Wednesday, April 25, 2012

I Hit a Girl Today




Did I hit a girl today?
Did I hit her?
Did I hit her hard?

I hit a girl today, I hit a young girl.

It is not often I have ever hit a girl; not often at all; I hit my sister once – I figure I must have though I really can’t remember, I must have pulled her hair at least - at least once, probably, and I know I hit my mother once, my mother too - for sure – she wasn’t a girl then, she was a woman, a BIG woman with a BIG WOODEN spoon – well the spoon wasn’t that big, ’n she used the spoon to stir the sauce, the tomato sauce and to hit me; I was only eleven;

But my hitting people didn’t start there, my hitting people started about a year before; at least that is the first time I can remember hitting anyone, in anger, in a fight; hitting to really hurt.

I don’t know why – I didn’t want to fight him – but it seemed every day after school he’d be at me, it seemed he didn’t want to fight either, it seemed, he just seeming to want to bully me.  Well after a few days – a few weeks of this – I had had enough – or maybe my father had had enough because I think my father noticed I was crying, I was upset at night, always after school, so my father decided it was time to teach me how to fight – how to use my hands, my little hands shaped, turned into little fists now…

Well I don’t know, didn’t remember how much my father taught me that night, or how much of what happened next was all about what was inside of me, germinating and swelling and growing, maybe for years, or maybe it was just my father’s short course on fighting, but after school the next day Randy came up to me against the chain link fence outside the school yard and he took a shot at me and that - that was that -and I lit into him like nobody’s business; I lit into him - !

I had him pinned against the chain link pounding his face then I had him down on the ground and my little fists were pounding him, pounding into his face and I wasn’t stopping – until he was dead I guess – or I ran out of steam, which wasn’t likely or certainly wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon.

I was FULL of steam.

I was beating the hell out of him – I kinda ‘lost it’ I guess, and my friends, our friends really, were pulling me off him, it was a good thing probably because he was all bloody, bleeding and shit - I think he had pissed his pants too because they were all wet at the crotch, so freaked he was; and he was gasping and crying; what a pussy.

And that was that with Randy; he didn’t dare come and try to do any bullying to me no more – he was lucky he got away with his life, and he knew it too; God I am still so pissed at him.

It didn’t stop there though; a few weeks later another one of my classmates decided he wanted to have a go at me – and I do not know why.  For the life of me, where this shit comes from, this motivation…so after school each afternoon, he starts, starts the bullying…well this time I don’t have to wait a few weeks or a few months to change the course of these events; on the 3rd afternoon – that was it – we had barely stepped out of the school building than I was on him and I just snapped – I didn’t have any specific plans – other than I guess to beat the hell out of him until he stopped breathing , and then maybe after that rip his heart out and poke his eyes out and then I figured he wouldn’t be bothering me no more, and I was pounding his head into the asphalt grabbing his hair and punching his face and pounding his head into the asphalt and, and – ‘Fuck him!’ and he was my friend; and then my friends, our friends really, pulled me off.  Good thing really – good for Dominick and good for me too for I don’t know what the adults or the teachers would have done to me if I’d have killed him, for surely that is where I was going - with that – if I had any plans at all, which I can’t recall I did.

I got no more bullying from Dominick after that, nor any other attempts from my other school mates either, after that; and that is the last time I ever got into a fight; that I can remember.  I mean since then a few people, a few guys have taken a shot at me, even one of my fraternity brothers once if you can believe it, he was drunk, I guess, and jealous, his wife wanting to show me her new plastic tits – but what was I to do?  Deny her?   But I steered clear of those fights; the guys were always bigger than me and way stronger usually, it seemed, after that.

Shortly after those two fights in grammar school is when I hit my mother.

Now she hitting me with, or trying to hit me with that spoon, that wooden spoon.

Really…she ain’t noticed?

I am big now…

Well not as big as she…

Yet…

Big enough so when I grab that wooden spoon she smacking me with – or trying to for now I am grabbing that spoon from her

I have the wooden spoon in my hand now and now I am hitting her;

I am hitting my mother!

And boy did her brown eyes get big and round so surprised she was and that was that, I only hit her a couple of times so she got the idea and that was the last time she hit me, with that spoon or anything; I guess I was on my way, on my own now, sort of.

I hit a girl today; I hit a young girl
Today
Never often have I have ever never I never ever hit a girl; not often not at all; I hit my sister once – sort of, pretty sure I did…once.
I hit a girl, a young girl today…
I think I did -

And that was the last time I hit a girl or anyone for a long time.

Shortly after that we moved out into the country and I stayed way clear of those new country ‘classmates’, some country chums too; there would be no way I would be mixing it up with them.  You know I was 13, 14 by then, early teenage years and you know how a body, a boy’s body can change and those guys’ bodies were sure changing, I mean my body was too, I guess except they were lining up as front linebackers and middle linebackers and right tackles and - and I was lining up for the tennis team.  I mean there were a lot of big country boys out there in the country; so I steered way clear of any fights from then on – I had nothing left to prove anyway, I guess – I didn’t even want the first fist fights; and I didn’t hit anyone, boy nor girl for quite a number of years after that, although I did have a run in with a doll, Tiny Tears was the doll’s name and she was the most expensive most special doll of my sister’s and I feel, thinking back, some responsibility concerning her destruction; I feel kind of sick about it all still.

Me and my few friends were hanging out in the garage at my house, my parents house I guess I should say, and we were looking for something to do and we were rummaging around in the garage shelves and one of my friends decided to attack my sister’s dolls.  Now I didn’t think that was such a good idea but for some reason I gave the nod, for at the end of the day it is up to me, it was my garage, in my house, and my sister is coming into the garage screaming and crying and she is only a year younger than me but it was too late and Tiny Tears’ hairs were already almost all torn out and her head had already bounced off the cement floor once and now with one blow from my friend Peter with my father’s big hammer in his hand and her pretty plastic head was cracked and that was that and Tiny Tears was not going to be crying no more and I still feeling I having some responsibility for hitting that girl, that special doll, or perhaps in effigy, hitting my sister, or allowing Peter to hit her?

It can get all so confusing sometimes.

Peter ended up to be in love with me for many years, for quite some time I would later find out; he is dead now; perhaps all that conflicting uneasy emotion had something to do with that event; relationships can be very emotional I would later find out.

Many years later on the opposite coast I had opened my beach front apartment to a variety of, well – ‘colorful sorts’ - and we were having a grant ‘ol time then partying so much of the time and I’d be writing all night and surfing, or learning how to surf all day, and we all being a bunch of ‘rousty’ guys and such, we got along fine, and then this girl showed up, well I brought her in actually and I wasn’t even sure she was a girl when I first brought her in but oh boy, she was a girl alright.

You see things go - can go - can get pretty strange sometimes when girls and guys get together and things can be happening between them, between those two, you might not even – don’t even notice – and then so fast, so all of a sudden things can blow up right in front of your face, and you say to yourself: “How did that happen?”

