art.

The traffic slows.gets stuck.

trapped in a frenzied crowd.

.gasp.

His hand slips

- warm and strong and firm -

to hold hers.

I don't want to

lose you

in this crowd.

She nods.numbly.

as she strains to see above the flashing commotion.through the bulletproof glass.

- Mona Lisa -

sadly underwhelming

from such a

passing glance.

=>

Homeward Bound on the LIRR

.Is it nothing

to you,

all you who pass by?

=>

Why don't you

go kill yourself?

WAahh.

I hate my life.

I'm so emo.

Why don't you

go cut yourself?

.taunts echo down the hall.

Empathy has been misplaced.

they've forgotten

there's pOWer in words.

Their jeers are wasted.

litter the air.

.a ghost -

she doesn't hear.

Her body knows her routine.

carries her through

the jostling bodies that clog

the halls.changing classes.

Suddenly

her mInd

wAkes

uP

(looking around)

.where am I?

Surrounded in a crowded stairwell.stream, she gets the odd sense that she is waking

from a dream.

(longing backward glance)

.how did I get here?

=>

.Today's the Day.

she's had enough

The daily bus ride taunts from the pig shaped bully.flexing for his friend.

HEY!

Why don't you go

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