The youth have a power over the world in the bedroom of their mind.
Venturing to the blackness, at the edge of the bed they lie, legs stretched, shoulders relaxed, spent, feeling smashing about all they gave.
They break rules. Laugh in the silence, gregarious in the closed mouths, living in the moment’s so 2002, with a slight of hand they split atoms.
Season Jumping, they sweat fall and rise cold, all in the matter of a beam of light.
Being an “old” and re-entering the bedroom, I’m startled to see her cringe at the moon, howl between the floorboards. I’m half naked catching her motionless, head tilted, watching the candle flicker.
They see meaning in everything. We only see meaning when it means something.
One foot behind the other, you tip toe (slowly!) out, retracing your steps and prepare to enter again hopefully upon a different season.
Yet how tiresome it must be for you to think you’ve contorted the universe and all the proceeding nanoseconds that got us here. It’s limited sight and in that respect not much is shared and sharing (an old idea) is what love is in the bedroom of the mind.
And it might be because there’s this dark matter where my heart pumps blood to my brain. But it also could be that in my room there’s a desk and a bed. When I’m writing, I’m at the desk, when sleeping, the bed, and sometimes I write in the bed and sometime I sleep at the desk and if i’m not doing either I have to go outside cause there’s no living room in my house. So I go outside and I have a smoke and all these people along 14th street are busy and excitable and walking and clapping and they’re heels are clicking and they’ve got to be somewhere now now now and they lounge around like every corner’s their own, and ringing are phones and I don’t know if i’m writing and I don’t know if I’m sleeping, it gets complicated, but it’s my world, as it were, so someone has to take a stand.
Let’s figure out a pattern to my behavior….
1. I have no patience for everyday pleasantries. Waiting in line, there was a man and his father behind me aimed to pass, and when they realized they did, they stopped and said, “Oh, you were here first,” and I said, “I know.”
2. I have the largest pimple placed sqaurely in the middle of my forehead and got roasted at work. Even the line cook who has two fingers on his left hand got in a few jabs. That sort of thing builds character but what doesn’t build character is when a quarter-way through the abuse I ask one of the waiters, “Michelle, do you have any cover-up? Seriously.”
3. I got tickets for a play and paid a twenty-five dollar non-refundable fee applied to my american express card and the day of the play, just two hours before show time I went to a bar and ordered a ketel one on the rocks with a twist, then another kettle one on the rocks with a twist, then went outside hailed a cab went home, fell asleep. Then, when Michelle asked me the next day how was the play, I said, “Amazing.”
It’s called Torn Parachutes, and was made by my cousin Allen who goes to NYU.
There are many things I have to say about it but… I think the title of this post says it all.
I am working on a feature length.