Well, that happened one night, early morning really, we all had ate some T-Bone steaks which she had cooked and she was in the kitchen cleaning up, right next to where I was sitting at the kitchen table writing, typing into my computer actually, and all of a sudden one of my friends had the sharp point of the T-Bone steak bone he had recently finished eating, clean as a hound’s tooth really the T-Bone was, and he had gripped the ‘T’ of the bone in the palm of his hand and had the tip of the end, the sharp leg of the ‘T’ jutting out between his fingers and if that bone had not been being used for what it was being used for I would be thinking ‘what and ingenious weapon’ but no, the sharp tip of that T-Bone was right at my girl’s throat; he had grabbed her by the neck and had her halfway up the kitchen wall in front of – opposite the sink, pressed hard against the wall she was with that boney sharp point of the eaten T-bone steak, the thin sharp edge of the bone pressed hard into her slender throat, I mean one move and there would be more fresh blood in the kitchen, more than we needed;

And there was no way I was going to take him on, besides the fact that at that moment any move would have had to be so delicate and he had 40 lbs on me easy, I mean some of these surfers are big burly sorts, I mean you have to be, or ought to be big, and burly, given the size and silent roiling crashing anger of those waves, a lot of lung capacity helps when you are pressed hard under, held under her waves and all this stuff about ‘mellow’ surfers well yeah, I guess, but I seen a few like this one too and now I am thinking ‘what to do?’ with that raggy sharp pointy steak bone quivering at her throat.

I had been in these situations before; not that I go looking for them.

What had gone on between these two, silently, that I had not noticed before?  The two of them had been in front of me or right near me all that evening; what had I missed?

And she was held up there against the kitchen wall with that bone piercing her soft straining neck and her round face strangely placid, her chin pulled up and her eyes, her almond eyes focused; focused up on the ceiling; not giving an inch of emotion.

What had she done to bring this on?  For I was sure she had done something.  Not that I am blaming the woman or anything but hey - they do have their ways, let’s face it; or at least I do; I face it.

And he was holding that raggedy sharp pointed bone against her neck and he was shaking; her head was higher than his now and she is usually a good foot shorter than he, usually.  Not now.

So I looked at the scene, the tableaux, I guess you might call it, and I stopped typing and I thought for a moment and considering my options and hers, and his, and I finally said

“Let’s not do this.”

And then he paused for a moment and banged her head and let her drop and then he left and then we were alone and I thought ‘Phew, dodged another one’, and then she stalked over to my table, picked up the big jelly jar of red wine I had filled and been preparing to drink before all this happened and she poured the red wine right out, right onto, right out onto splashing all over onto the keyboard of my computer and I said “Son of a bitch!” and I grabbed her and slammed her onto the floor and I grabbed her by the neck and she bit into me, as if you were taking a bite out of an apple she chomped down on my left bicep, her jaw marks, her teeth marks are still there these many years later, an indelible flesh tattoo of a remembrance from so many early mornings ago, and I had my thumb now deep into that soft spot in the front of her neck, right above her rib cage digging into the front of her neck and I am figuring I pressing long enough and hard enough on that air passage, squeezing into her trachea, she will run out of air and then she will have to release my arm from her jaws without, hopefully, taking a half pound of my meat with her; she had strong jaws; I remember that.

Well it did not work out that way and I was pressing hard, I was mad as hell, thinking ‘fuck her!’  I am sure she ruined my computer and whatever the hell was in it.  ‘Fuck her!’

And yeah that was the next time I hit a girl, or hit anyone really since that afternoon with my mother and the wooden spoon, not counting that episode with Tiny Tears; which I am not sure whether I should count or not, yet for some reason I feel responsible; I hate all this guilt.

Well she didn’t run out of air, I don’t know how the hell not, maybe she can breathe out the top of her head, I don’t know, and I gave her a shot to the head and let her go and she un-chomped her front teeth from my arm and I was about to hit her again so mad I was and then I said ‘Fuck it’ and we went to bed.

I still don’t know what she did, or what went on with those two.  We never talked much anyway; I kind of liked it that way even though I did end up finding out later I may have even loved her.

The next time I hit a girl it was about ten years later and I was a long way from Manhattan Beach (California); I was in Brooklyn, and it was another early morning.

This is the first time I had been in this neighborhood bar in a tough roughneck Italian section of Brooklyn, a lot of Brooklyn is, or used to be, and I had been at this neighborhood bar for a few hours and had somehow sidled up next to this pretty woman at one end of the bar.  I don’t know how this happened but I am usually or used to be usually pretty good at it so it did not surprise me that we found ourselves alone and outside the bar, together, I mean I had been here before, many times before, outside a bar, late at night with a new pretty girl.

We were on our knees, kneeling on a hushed side street kissing and necking and it all seemed rather romantic and it was warm outside and I whispered in her ear that maybe we should go to my place – I mean I like to kiss a girl anywhere – everywhere  – I always like – love even – to kiss a girl but I figured it might be better, more comfortable even if we went in doors – and who knows what might happen then! Oh BOY!

So I whisper in her ear, I am kissing her ear whispering

“Let’s go back to my place…”

And then in an instant, out of nowhere, she yells

“You trying to rape me!  You going to RAPE ME!”

And then she slaps me really hard across my face and I was stunned, so surprised I was – so STUNNED! - and I just reacted automatically, in an instant – and not a thought that I can remember crossing my mind and I hit her – I hit her hard – in an instant – without thinking…automatically – I HIT her – hit her hard.

No impulse control…no impulse control; not a thought.

That is what I thought later, much later and still thinking about that event today: no control, no impulse control; and what does that mean, and what does that mean I am actually capable of, and what does that mean about what I am not capable of…not capable of stopping myself from doing?

There are a whole lot of people in grey cages behind iron bars having just those sorts of reactions; no matter what the penalty for their actions the penalty does not dissuade because the movement is automatic: no impulse control; coming from perhaps the most primitive, most protective portions of our bodies, my body; deep in my body somewhere, hiding.

And apparently right in the right spot I must have hit her.  I must have hit her on the side of her head in her temple, for she went down – slumped right down onto the pavement; she didn’t have to fall far, as I said we were kneeling, how we got to kneeling I can’t remember, and I looked down at her unconscious form and I thought ‘Holy Shit, what have I done?’

With her short red skimpy skirt hiked up and her bare white legs askew, her thighs shinning in the lamp light and one blue shoe scuffed off her pretty foot – what was going to happen to her?  Laying there on the sidewalk; she wasn’t for me; that’s for sure; not that night, that early morning on a lonely splotchy lit block in Brooklyn.

I checked to see she was breathing – she was breathing and she was not bleeding and I said ‘Holy Shit, what have I done?’ and I got out of there.

I left; I didn’t run, I walked off, casual like – what was I going to do?  Stay there and wait ‘till she awoke yelling “Rape!” again; the police would be the least of my problems – what if one of her friends showed up looking for her?  As I said this is a tough Brooklyn Italian neighborhood like Gravesend, where probably I would be ending if one of her friends found me…I’m sure she is a local girl and she has real local friends…I am sure.

I scanned the local papers for days after that – the small local rags too looking for any news of her and that night and are they looking for me, the ‘authorities’, or anyone else.

I didn’t see anything – nothing; no article, no police reports; no nothing.  Thank God.

And that was the last time I hit a girl; well there was this one girl who showed me all these bruises on her in the morning she saying it was from me from the night before but it wasn’t me, it couldn’t have been, though I was the only one in her bed that I could remember;

No, on that Brooklyn block was the last time I hit a girl, until today; had to be.

I mean she was a young little girl and I really didn’t mean to hit her but when it happened and when she cried out, all these thoughts, these thoughts I have just related to you flooded into me and I was aghast at my emotion – my anger – my rush of feelings and a life once led.

