A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 2/4)

Then, as I was about to set off walking again, past Mr. McCarthy's garden, my head indeed already about to be impertinently shaken in disbelief over its condition, I happened to glance down at the pavement, and what did I see but a big crack in the concrete, stretching all the way from Mr. McCarthy's fence and down to the very road itself. Now, again I must prompt you that superstitious is one thing that I am not, and may God throw my poor mother – bless her soul, never a selfish word passed over her angelic lips – out of heaven if ever an untruth escaped my own. But it is as true as is the Sahara the world's largest desert, the story about a former neighbour of mine – may she rest in peace, the floozy – who once had the misfortune of stepping on a crack so that the heel of her shoe got stuck in it and broke right off, so that – can you imagine? – she fell into the street right in front of a car, and was killed instantly.

Now, of course I would never be as flamboyant as to wear such high heeled shoes the manner of your poor, ill-fortunate young Molly there, but any the less it just goes to show, doesn't it, that you can never be too careful with those cracks in the pavement. One could argue, obviously, as those young minds usually do – as filled with newly acquainted logic they believe themselves to be – but, sadly, without much experience from a life quite lived, in sickness and in health (God rest my husband's soul, that he should not have the wits to curb his heart attack until he was done descending the stairs), not to mention learning-by-doing and by watching fatal accidents, that one could simply step over the crack in the pavement. But their restless minds, impatient to get themselves elsewhere, overlooks the fact that anything might happen. One could trip, or in other ways lose one's balance, ant there you are, one foot solidly and inexorably placed straight across the crack, and what, one may ask, do one do then? Of course, crossing the street was absolutely out of the question, as I could no longer see the black cat, and there was no telling how far it had followed the street, and I wasn't about to cross its path unwittingly, thank you very much!

However, as luck would have it, I seemed to remember being able to walk through the McCarthy garden and out on the other side, and thus end up quite close to the Little Shop around the Corner. And oh, I must admit I felt a good bit adventurous as after having had a good look around to make sure not a blessed soul (nor a damned one, mind you) was there to see me, I lifted the hook that kept the gate closed, and as "Dear me," I thought, "now that's a rusty gate and no mistake," I pushed it open with the tip of my right shoe – as open as it could be pushed, that is, for something seemed to be preventing it from reaching its full potential of openness. "How odd," I thought, as I snuck myself inside the garden, through the narrow opening, careful not to get any rust on my clean clothes, I am quite athletic for a woman my age, I must imprint on you. An age which I would never dream of revealing to you, of course, however much you might wish me to. One is a lady, after all.

The gate shut itself closed behind me with a loud clang!, which had me started a little, I must say. Admittedly, I had gotten myself into quite a state as I noticed how the hook had fallen back into its place, having the gate as closed and locked as if never it had been opened. But I told myself quite firmly that it was ridiculous of me to allow myself to be all worked up by such a small sort of a thing. After all, what could possibly disturb such a wonderfully regular day?

Dancing Barefoot through New York (prose-ish)

