Day 27: Billy

made a chai with milk (better known as a "chai latte") for me today here in the blue city of New Haven...

See how we're both kinda crooked? It's cause I have an ear infection and I'm walking like I didn't drink my V8. I think my photos' kinda crooked, too. There's a solid kinda geometry going on. Billy was cool; I told him it was Day 27.

I've decided that my postcard planting plot is somewhat...how shall I say...failing? It's like adding a brushstroke of pink acrylic to a canvas that's mostly collage - maybe it will work, but maybe it really won't. This does not mean I have given up, however. I have re-stocked my trusty orange book bag and will carry on. How do I make up for the fallibility/failure? Do I incorporate it into the day by leaving several postcards in one day? Or do I simply extend the project's ending by leaving postcards after the 22nd? Or, do I simply keep the postcards and make something with them?

I think I'll put up a poll and ask folks about what they think I should do. Failure is not an easy thing to reconcile, though in and of itself it is not the dead end we all think it is, either.

Mictlanxotchil

if walls could speak. from angela mictlanxochitl on Vimeo.

Steven Sonny Stevie G.

Because (for Ana)
Steven G. Fullwood
September 11, 2011

Because Ana is a portal that you jump through

And who can resist an opening?

Because she is a hedonist who gets work done early
So she can catnap and Quantum Leap and stitch her voodoo babies together
Because after a month of time traveling
Of packing up everything supposedly mine and moving next door
From a basement to third floor Jefferson’s style
Because clothes books and CDs aren’t the only thing to unbox
Because my God arms are not too short
Because the threes whispering psst
Third apartment, third building, same street, 10037, 13 years at my job
Because one trip to Chicago wasn’t enough
Because one time to a conference about archiving
Because second time two planes, one car, father, a sister and a friend driving
through a rainstorm tickled me into confidence
Because I know all I want for my father in this lifetime
And the next is peace
That my 93-year old grandmother sees the husband she stayed true to even after
he died
Because I thought I was granddad reincarnated for a moment
Because blood language surges through me
Because after I threw the yarn Ana gave me out the window
Shimmied down the brown sticky line
Explosions went off in my body
Aftershocks connecting every Steven I was or will ever be
Because if you ask I probably will
I’ll show up, write it, speak it, show it, offer it up like manna to whoever takes
Because coffee, like fucking, like solitude, is necessary
Because Tom Waits makes more sense when you can’t feel your fingers
anymore and your American’s idle
Because the dead ain’t dead but laugh at your silly ass for thinking so
Because being interdimensional is misdiagnosed as schizophrenia, mental
illness
Because when art comes and asks you to wrap your face in yarn
And you just do it
And almost suffocate

But you know you won’t
Can’t see shit in your apartment
You stumble for the camera
You take photographs of yourself in the bathroom, on the living room floor
You just listen to what comes
Take the stage
Sing your song that day the way it wants to be sung
So if you a beat behind relax
Because I can’t resist singing
The song
Can’t stop spinning
The yarn
Can’t stop road
The travel
Can’t resist
The challenge
Can’t help but reliving
The shame
Can’t help erupting into memory
The shimmy
Can’t help broadcasting my naked ass
The bare windows in my new apartment
Can’t help needing to be here for a few more seconds
The wooden floor
Can’t help
Helping the can’t
The won’t
The will
The am
The I
The nothing that is
The tangle of thoughts
The poetry I don’t want to write
The poems that piss on others
The not trying
The try not
The tried knot
The knot you supposed to untie
And then hang on until
Until

Until
You reach for the door
The knob
The next portal
The unending to this poem

Day 26: Quiet Thunder

A quiet sill...


...a Quiet Thunder.

Quiet Thunder aka Mitchell was bouncing down the street, happy as the day is long, carrying mail (onward). He goes by the name Quiet Thunder - he teaches karate and competes all over the Tri-State/New England area. The spot where we stood, his suggestion. Like thundering light.

Day 25: Brittany

If you see something...

...post a comment. Shuttle riders, it's all on you. Well, not really, but hey: feel free to post a comment!

At Grand Central, I met Brittany (I had asked a photographer who was from Russia first, but she simply said, "no."), who was on her way from one place to the other. She asked me how much I was going to pay her. I told her I'd give her a plant, but then it turned out she was joking. Good luck in NYC Brittany!

Tina

L'Oreal

And here's the video that explains it all ("Viva La Poetry"):