From the sidewalk this afternoon I was entering a subway lobby in NYC and in front of me was a family, a mother and three of her small children and the mother was struggling to open this new large metal framed door that really ought to be engineered to be easier to open and I reached over her shoulder and grabbed the edge of the door, in an effort to help, to aid her, and I pulled the door open, and I perhaps pulled the door too quickly and too strongly for one of her little charges, her little daughter(?), the smallest of the three girls, she took the brunt of the edge of the frame of the door as I swung the door open, and the door was opening in a way that the little girl was not expecting and she was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time though if it was only her mother struggling with the door the little girl would have been OK, but it was me pulling the door, from above, way above her line of sight and the door banged into her head hard, into the front of her forehead taking the brunt of the blow with the sharp edge of the metal frame digging into her forehead and she let out a scream and began to wail and rubbing her head and wailing – I think sometimes wailing more in shock and surprise than actual injury and pain – I don’t know and now the whole family and me were inside the subway lobby and they had gathered around the small girl in protection, closing ranks in a circle and they turned and looked up at me mournfully with their large saucer like brown eyes and they looked up at me and they could see I was the cause of their small child’s anguish and what I had done – what had I done…? and I am standing there outside their circle with apology in my posture, in my face and they turned to her and her mother is rubbing her head and they turned up to me again with their small round brown bodies looking up at me dourly and I stayed for a moment longer and said I was sorry though I am not sure they understand English, and I left then, I ran, walked quickly up the stairs and I went out onto the platform wondering if I should just step in front of the next arriving train and end all this anguish – now.

Did I hit a girl?
Did I hit her hard?
Did I leave her – alone?
Alone and bloody?
I’m so sorry –

Register for Writing

Ok, so I finally decided to register for writing.

This is a near act of God.

This is an act of God I had not dared for more than 25 years;

so this is a big deal

to me.

When I registered for my first writing class a long time ago was in NYC too

as well register for writing should.

But since those days I been around the world and to hell and back always thinking wishing of writing, and though I am now back in paradise, or at least sometimes I think I am (is NYC really paradise?), or what I feeling sometimes, most of the times can be, for some reason, I getting a hankering: take another writing class...

Why I get these hankerings and why I often times, always it seems resist these powerful hankerings; who can tell?

But lately these hankerings coming on strong;

I had seen – always seeing it seems – these green metal boxes standing on street corners passively dispensing newsprint in flimsy thin catalogue form describing writer’s workshop offerings for writing to me, to me, almost seductively; courses in writing, all the possibilities; untold opportunities, if only for me to part with some green.

I had bent down looking through the scratched clear small plastic windows then finally pulling out those catalogues a few times, pulling those spine stapled grey papers with black printing out of the green metal boxes; I had pulled a few a few times, I did; and while the offerings seemingly pleasant, even reasonable - enough; I did not act.  Why not?

Maybe it the money, though I spending way more, a hell of a lot more money on other, more fleeting, perhaps even, paradisial offerings as listed and briefly explained in other advertisements, advertisements printed on similar newsprints given out, also gratis, from similar street corner metal boxes sitting passively on NYC street corners painted in a different color (different stripes same tiger?).

Maybe it be the confidence I truly feeling unreasonable or no, in those other more familiar offerings, but truth be told I been more than satisfied with those others, what with some might say ‘more questionable’ offerings also passively dispensed from these other street corner metal boxes littering NYC street corners all around; what was it; what is it?

I actually do have more confidence in those other offerings I often tasting; fantasy?

More confidence than I having in this offering I now, again, stubbornly, considering;

I having more confidence in the one offering obviously, as my actions clearly, evidently often exemplifying; even foretold.

Was it that I often finding more confidence in those particular always peculiar, almost always sweet smelling beautiful offerings hoping always to be becoming even more familiar, or finally finding, discovering even, a hopefully strong though always shaky confidence I will not admit in my performance ultimate?

Anyways, this summer, I noticing these signs in the Park next to the big huge library on 5th Avenue, you know the one housing all those books hopefully safely – maybe that is all about hording - all sorts of ideas and stories and and feelings with those two huge lions in stone guarding the block, at least facing 5th Avenue, and these signs announcing and describing a collaboration between this Gotham Writers’ Workshop with ‘The Park’ and I am inspired and I excitedly signing for the free Writers Workshops being offered, trying to attend the workshops, but always the same: “No Vacancy/Filled!”

Yeah, right.

So I never got to go through with that effort though I did try and I rather impressed with myself for making that effort and I taking the whole affair as a good sign, though being thwarted at the gate I am not sure whether the signs telling me ‘Do not to take the writing class!’ or ‘Try harder!’; ‘No Vacancy/Filled!’ dogging me all this summer;

Dogging me…

It kind of as bending over and peering in through an other small scratched plastic window and picking out one of those other newsprint printed papers with small grey pictures out of one of those other dented metal sidewalk containers and calling one of those other dented offerings; you know after imbibing enough vodka and having gone through the mental gymnastics with eyes wide wild open and precarious reasoning why this call is not only necessary and right but even laudable, at the end of a hard day, and then after all that effort and courage in a very early morning hearing a pretty little voice on the other end of a long line saying – whispering may be even – ‘she busy’; ‘no vacancy/filled!’  Impossible!  No way, thank God!

And certainly it is not right; not right and I would have even here maybe taken such an unexpected surprise as a sure sign maybe I don’t need to pursue this offering, and perhaps a bit more vodka and sleep, a long deep sleep, deep sleep immediately, is in order, really the signs God telling me at that moment ‘Go To Sleep!’; I am sure my mother would have agreed, certainly my priest.

Never happening that way: ‘It’s Full/No Vacancy’ – “You can’t come over…”; ridiculous, probably never ever will happen, at least not to me; there was, is always, a vacancy there within that dented metal box another offering, and when you thinking about waiting for a sure sign from God; Jesus!

But why would I not act; having never acting on these writing class offerings for over 25 years?

Was it different, this offering; this ‘writing class’ this time this feeling capturing me, locking me in its embrace?

Because a course, I first reading about on The Park pole, a ‘One day intensive’ session - being offered - for free?  Is that the seduction?

Alright, when the goddesses of the other sex are offering ‘intensive sessions’ and courses ‘for free’ all sorts of lights and bells clang on – red lights and alarm bells – a lot of alarm bells actually clang clanging red and white flashing intensely, clanging…clang…clanging – red -

Yet I am not ready yet to act on these feelings after twenty-five years – perhaps I did not drink enough vodka(!) before making an attempt, this attempt, this decision…so many times before, these offerings always in my face wondering which one to take?  So much beauty, beautiful faces sweet smelling bodies so many…; taking in another stout slug of vodka.

When I do drink vodka sometimes, many times actually, I do feel the urge, feeling like writing – do write actually; maybe that is it?!

I am not drinking enough vodka?!

Yeah! - ...no…; no…bit unsure of that line of reasoning…

I finally attempting to sign for a writing class, a writing class this time I am prepared to pay for; a writing class I see being offered on the Gotham Writers’ Workshop’s web site, no matter the volume of vodka probably, I know necessary and no matter the cost, to my delicate pride; as it should be.

Why?

Why…

Maybe I having more confidence now in this writing workshop being offered since I seeing official collaboration between The Workshop and The Park on signs nailed on trees (no; just kidding; those strong banging hammering efforts in the olden days) these signs are posted carefully (I am sure) taped on grey metal poles in the Park; there are still trees in the Park; of course there are…!  No more whores…

and I was now determined to register for a class – a course actually – a 10 week course – none of this ‘one day intensive’ as the other offerings in those other (questionable?) newsprints gamely offering and I had been grabbing, perhaps drunkenly, and partaken in the arms of a beautiful angel…

A long time ago now, it seems.
These Gotham Writers’ Workshop offerings, they do too offering a ‘one day intensive’ – they do - and I can’t help but thinking, curiously, of their offerings – ‘one day intensive’…(some writers, especially professional(!) sometimes can use rather crafty approaches to garner green good green money too…of mine maybe…even…

Can too.

