bluh!
hands find themselves unable to span hips.
restricted by their own shortcomings, they fall to thighs and sit,
his fingers dance tiredly over his kneecap, appreciative and over.
sits at the train window with his tea
steaming and condensing on the underside of the plastic lid,
bought at that stand in the station, that tourist trap
trap or no, they’ve got the best lady grey around, sweet bluish skim milk
oppressed from every angle by saggy men with
grapefruit Financial Times and rained-upon murk-toned Post
he hears a still-pink newborn gurgle,
sticky brown backpack racks and oversat blue pleather.
he seeks aloneness in the chill and looks to his score.
a man that carries an air of baby powder around him
amateur pianist and city-life addict
he loves the noise that billows from the sidewalks,
the quake of the apartment when big things pass, when planes fly over
and how quickly the snow turns grey.
a man that thrives on strong chocolate and bitter-bright logic
complicated stalagmites of books sprout from his floor, fictional and solid and
musty old tomes upon pliant modern novels
an upright he only plays when the neighbors aren’t around
to catch stray notes making their way through the paint, drywall,
cotton-candy insulation and back again.
his fingers betray his quiet façade
he has piano hands, stretched thin and fanned out,
bony knuckles rising out to greet the world from long, slender peninsulas declaring
“wish you were here.”
is this the right room, ma’am?
Today, I visited my dad whilst he was getting his chemotherapy.
Normally, there are a bunch of people in the chemo suite. There are old people, middle-aged people, wrinkly baggy skinny grey balding brave 50somethings with chatty German uncles and four IV drips and pushes, sharps aplenty.
Tonight, at the end of things (around 5:00), there were three people left. My dad, an older Russian woman, and the girl in the last chair.
This girl.
Last-chair girl was young and well-dressed. She looked like a college student, still very young, possibly a junior or a senior, maybe a graduate student, at the very oldest. She had boots, a (beautiful) scarf, hoop earrings, still all her hair… and she was in a medical-induced nap. Her chemo, or Benadryl given with it, or something, had her dozing, mouth slackjaw, in her chair.
I’ve never seen anything so sad.
You would have never known that she had cancer from looking at her. Maybe she was new to the game. She had a full head of hair, no visible radiation tattoos, and didn’t seem to have been on chemo too long.
I may very well have passed her on the street at some point. I wouldn’t have thought twice.
When she finished up and the nurses had flushed her IV, she yawned gently and sauntered out on those high-heeled boots, saying goodbye cheerfully to the chemo nurses. “See you next week!”
Her moxie and bravery astound me. Kids develop leukemia and lymphoma; college students get Hodgkin’s disease. It’s staggering, how some people deal. She seemed placid, just walking out like this was something she did every week (and in reality, it probably is).
Last-chair girl, you impressed me. I hope you have a fast and straightforward recovery.
people are awesome.
they answer. asemic writing craziness much?
lay bitter-soaked trainside morningtime blindness
squint sunlight coldfingers coldface clearskin snake
fingerless gloves knit circles around knuckles craving coffee
pleather seat ate my thigh
alone conducted firstcar trainyard emptyrail expansive
I told you I’m not crazy…
I lied.
It was just a thought I had. It involved combining words.
Today, I found a copy of An Inconvenient Truth in German. I opened it up and found someone’s old (read: really old) business-class Lufthansa boarding pass. It was grey, had no magnetic strip, and said “nonsmoker.” I love finding things like that. Mmmm.
bluh, all sick-like
Today is a blucky day.
First off, I woke up with a scratchy throat. Can’t sing.
Secondly, I grabbed onto a hot stainless steel bowl and burned my finger. Badly. It’s all swollen and ew. Can’t play cello.
The things I live for are failing me today-
but I can still write angry letters to the editor. Success.
And I’ve been really into Thomas Tallis and (time leeeeeeap!) John Adams recently.
Classical rocks on (and on and on and on)…
lovingly ripped from Wikipedia
An article published in The Guardian in 2001[2], regarding the use of the English language around the world, noted:
- The 13 spellings for a sound like sh – shoe, sugar, issue, mansion, mission, nation, suspicion, ocean, conscious, chaperon, schist, fuchsia and pshaw – are a source of weakness, not strength.
(The article failed to mention two more, fashion and crucifixion.)
–
English is great (if you’re a native).
just a thought
I hate working in other people’s kitchens- they’re not like mine.
I can never find the damned olive oil / garlic / tomatoes / thyme / chickpeas / cucumber / almond extract / you name it.
No one else uses an industrial stove.
Or, for that matter, bazillionquart stockpots.
I don’t know, I just feel like cooking (hah, no time), and I’m appreciating how much I love my kitchen, drawer full of knives and all. Big bucket of wooden spoons, and stacks of sheets and halfsheets against the brick wall.
Oven that heats up the whole house and fan that grimily sucks away smoke from under a fluorescent lamp.
Red stone tile weirdness floor and cabinets that don’t really have a method to their madness.
(In other news, I’m reading and adoring The Great Gatsby.)
