1/5/91
I am not entitled to these loves -- these lovers who pull the strands of hair from my face that they might see it better - that listen and admire. Uncommon callouses across the soft places of my mind. Numbness - mistaken as innocence, bland or pure. Sour can be pure, horror can … empty can.
Weathered wood staircase made from broken down crates. Ink words stamped here and there and that’s how you know it’s a staircase made of crates. The fire escape on The Spark where I live. The third stair panel from the bottom is made from a board that says “FRAGILE.“ I wore a black leather jacket and a dirty torn skirt with large work boots. My hair was dirty but my stockings were new and expensive. I covered my face and asked one of these men to take a picture of me standing by the staircase. He thought he understood. He thought it was artistic. I don’t think it was. For once.
1/8/91
Hardly any words in this place. Clean betrayal. No apologies and so right in our faces we can’t say much about it: “This is what I want - it’s what I’m going to do and this is how it will effect you.” Or maybe that last part hasn’t even been considered. We’re left to figure it out for ourselves. Clearly, I don’t understand the meaning of the word democracy or relationship or love. There are hardly any words available … At some point, I will have to find the word NO or ENOUGH or the actions that attach themselves to these words … in this place.
I can smell soot long gone into old red brick now brown and I can smell it in the thick light catching through the street lamps. Under the bridge a man is sorting through old boards - a pile of them - picking them up one at a time, then tossing them aside … as if he is looking for the perfect board -- a particular board. As if he could find something there worth keeping. At first, I hear the noise of the boards. It is a far away noise - but there he is. He doesn’t move as if he’s tired … or crazy or caring or cold - I am all of these things and I want to slow down and watch myself absent in his life. I wonder if he’s ever said NO or ENOUGH. Maybe he did and this is what’s become of him.
It’s dark and I’m a little scared. If I intrude on him, he’ll intrude on me. I’m walking home and I don’t know why. I’m not looking for perfect. I wouldn’t know the perfect board if it were given to me formally. I wouldn’t. But, there’s a large hefty trash bag stuck in the bare branches of that tree. I don’t remember that tree ever being green. That could bespeak my own loss - or maybe it’s dead. I wonder If that black bag will be there still by spring - flapping. It is sometimes a black living thing slowly struggling there forever - it will always be there - how would it get down - a strangling menace, pop art, my doppelganger, a phantom, a man, a big black bear.