I wanting to settle in on this choice – my writing choice - enjoy the place, so to speak: I had wanted, always wanting to do that with those other gentle sweet offerings as well but never seeming ever to have enough money – so damn expensive that!  She is...always seemingly she is so beautiful so desirable, desiring I am of her and then there where will I be?!!

In love with her – Yeah!!

I guess…I wish…

But now, with the decision to register for a writing course coming all these other decisions; decisions I must admit I not prepared for and briefly considering actually glimpsing at the possibility of some alcohol to help me yet I getting the distinct feeling drinking would not help at all; of course seeing a very scruffy drunk sleeping his course of drinking off that early morning in the Park I taking as a sign.

Anyways all these decisions like, like which class level, which level should I sign up for!?

Master?!  Advanced?!  Advanced Advance?!  ‘Level 1’...?

Yeah, right.

You know;

I guess not ‘Advanced’ – huh?

Though I know for sure I have been, I had been pretty damn good with those other offerings coming out of those other bent dented metal boxes on NYC street corners I had STUBBORNLY - not so stubbornly really - even giddily signing in for – she even – he(?!!) - they!.., – err – she even said I ‘MASTER’!  Is she gushing truth?  Am I really a ‘Master’?!

That the first course I took there with her and I already A MASTER – I learn quick here, I guess…she a good teacher for sure!

And then here is this other problem, the problem on when to take the class - and where?

With these other sweet offerings ‘the when’ always seeming to make itself clear, very clear really, very little in the way of debating here; and, and as to ‘the where’ – wherever usually doing quite quite fine, quite well.

There are three places to choose in which to take this writing course I reading.

Now if this just going to be a ‘one day intensive’ ‘the where’ not be mattering so much (see above) but if this experience going to be for 10 weeks, I mean I figuring ‘the where’ might be sort of important, and not only for the ease of access or for the geography or topography or the architecture or even the weather, but also because of the people, the other students who may be would be probably attending these classes with me.

I pretty much sure the location of the writing course would be influencing the type of student attending.

For instance, the other offerings I sometimes – often(?) - choosing and experiencing and I can’t but noticing I can pretty much figure who’d be ‘taking the class’ with me

if the Course being offered, say, on West 126th Street ‘n Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard as opposed to say East 62nd Street – I don’t know why this is exactly, just happens that way, for some reason.

I was determined to visiting each location, each neighborhood to see what was what and seeing if I can surmise who (or what) would be in my writing class, me looking for and finally surmising, who might eventually be commenting on my hopefully good writing.

You see I figuring it could be kind of important who (or what) would be in my class, since according to the course description in the newsprint catalogue my classmates would be critiquing my work (much as in my other ‘class’ (in one of my other ‘classes’ she even dressing as a teacher with her long teacher pointer stick in her hand slapping me she saying and I gushing “You did good!”)) so I figuring I wanting the people in my class to be people I trust or treasure or, or something as that (respect they might be able to understand me or probably better still: understand my writing?).

Anyways, I toured the neighborhoods of the three locations being offered in Gotham Writers’ Workshop’s catalogue.

I actually should have taken the tours at the times the classes being given, but come on, as crazy as I am even I have my limits – at least I thinking I do – all that prep could be avoidance, an excuse for not registering – not registering for writing at all (can I finally do it?!) – I mean there is a deadline for registering, October classes fast approaching - only two days left!

No way I going to avoid this; I never putting this much effort into some goal I having and not following through, signs be damned! 25 years?!

I had read on that poster posted on that metal tree pole in the Park I can register to write on the computer, on line.

Throwing caution to the wind; I am going to do it!

So on Sunday I deciding to register ‘on line’ but when at the Library I opening the website of the Gotham Writers’ Workshop and finally finding and looking at the form I having to fill in to register for writing I realizing I would have to fill in my address – I really do not see why, yet the screen page not letting me proceed unless every little box, every little empty square every empty large rectangle even a few small circles too yearning to be filled and I thinking stubbornly – supercilious I feeling.

Ok, not to argue with them – it – you can’t (I mean I guess you can try) – I would have filled in every one of those little blank empty squares and every blank rather large empty rectangular scary boxes too, every little silly square and a few looming empty blank circles - too, needing to be checked and filled; but I do not know exactly what my address is; I mean I know how to get home,

knowing the exact house number on a building is not necessary for me to get me home and I got enough going on in my simple cluttered head, in my mind, not to have my skull all littered with relatively meaningless numbers –

then I noticing on their web site they giving their official office address I thinking what a Grand Idea!  I can go home, figure out where I live, write my address as a kid on a little scrap of paper and then bright & early the next morning, Monday morning, I will go to their main offices The Gotham’s Writing offices making my Grand Entrance registering to write, right there, right then, there they opening impressive (I am sure) magnificent doors at 9 AM!

I will register to write in person and meeting the people who will be helping me, teaching me to find myself, teaching me to write – on their web site they do waxing effusive how helpful and embracing they ‘n all are and…and - and want to be – helping me – Me!  I am pretty sure they right.

OK, so I see there on their website they open on Monday at 9 AM and I planning to go there, then came this other rather troubling thought, of how to pay for the course – oh yeah I got the money now; no robbery necessary; at least not exactly –

I mean really, what is money but in some forms, many forms I hear tell in courts of law, a form of robbery: obtain said goods for less, for much, much less, hopefully, and push, keep pushing if need be cagily, slyly, for some, someone waiting & wanting, desperately waiting, preferably really, really wanting, hopefully hungrily, really hungry, very needy wanting said goods desperately, shrewdly waving as a seduction into someone say any one’s face who really really needs then pulling away, their survival waning wavering - even a girl you do it too, ain’t me hopefully never could, never do, never can tell…hope to hell I can’t!  To a girl?!  And her child…  Holding, taking away her life, somebody, anybody else I be pushing said needy goods for more, far more than they really worth even then that moment trying still really trying, demanding – DEMANDING! getting more…more…cunningly bargaining slyly for more, so cruel I can be in a hot dry deadly desert  - I could never ever do that trick to a starving girl and even her kid; I got my ways arounds these stumbling blocks; hoping.

I hope to God I do.

You think so?

I hope so.

Anyways, my decision is not how to get the money; that decision been made so many years ago, a long time ago; successfully, successfully enough even given the craft and the troubling deceptions I making those decisions long ago; my decision now is in what form to present the said required compensation…

Cash coming immediately into my head – I love paying in cash my mind swirling euphoria – always seeming to be making actions, the relationships, the transactions, more important, more visceral and more abandoning you got the balls and for others the guts and I am used to those transactions, that feeling, with other street corner offerings – more visceral – more cash – more visceral; cash obviously good, she is more visceral twisting squirming in a – her(?) sweet smelling bed under me – cash is definitely good...oohh so good.

After much rumination I deciding that form – cash - may not be such a good idea (too visceral?) – OK, I am thinking I want to be a writer so plastic seems a safer route, at least for the start of this new journey –

Cautious and not too to visceral…always writers are, not desiring to go too far a field, always cautious no matter the signs always here and always there and here as I say...