So after I said bye-bye to my best friend and watched her get on the bus that would take her to Chicago, I turned away and tried to take the first steps in this new phase of life towards the subway that would take me to the East Village, but this new life would have a rather confusing start as the subway ticket money machine thingy didn't like my $20 note and told me to go see a professional who run his business in Grand Central Station - professional help hah hah - but, ok, fair enough, I went back up again to the real world and I took a wrong turn as my mind was partly on that bus on the way to the airport I guess, and suddenly I found myself walking down Madison Avenue and Manhattan is all of a sudden hot like Sahara, so I look frantic for a Starbucks and a Frappuccino to reboot myself, but for the first time in a decade or so a person could walk down one block on Manhattan without finding a Starbucks - so I stop and sigh and look up to gather myself but there is no sky only corporate builidings and I know that I still have to find that ticket machine in Grand Central Station so I can go Downtown, but my attention is drawn towards a Chinese guy who's checking his bicycle tire for holes in a little water pit as a guy eating yogurt with both hands is crossing the street in a car cuts him off my sight, and I pull out a map and try to find my way to the station, which actually is the building behind me with big letters chipped into the white-ish stone saying "Grand Central Station"- to which I walk up to and enter, and suprisingly with little confusion find the Magical Mystery Machine that still for some reason has the same attitude as the otherone on the station on East 42nd Street and indeed I prayed right there that 3CPO would come to Earth and take with them these pieces of scrap that keeps cluttering up my life, and perhaps recycle or rejuvenate them as something useful like an electric tooth brush or a laser printer and just ...fock off to outer space while I could be safely on my way to East Village, which I realised would not happen so I go back out to the jungle and try to walk to Central Park by firstly making a wrong turn, making me go down Park Avenue rather than up it and so further distancing me from my new destination - however ironically bringing me a few steps closer to the original one however change of preferance in destination I still really wanted a cold coffe and still I wander full of wonder down another block without a Starbucks in sight and now I feel the top of my head letting out steam and with a student morgage of plentiful zero's -this gaz was worth gold, money was flushed down the loo every second and especially big was the steam let off by the excitement of almost being run over by a yellow cab after having failing to see the "Don't Walk" sign - I knew this was getting serious and looked for my Plan B solution - air condition, a Jew in black clothes, a big beard with long curled side burns under a black hat, stares at an approaching yellow cab through circular glasses balancing on his nostrils at the end of his long crooked nose that made me think of front lights on a gherkin, it drives past him but he shows no affection, being a man of God, of the Chosen People who waited 40 years in a desert don't seem to mind waiting another minute or so on Manhattan for the next taxi that picks him up and takes him to wherever- me, I was still in the same place, only now with my eyeballs resting at a Barnes and Noble sign and just by the look of the wooden interiors I could feel a breeze and a cold frappe down my throath - and in a wink I'm inside and my mind seems once more with me - we're one again -but this intellectual revival did not take place in the most sensible place, money wise, as a book shop tends to keep the mind's desires far away from the wallet's interest, and soon I'm standing with two books in my hand, a novel called The Edge of Yonder - whatever that means - , and the other being a poetry collection by Patti Smith, looking scrufffy but real on the cover in contrast to the three summer cannibals lurking outside the window in hot pants and high heels increasing the danger of traffic accidents by offering meat to every bidder or gawker, but Patti and I roll down our sleves and resumes the daily battle betweet the tits and the twats, and now I'm beginning to get a little chilly from the cold air, so I pay and return to the jungle, refreshed and with my mind clear of where to go - "Y is the Forgotten Vowel" she says and I can't help but ask "Y?" -"Y is the covenant between the Creator and the Artist" she whispers back through the shivers from pages of paper being turned and overtuned by the noise on 5th Avenue and now I can see the top of the trees of Central Park and I wished it could just rain even though I'd left my umbrella hanging on my bunk bed in room 305 in our hostel, something that would just remove this heat block from my brain, and indeed there must have been something in the gas leaking from my ears - they must have provided some sort of super quick astral highway for prayers- some super gravital wishing well with God on speed dial- for surely, a dark cloud relieved Central Park South from the straining sun and its companions soon gathered too- I sit down on a bench dedicated to some late Aggie and Alex, smiling, whipping out my book on the memory of these strange lovers and setting my peace with New York, at least for a little while before I had to head back to Grand Central Station to get on the bus to the air port - God bless this mess!

Lost (poetry, sonnet)

Where are you?
Cause I’m right there.
What’s that you say not anywhere?

Am I with you?
Cause where is here.
Yet you assert this, no place for fear?

Could this be true?
We’re where we are.
So near the truth, and yet so far?

Our search is through?
We’re here and there.
Our true location we ought not share?

Well here’s the truth, free of cost…
I think we’re Bermuda Triangle lost.