Posts Tagged ‘jenny wick’

2019.

March 17, 2019

There are cut flowers in vases, long stemmed orchids that sit on new furniture contrasting the white and purple flowers with the dark polished wood, old pictures hang on new walls while formerly boxed books line new and old shelves. The light is different as the house faces south and the morning sun breaks through grimy windows waking me up. Many of the windows still don’t have curtains, they sit in the closet, carefully folded up, still waiting to be hung. The sound of the floors is different, each floorboard creaks in its own distinct fashion, they all groan and ache with age-each step bringing forth a small bleat of age, the wooden blanks have been neglected and there is nary anything I can do. It’s a rental.

On one side of the dining room is a wall of records, nearly six feet long by six feet high, an almost literal sculpture of loneliness. The opposite wall carries the same but instead of vinyl records there are rows and rows of compact discs, just in case the records can’t placate the darkness there are a few thousand cd’s to help burnish the periods of emptiness that tend to pop up in sudden random moments. Music has always been the one reliable salve for any sort of extensional dilemma, it worked at the age of fourteen the same as it does at fifty, although the shimmy across the floor isn’t as dramatic as it was in 1982. There is a new stereo cabinet, it is walnut as well, a dark wood grain with glass doors the open wide, a line of lights run under the top that make the wood and thus the music sparkle more than it should. At times, late in the evening these lights make it feel as if there is an extra plate at the table that is still waiting to be eaten off.

I go to the grocery store, mostly at night, a few times being the last customer, wheeling the metal cart through empty aisles thinking of all the choices of food that I would never eat, in fact much of the food I buy will get tossed out in a few weeks anyway. What can one person do with ten bananas? Learning to buy just two is something that hasn’t happened yet, every time I pull two from a bunch, I feel I’m breaking up a family, ripping somebody off. They all go brown soon enough.

There is a park down the street, one we went to often to take the dog, the sprite white thing would gallop across the fields, stopping to smell and pee on patches of grass that only a dog would understand the deeper meaning of. It’s just grasses to me. There are other dogs that go there, they circle each other, crouching down on their hind legs, attuned to one’s another’s submissiveness. I have her over as well, maybe once or twice a week, the first few times she peed on the floor no doubt trying to cover the stench of cats that used to live in the apartment, layers of cat piss and unwashed floors made the place have a distinct odor but after what seemed like a billion times moping and cleaning the vents out it now gaining its own smell, mostly of coffee and flowers. The kids can walk to the park, having to be mindful of some of the homeless who make small camps in the woods but tend to be harmless. Their lives a daily battle of getting warm and walking to the nearby pantry to get fed, obtain clean socks and feel like they apart of society. Apart of something.

That is harder to find. Connectiveness. The strands of love seem brittle, they get pulled too much one way, and then get wrapped around one another in the most difficult of all manner, twisted and frustrated—they can break or just get to the breaking point. Expectations, some spoken most not, the line the path of life like thick roots just barely above the surface, small traps that trip and grab from underneath. At night, when the music is drifting from the other room, it could be Mahler or some other composer, the living room feels slowly lived in while the insides collapse, dying in short breaths. Living room indeed.

So many new things, stuff people need to fill out a space and I suppose to also fill out their lives. A new table, a new desk, a leather chair, a mattress that is thicker than a tire—it arrived rolled up like a burrito, and a chair. All new, grown up stuff. New pots and pans, dishes even new sponges and a bucket. Perhaps the most difficult aspect is to break all these new things when one feels broken. There is a big part that is whispering ‘why bother. why bother. why bother” as the morning sunlight cuts across the living room floor, splitting an unplanned Saturday in half. Why bother.

I got very sick in a matter of months, as well as a few trips to the emergency room for a heart that might have had too many pieces of pizza over the years but is all under control now. The sicknesses were brutal, one required a four am trip to the ER, the pain was so severe but after a few hours of fluids and heavy medication I was released. Stumbling towards a place to get warm, having to find a way home. Picked up by a friend, those calls are different. Asking for help. Waving in some existential field at trees in the distance, “hey, hey, I’m over here. Never mind. Never mind.” The next time was four days in bed, vomiting in a bucket off the side of the bed, fortunately I am well versed in puking in buckets from an earlier life. Sweating the sheets wet and fumbling at the grocery store, exposed in aloneness trying to buy juice and make it home in time without collapsing. Help came, but sometimes accepting it comes with inner reservations, a kind of blunt wariness that stems from somewhere within. “I’m really ok, thank you.” This is pretty normal at that this point. An aversion to being naked. Found out.

Down below, self-discovery feels like diving into the deep end of the sea, plunging off a tanker, hurtling into the depths of who knows what. But you came from the sea, so many millions of years ago, it is nothing new—it can’t hurt you. Nothing can hurt you, and I smile, dismissing it all. Perhaps is should be hurting into the depths instead of hurtling?

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Jenny Mae: One Year

August 25, 2018

MI0002126908.jpgOne Year:

Unease has been settling in, a sort of emotional arthritis that has stuck with me, aches that come and go, some sharper than others. It may be at a stoplight or when folding clothes, sometimes they come when a song floats into my ears, or just when-the-fuck-ever. Lately, I want to tell you things, call you up and hear your panting voice as you pace around your apartments, fixing plants, hanging pictures, trying on a pile of thrift store finds. Your voice speaks to me then, “Oh, Bela—why do you get yourself into such things? You never learn, how can someone so smart be so stupid?” then you would tell a story, something that so normal as ordering dinner at a restaurant that had turned into the absurd, pushed by the force of your personality until everybody around was dumbstruck. I miss that the most, your non-advice advice and the laugh. Always the laugh.

Nothing was settled, it always remained a haze around your life, everything that danced into your orbit was sucked in, you were a tornado that finally kept spinning, behind you a wake of beautiful destruction, and you spun and spun until even the wind around you tired out and split. “I’m outta here” it wheezed as it fell away. For me, I staggered away the past few years, walking away isn’t the correct wording—I was worn out—from the worry, the hurt and the anticipation of your ultimate demise. Sadly, all the people I wanted you to touch failed to happen, for some time I felt as if there was something we did wrong. Me, you, everybody that tried to push you into something that wasn’t really anything you wanted, I remember you once reading your name in a magazine, flopping it down, saying “that’s cool. Where are we going to drink?” You never mentioned it again. The apartments were filled with black and white photos, torn from the pages of Life magazine and books from the 1960’s, women in dark Ray-ban sunglasses, scarves piled high around their head, naked shoulders glowing from the sun—this was who you were. A fantasy that lived in a world of your own making, where wisps of the past are now settling down around memories that have gathered and collected at my feet, they are melting into one another until, soon, they will disappear.

It has been a year today, when I  left my class to rush to the hospital as your cracked and ruined lips slowly gave up trying to suck in air, you were tired, no doubt about that. You lived harder and brighter than anyone I have ever known. There was a fear stepping into your orbit, you were big league from the word go until you didn’t anymore, you came to a bumpy-rolling stop, and the holes you have left are immense, but your songs can fill them up and your smile can still stretch across and through death and make me smile. I have so much to tell you.

JERRYJENNYCOVER