So on Monday morning I am lost in thought – on the way to their writing offices, in a trance really (I would have had to be right?) –

When I step off the curb into a – a NYC newly painted and then I quickly guessing in that frightful moment for my life – obviously – I guess!!! - authorized – so quickly we move in -green bike lane zooming through this bike rider is, and thank God I having the where with all to look up, to look to my right, my right side for a split second and and stepped, then immediately stepping baack

aas aass a whizzing by bike whizzed by me – whizzing by me not an inch from my nose, not an inch to spare!  Not an inch from my FACE!!  Whizzing right by me!

Wouldn’t that(?!)

Can you imagine after all this effort being mowed down, run down by a bicyclist not a block from the headquarters of the Gotham Writers’ Workshop?!  And not even a beep, nor even a jingle, not even a ringle nor a whistle from that whizzing bicyclist.

As I mulling over the possibilities of that near miss, that brush with death or maybe at least even injury, wondering of signs from God; a sign from God, at the very least, a sign to be cautious –

God always sending me (and you too – you all, all of us, you do believe(?)) these most imponderable difficult signs and sure signs & messages I am sure cautions – ‘be cautious(!)’, and mostly secret, these most impossibly (mostly always imponderable), some definitely secret, signs, these messages you almost always thinking righteous; right?  For ‘yr safety ‘n all and a life given yet again, yet still again in God’s graciousness, to me;

Anyways, in the midst of these ruminations and cautions and signs and brushes with death ‘n all and my heart beating pounding really hard in my uneasy chest, she is pounding she is; and should I be proceeding, shouldn’t I?…should I proceed to the headquarters; register to write; and the cars and the truck’s horns blaring and the contentious continuous pretentious cop cars screaming, racing about and the ambulance sirens screaming way too hard too too many, too too many screaming sirens and taxi cabs beeping while I am trying TO THINK!

While I am considering my life, mulling over my fate, and still always considering God, thanking the Almighty I am still alive, and still bowing sometimes thanking the All Knowing graceful being I - I come upon this most beautiful Asian woman, if such can be said, standing gracefully on this black grey street corner (maybe I am just making all this up right? (from whole cloth)), standing right here next to me, right next to me she is standing there unawares of my plight, these women are always mostly unawares of my plights simple stupid plights she is standing there right next to me and right across the street from the building I am intending to go to, to register to write (should I go?); as immersed as I am in my raucous ridiculous thoughts I still finding the time, the grace, thank you God to be wishing, beauty overwhelming me in the sight of this sublime graceful vision, her divine beauty unknowingly blinding me, her snaking tall thin form burning me while I waiting for a light to change (as in the Holy Ghost surely I am thinking, even a burning bush I truly do believe) and all this caution shit goes right out the window – into calamity?  Fuck it!  I love her!!

Right?!

We are standing there me and she, on this somewhat dirty street corner, me right next to her and I am standing so near to this most beautiful graceful flower, a rose, in the midst of insanity, waiting for a red light to change on this mostly dangerous edgy street corner of my life and maybe my life is about to change; I could reach out and touch this miracle…and I am thinking maybe this is a sign – I can reach out and touch HER! this is definitely surely a sign I figuring, us writers are all about signs – some of us writers I sure are even I may not even one - and feelings - this - these signs – all these signs & feelings!  Strong feelings looking at her happening, overwhelming all around me – feelings and signs drive me as, us. We writers – here I am figuring I am a writer – already!

Yet I haven’t even registered to write – yet;
I, oh; Oh my God!  I am a writer already?!  Is this – is, is she a sign?  Is she making me a writer?  Some, I have been reading, some, one muse can do.  A muse is what, all I need?  Surely what I need.
For sure…

Looking at her – Ok staring at her with my mouth open, maybe even saliva dripping – one muse all I need…pretty sure

I don’t recall that being offered in the Gotham Writers’ Workshop catalogue; in that other catalogue however…
Anyway, I am standing there, right next to her, this beautiful woman and I am thinking maybe she about to be going into the same building I am going to; talk about fantasy and magical thinking, and, and if she went into that building that would certainly be a sign, and my muse; I have arrived.

The light changes and she steps out, her delicate flowerily bowed clad foot steps into that crazy dirty street, that mean 8th Avenue and she walks diagonally, strongly walking across the Avenue directly for the building I am intending to go to – to hell with that: I AM going to, in this wonderful sunny morning no matter the clouds gathering in the south unacknowledged, unseen on the edge of the coming turning horizon;

I step off into the Avenue looking neither left nor right, my eyes straight ahead, my eyes staring straightly directly on her beautiful moving form; I am floating.

God would certainly not dare mow me down with another errant bicyclist nor even an angry cab nor screaming cop car nor truck this close hugging this close to nirvana –

Would God?

Anyways if God did that, that would certainly be a sign; certainly, surely be a sign from God and

- and -

I would be dead,

I wouldn’t make it to register, registering to become a writer,

and that certainly, surely would be a sign;

I would be dead, so therefore

I would be unable to
appreciate the signs from God;
because I would not be a writer; I would be dead;

how unfair -

How unfair can life be?!

We can always find even more unfairness; for what else life?  Except maybe this morning; for me…?

Anyways she is heading, this beautiful lively lovely lady, this beautiful Asian lovely flower is heading right for the big front doors I am intending to go through – she is taking a straight shot diagonally across 8th Avenue to the big brass clean framed glass doors, and I am excitedly trailing right behind her thinking by Jove! this is surely a sign and we are, we will be taking the elevator forever ride forever together!  Forever together; such a thought -

I am stopped at the big front desk as she breezing into the building and out of my sight entering a waiting elevator and whisked away – visitors have to sign in – is this a sign?  Is this right?

Well there is a sign there, at the desk, and another big one hanging on the wall too.

‘Visitors must sign in’.

But I am talking ‘bout more ethereal, more sanctified signs watching trying to watch forever seeing, the metal aluminum clad doors closing side to side, closing her out of my sight and she is whisking away from me.

Anyways she is gone – out of my life? – But she was to be my muse, and,

and as I am carefully filling in some blank empty rectangular boxes with a pen given to me, and I am a writer or hopefully about to be, ruminating on my fate, and signs of my future wife(?) my future fate; God she is so pretty, the curve of her lovely soft cheek the…her… -.

I did receive a glance from her – I did!

Didn’t I?

I think I did.

Standing dumbly alone as people passing in the brightly rosy fluorescently lit lobby scribbling in two empty rectangular boxes I am still debating on the signs and what these signs mean or the signs, always to be, God giving me always could have to be meaning or meant or are meaning and should I go up into an empty elevator and should I register for a writing course or are the forces of the universes trying as best as some universes can, telling me, no(!), I should not, can not, should not proceed (DO NOT GO INTO THAT ELEVATOR!) but take another - take another route – the stairs? - take another course in my life.

I had plenty of time to ruminate since there going to be a long wait for the next elevator; you see this is an old building with three small elevators and all three elevators are now far far away onto floors into the highest heavens of that building 17th, 19th, 24th! floors and seemingly in no rush to return to planet earth if the old elevator signal meters hovering over each door their faded golden old arrows can be believed clicking, turning, twitching sometimes unsteadily pointing to the next floor in those old Manhattan buildings and the lobby is filling with people, with regulars it seems, because no one person is signing in – just me – stopped at the gates; then I am thinking maybe this is a good sign, stopping me here, as much a sacrifice this sacrifice may be.

Jesus!  She was – still she is – she still is I am sure - beautiful.

You see, it may be, it may be a good sign, because I can see from the clock on the wall ticking minute by minute her black thin ticking, ticking hand, I am early, 8:57 AM it is, the clock telling me; if that sign can be believed.

I am early,

I still have some time, and I wondering if the Writer’s Workshop doors are open, opened already and ready to embrace me readying to help me register for this new step in my life –

the last offense I wanting getting to their floor, to walk off that elevator and stand in front of their GRAND DOOR and their Grand Door not be open – yet – their offices darkened;

their office still closed from yesterday, or last week, or last Friday last; hell I might bolt, I might take this as a definite definitive sign – no - no, it is good, I guess, that I am still waiting here amongst a steadily more crowding lobby, awaiting for the 9 AM witching hour alone without her.

And you can imagine, can you? the mental anguish and gymnastics I going through in my body, my turbulent mind wondering twitching and wondering and reconsidering the signs of being thwarted from riding in that small elevator pressed up against that most beautiful woman and managing coming upon, finding, a finding in magical fact, coming upon the conclusion this is a good sign – Jesus –

I managed –

It is early,

and I do not want to stand alone in a far away fourteenth floor hallway in front of a GRAND GOTHAM closed darkened door wondering when, or even if the Gotham Writer’s Workshop offices will be opening this fall sunny day.

So feeling better, for some reason (hope eternal?) I get to watching looking at fellow lobby waiters, the crowd sure building; quite a diverse crowd I am thinking and surely we would not all be fitting into the next arriving small elevator, at least seeming obvious to me, then again I am a visitor, and if I being pushed aside, out of the way, left alone in this lonely lobby as the aluminum steel clad elevator doors pushing back into her, the people, sliding closed the doors, all of these other regular people going up leaving me alone in this clean marbled lobby I would definitely consider a distressing motion, an action, a sign from God even; maybe.

OK, one elevator finally arrives and I am the second one in! – location is everything - this surely a sign; the people keep, kept piling in – !

I am surprised at the packing – do they do this packing every morning?

Then when I thinking all is enough a rather large guy with a bulging pack on his back moving in, his pack on his back pushing me, us aside,
Believe not;
I could not believe there is room, could not believe for him, not only for him but his bulging back pack too - but he managing and then if that isn’t enough a huge black girl – 300 lbs easy the woman squeezes in – unbelievable – yeah – so no one else seeming to be having any problem with her pushing into us she entering rather strongly over and through, across that silver aluminum elevator threshold squeezing in her black form her feet kicking in claiming her ground, finding her space on the cracked old vinyl elevator floor and always – I am sure – almost always mostly grouchy or mostly touchy, all these people are for to that this old elevator, the weight weighting her down, all these people pounds; – me too -, I looking cautiously at that old posted sign framed on her wall displaying, clearly sort of in signs, how much weight this old elevator capable (if the engineers and inspectors can, can be believed and/or trusted), as I trying to do the arithmetic and I do have some time as the elevator doors hesitantly closing and opening yet again I actually having time to do the math too –yet - arithmetic really; what all these calculating numbers in my head really matter or mean, as I doing the cautious, now becoming scary math – and even some scary calculus(!) and as we all are wishing in a love of life, all of us waiting to go up, effortlessly (in love?  I am thinking, surprised at all my thoughts (maybe I can be a writer?!)!), or is this thinking my thoughts a too contemptuous weighty wish, then the old elevator groans waiting for the doors to close, too weighty these thoughts, to be extending and closing here?  My elevator doors finally closing; my elevator finally rising, finally.

Grumbling old NYC elevator – they all seeming to be regulars (if only that beautiful Asian woman missing that first elevator!); I just hope this old elevator don’t have any problems as I do going up in her; her holding us all in her embrace, all here squeezed tightly together going up.

So as the elevator groans, stopping at every floor, I get to looking at the people in the elevator, much as I can lower my chin to see and I notice this one lady standing, pressing next to me – rather short, rather skinny – she has a scowl on her face (I am not saying witchy but you could go there if you wanted to) and she is wearing these rather simple open sandals and oddly she has some of her funny little shaped toes taped together two to a clip – odd - taped together with white medical adhesive tape which has become dirty – dirty white, probably being exposed to NYC curb and street and sidewalk dirt; there not seeming to be anything wrong with her toes other than her little toes being a bit misshapen.

Odd I thought, though free of signs, I am very tentatively thinking, very carefully considering free of signs - except maybe for the witchy part – safe enough so far I guess and I thinking and the elevator groaning creaking and groaning on.

Well, as we nearing the 14th floor – the floor I am getting off on – my floor – I noticing she is starting to bustle, and I am thinking, oh my God – oh no – could she be being from the ‘Workshop’, could she be getting off on this floor – she clearly is preparing to do so with that always unnecessary bustling people do reddening to exit, to get off – well the elevator doors slide open and she gets off and I get off and the elevator doors close behind and we are both standing in a darkened shadowy old tilting hallway feeling unease, the tilting floor in a dark hallway is presenting certainly an unsteady vertigo; standing in front of me, looking back sternly at me the ‘Gotham Writers’ Workshop’ - large Gothic old fashioned gold gothic letters printed and carefully mounted on a fairly large modern clean clear glass door facing me and I, I am dizzy with anticipation thinking of my Grand Entrance.

We are both facing the large glass door looking in; I am looking over her small shoulder through the large glass door, through gold Gothic print, into the darkened offices of the Gotham Writers’ Workshop.

I can sense some tension; I am not but a foot behind her, inches really me hovering in anticipation; me quite a bit taller, bigger than she, in the quiet dark tilting hallway, elevators are now far off creaking and groaning groping into the upper reaches of the building I can hear them, none to be stopping here, on this 14th floor anytime soon.

We are alone.

Sensing some disquiet or agitation even as she hesitantly rustling in her pocketbook, she must be considering ‘is it safe?’ safe - am I safe?  Is it safe to be opening the glass office door with me hovering behind?

Surely she is preparing, for the worst?  She has no idea, trust me on that; as it should be.  Right?  Even though maybe she a writer.

She is having to unlock the door; I figure.

So I say helpfully, softly, hopefully, to break the rising tension of fear,

I say “I am here to register” - and she jumps in a start to the sound of my voice coming from behind;

She knows surly I am here; here behind her.

I didn’t mean to scare her, hell I been wanting to calm her and she turns on me snarling

“You just can’t show up here to register!!  You need an appointment!!”

So I say quietly

“OK, I am here to make an appointment to register to write.”

She clearly not liking that answer and is about to say something, so frustrated as she is I can clearly see, maybe scared even – of me?!

But she stops and turns back to the Gothic printed glass door and pulling her cape over her head, way over her head hovering over the door knob and the brass knob’s accompanying ivory small push button combination lock I noticing before her cape whipped up and over hopefully covering my knowing eyes aside in what I can only describe her motion as an overly protective move, I mean really, over the top; I mean really the whole posture totally unnecessary, almost Halloween like, and really what would there be in there to steal – ok,

OK!

Maybe

there is something valuable in there, this place is about writing, after all, right?

Watching her;

her dark witch like cape, maybe this is the future, hovering over hiding that door knob and her little ivory plastic push button combinations she hiding pushing in with her little finger to get in, enter within; way overly vigilant, paranoid even I cautiously thinking, of my future.

What else?

Hers?

Is this really that complicated and often times it seems, fearful…?  The writing; sometimes I thinking tearfully is; can be terrifying to me.

She is hiding the secret combination she is entering, pushing in those little tiny plastic black on graying ivory white printed buttons as if it is, as if she is protecting some mythical mystical cave, I half expecting some troll, some goblin, some mean spirited Grinch jumping out from a shadow and I am thinking surly signs, signs! again; surely I getting an unsettling feeling; feeling, feelings can be contagious.

And still hot outside, almost summer the weather is;

Goddammit what the hell she doing in a cape?!

Then I thinking, ok, ok, - drama – God sending me drama!  ‘Press on old chap!’ I thinking; fer sure…

So I did.

She opens the clear clean glass black Gothic printed door going in, I follow, hesitantly, stepping over the aluminum metal threshold screwed into the hard wood striped floor, I walk into a darkened lobby; I walk into Gothams’ writing offices,

not like she is inviting me in or anything – nothing…

and forget about all those Grand Entrances & & embracing stuff –

talk about fantasy –

I did better with all that embracing stuff calling on those other alternative offerings I mentioning earlier harking silently out of one of those other bent dented metal boxy containers, many others inside waiting on my(?) - those NYC street corners (and they cheaper!).

I take a seat on one of the cracked plastic chairs in the darkened lobby and wait...wait for her.

She finally comes to me from the dark back offices still not turning on any lights which I must admit seeming rather strange but hey they writers here, right?  I hope to God, I come all this way.

Maybe they are poor, or green, or, or something, anyways she says she all alone here (well I am here I am thinking and almost looking down at her white adhesive taped funny shaped toes again), she is all alone and she can’t take appointments or make an appointment, for me; I would have to come back between 10 AM and 5 PM and I says the web site didn’t say that, it says I can come here at 9 AM and make an appointment and she says “No it doesn’t say that.”, and of course I really don’t want to argue with her – I mean really what is the point?  Argue with her?!  Is this a sign – a test?!

Must be a test;

I left that morning going back to the Library and punching a few buttons, bringing on the computer screen Gotham Writers’ Workshop web site seeing exactly what presents, maybe I reading wrong the day before, reading and interpreting registering ‘in person’ – you know writers are supposed to be accurate – I guess – even where you live - unless you writing fiction.

And a good writer is often a good reader, or should be; so I hearing.

So here is what ‘Gotham Writers’ web site says:

Walk-In registrations are accepted in the Gotham office by appointment during business hours (Monday-Friday, 9:00am - 6:00pm) or at the class site only if there is room available in a class. 

Maybe I can’t read.

They do give a course at the Gotham Writers’ Workshop on reading and understanding what the ‘Author’ means – ‘Author’??!!

I do have to look that word up – never done that look up before, that word crossing my mind often; writers are all about words of feelings crossing their minds, shuddering within my body;

has to be, so I thinking;

the word is laid down in a thick bound dictionary book too…

‘author’

‘Originator’ so the definition goes in that dictionary book…

I am sure God is Great; way greater than me; perhaps a possibly simple author I can be; ‘originator’ far too big a place for me,

Maybe I should just take that course to become a writer;

obviously I have something to learn about and understanding life and living and, and what I am reading, and, and sometimes seeing or sometimes sensing or feeling, and then, possibly even having the gumption(?!) and with proper(?!) training and understanding in order the careful handling of so delicate a flower;

life…beautiful life in all its agonies,

and hope and all the words ‘n being considerate - enough

hopefully not too sloppily handling delicate thoughts and sometimes beautiful flowers carefully crafted by God(?!)

and even eventually a possibly caring understanding eye finally

and even an ear that I do dare write a hopefully beautiful story of an approach to a condition, to a feeling I have, thinking hopefully I have,

we have(?!) or more hopefully I do - we – do we all have

or I am, am I struggling willingly to have, hopefully?

I have no choice; I have to, no choice here really in spite of bombs and missiles flying about me

to a love(?), in love or having any love; a lover

or perhaps loving

in spite of the pain or my sometimes flailing and more than I would choose to admit, resistance –

who would,

would you?

any of us, all of us; who all, all of us really being able to say and truly believing, truly God allows that we are all really all knowing – we really want to know what all God means… -

much as I wonder and wishing - to be writing, feeling, understanding expressing (if I could - can I?  Talk about Pride (such a dangerous game)) only hoping to be writing;

hoping I am able.

Maybe I should take as a sign; God sending me…am I registering too early?

Timing is truly everything.

After sitting in the Library on the second floor glumly staring at the computer screen glancing hesitantly at the big clock on the library wall always keeping decent time, reasonable enough and seeing it is 5 minutes to ten actually 4 minutes now as that black needle skinny hand clicking another minute forward, 4 minutes to ten then I walking downstairs out into the bright late morning sunlight of Manhattan mulling over my fate heading west right across town literally a straight shot west of only 4 cross town blocks to their 8th Avenue offices, right in the middle of what is left of the 42nd Street/Times Square porno district – in tatters now, really – a shame – at least to a writer I would think; though what do I know?  Now looking at, as I cross west through the Park, looking at that sleeping drunk on the park bench again, turning he is in sleeping repose the sun beginning to peek in through dappling colorful fall leaves, persistence is important, I thinking, reflecting on my own life and persistence being everything or at least being taught at least persistence having so much importance finding myself drawn back to 8th Avenue and that sort, standing across the street again of that tall old office building I standing in front of before, earlier that morning, housing the Gotham Writers’ Workshop offices and all of a sudden I am standing across the street, right across the Avenue from those large brass clad tall doors framing tall clean clear glass again, light newspapers and printed trash, mostly empty McDonalds’s bags, blowing across my feet wondering if I should make my move and I would, that witch – I ain’t really saying she is – though – thinking would she let me back in on this same day or would she think I stalking her, or would she come at me with still yet another hurdle, another test – I mean how bad I want this?!!

I was thinking when she first told me I would have to come back at 10 AM, I was thinking of waiting right there – sitting in that old cracked old plastic chair for the hour but I could tell that was out of the question – clearly out of the question, she practically had her arm up and her finger extended pointing to the front door – in case I needing any further encouragement, or did I get the hint?  Hey, I am going to be a writer – I hope I ain’t that dull?!
Am I?

I don’t even have a girlfriend.

You know I wondering whether cash would be better; maybe I should be carrying more though in this sketchy neighborhood on this powerful island just enough good – good enough for now, more visceral you giving he, her green you feeling – you have to feel, be feeling you getting my – mine, your money’s worth, so I been taught a long time ago money and always sort of recently being reinforced in those stringing strong scattered ideas coming into my scattered mind so I thinking;

Still wondering about the cash carrying only plastic and wondering what good doing me now?

Still wondering about the cash, I didn’t want me handing all that green out excitedly all them grabbing to get too excited, right off – or them neither - although I wasn’t sure these people I haven’t yet met, well one I did, would have a reader at their office, no matter how much cash I scattering around and may be they may call the cops in a reach no matter my money they scooping up in the mean time– oh I am sure they can read – I hope?!  Wouldn’t that be intriguing, teaching writing courses given from a group of people, teachers really, who cannot read – how quaint – how ‘avant?!  I am thinking what a good idea; No?!  Interesting, at least to me; wanting to write; and my teachers not being able to read; I have often heard one needs to be at least at arm’s length to create.

That is far away!

I mean, would they have, would those writers have a plastic card reader; reading a dark (mysterious?) magnetic metallic plastic strip; who knows what all is in that black brown strip - telling  theme (maybe…)!?  Drawing quickly from that strip, silently, their compensation for future services to be rendered…for me…

I still don’t know if they have a reader there;

and me lost in crazy thoughts eying on the dirty curb, always in front of me, very often used, that small brass handle bolted on thin sheet metal, framing a scratched clear plastic small square window, resting shyly passively on the sidewalk, always resting passively offerings inside, behind an accepting willing door free to open most always secure in the idea, almost always the hope, waiting inside, the small squat metal box in front of me blocking my crossing if she can, staring back at me between me and always or perhaps in my, my ways of thinking, wanting to think, always love and maybe love is possible even today hopefully in this wind sweeping autumn morning, this simple really fragile dented low lying squat thin clad metal box is challenging me, giving a swift kick I can I could give ‘em – knocking this one over at least!

At least…!  Kicking her.

I feel some few drops of water hitting my face, tapping me lightly on my head; I thinking a window air conditioner up above condensing some unseasonably warm Autumn air.

Small steel framed scratched clear plastic trap door lying low in front of me, looking at me comfortably silently beckoning

hearkening silently ‘come closer’…;

she whispers…;

What do I want with love I sure nestling inside?

Dizzy I am looking bending down my hands in my pocket staring onto, trying to stare into that dented metal box and through that scratched plastic window hiding, hinting her lovely beautiful contents within for me; I bending over peering in, squinting wide eyed;

I know she is in there; I think I know;

hungrily wondering about grabbing that burnished shinning brass handle, often used, I am sure, worn burnished handle and strongly forcefully pulling out from within an offering, perhaps a newly forming damp Asian seed nestling on some damp grey newsprint her waning sad picture her slowly disappearing ever evaporating brown bright light browny slanting eyes hibernating, slowly fading away, yearning, yearning to glow and grow, smiling straining a fading smile from a far away place?; still –

maybe if I went to war over there one day again

far away past in another life I bring her back –

still she lives(?!)…and loves…she still alive(?); she does still live?

She does?  I am sure;

I hope she does;

of course she does still live the beautiful seedling little delicate little flower glowing growing bright in fading damp grey newsprint germinating as her beautiful eyes – glowing dimly glowing growing still for sure – in the sadness of this blowing cold cruel cruel autumn island world yearning to blossom; surly she lives?!

Persistent drops still hitting me, tapping me in the head – may be rain – I looking around, feeling a stronger breeze coming from the south and seeing some swirling puffs of darkening sky bearing borne dragons quickly clouding over the morning sun with a rumbling thundering coming in from a distance.

I looking up shaking with feelings and thoughts, thinking about a cigarette of all things, and maybe a strong drink and then through my troubling feelings and, and thoughts, then I think I seeing her, through those big clean clear glass doors, I see her in the lobby talking to that fat guard at the desk – is this a mirage?  If not a mirage then surely this a miracle and now the sky is really raining, and now she is coming out through those larger, bigger, very big brass framed always cleaned tall brass framed glass doors housing the Gotham Writers’ Workshop I beholding her across 8th Avenue, I spy her, no matter my furtiveness and shyness I behold my other real full growing flower – my muse I sure – she, this beauty manifesting across the dirty Avenue coming out of that scary now startling building – a coffee break I am thinking she going on or for an errand, an errand God giving her for to send her to me, me; Thank you God – you don’t mind – who cares!  I am with her again, or about to be - almost, with her – please God, no almost again, I will be true to you and I know what you desire of me this late morning even the clock ticking near 20 even 30 minutes past 10; I have more immediate issues, plans and immediate desires though how to approach my muse – how to; How to do this?

The left door is already opening as she steps out into a falling Autumn rain storm and thunder and lightning is happening;

She emerges, stepping strongly out onto the sidewalk.

A coffee brake maybe I figuring either that or an errand from God, that why she coming out, oh, oh my God I thinking in the wind; thank God for whatever reason I am pretty much in consonance with whatever, with the universe; so I am.

She emerging that beautiful, earlier morning flower coming out into an unexpected late morning shower, blooming she is – to me - rain raining on me; be damned!

Yet still I can see I imagining(?) she blossoming in a pelting rain storm walking tall and strongly in my loving loving eyes she turning up her collar of her light pink fashionable (I sure!) blue jacket; what a divine flower.

The seed is blossoming in this God giving rain coming from above falling on me – is this a sign; surly a sign! - an angel!  I am so lucky.

An Angel, I am sure about to be saving me.

Saving me from my cruel, cruel ways; always, ever always my cruel ways

and hopefully never again needing to be so;

And I know immediately what I must do, dropping the cigarette;

Miraculously, as often happens in this island town, a black umbrella vendor suddenly appears in a rain storm and I quickly purchasing the most largest of his grand offerings;

What else for my angel, my muse my Goddess?

There will always be other days to write, for sure – right? – looking neither right nor left crossing into a dangerously dirty now greasily slick 8th Avenue looking neither left nor right stepping into blowing litter and pelting rain and, and danger without caution into this frenzied very busy dangerously driven crazy raucous siren screaming insane 8th Avenue on the west side of Manhattan as God my guide I find myself in this late morning unexpectedly late morning rain storm moment; I must protect her,

this late morning opportunity.

Why do I feel this way?

This beautifully exciting incautious happy moment I must protect her, I must love her dizzily twirling in a moment of euphoria on a dirty slick west side Avenue, a moment of delirious enchantment again from a memory of so so long ago, now for sure on her hoped for love I cross,

this feeling -

and she may never ever appear, ever never happen again nor ever never again even become manifest to me again –

in front of me she, as God incarnate is manifesting, blossoming in this morning sweet smelling rain storm, for me –

for me,

never ever again God willing would God ever again in the clutches and certainly uncertainties of my miserable life bring this miracle to me, ever again?

Never ever again place in my grasp a sweet flowing flower, a wonderland of possibilities blossoming no matter a possible hungry evil weevil caging, hiding within;

Even that, perhaps, even I may be having placed at the first amongst us two lovers that weevil, growing slowly that always evil always hungry weevil; so hungry that weevil can be,

So help me God! this will never ever be, there will never ever be another beautiful flower happening, blossoming so precious, presenting herself so precocious I am sure precious giving herself to her God giving beautiful glorious colorful petals opening shy her flower opening in the sure coming about to be phenomenon delicate mist soon manifesting and warming sun surrounding this cold passing pelting rain storm on this lonely island.

I am grateful of this moment, this opportunity

crazily happy I am thinking wishing for ever blooming blossoming breathtakingly effusively flourishing euphorically in a cornucopia beautiful, beautifully even deliriously engaging she is this God given rare opportunity in a driving rain storm this delicate delicious flower forever entertainingly blossoming no matter some bending and even slight wilting in a cold coming winter storm;

will she ever never be in my fateful grasp ever, ever never again?

This is my only chance.

I will protect her.

The signs are moving in, all in congruence though many I am not aware…

Now is the moment!

There will be other times to write – right?

I am sure, quickly crossing the greasy slick street, opening the large black umbrella its large black petals catching the gusts of the early autumn’s storm winds dragging me north across the Avenue to her retreating figure so grateful I am for a strong late summer early autumn rainy breeze bringing me where I must.

Sailing – Flying I am!

Close in on my left I hearing a blaring horn.  A cab approaching?  Do I hear screeching tires(?); so near-at-hand that bumper may be; even busting me; I am too giddy, skipping through the rain drops I am, her soon to be wide umbrella pulling me through; me holding tightly for a ride of my life;

There would be other times to write.

Right?