Not of your design

i don't think like you
so why should i write like you
my thoughts
my world

unease: in possibly 2 shots?(/|\)

(05/04/2003; 02:05pm) - unease: in possibly 2 shots?(/|\)

shot 1
on the corner of 57th and 5th.
outside of tiffany's.

watching pretty people buy pretty things i know that i want no place in their pretty world.

there are other visible sore thumbs in this pretty place.
minorities.
lower sec's
tourists

but most get by, by acting pretty

also watching people walk by is a volunteer for uho::i think that's the acronym. i may be wrong::
collecting money for the homeless. when i first appeared at the corner i saw him. i gave.

the pretty people ignore him
the others wanting to be pretty follow likewise

my favorite pretty people were an old white couple. the wind messed up the three strands of his comb over. he was very distressed. the wind has some nerve.
for a comb over. it was pretty pretty... i guess.


i-. benny finds me.
we walk
we talk
i tell him of the pretty people
and he tells me of the pretty people ignoring a man shivering. with problems. who needs help.




shot 2

staring into the abyss that drove the world insane

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood. its very presence sending shivers to my being. tonight i was drawn to one

saw x2. it was good.

before the movie benny and i surveyed lower manhattan::on pause for break (weekend)::
from an ivory tower made invincible from our forthcoming excitement

we watch. we enjoy

i pee. we depart but enroute to the exit are stopped by the view of a brightly illuminated square::a light. so white. so brilliant. it makes me question my doubt of angels::
we continue looking to the square that looks so small but we know must be so huge. and together we ponder aloud "could that be it?" with a barely spoken agreement, as if possessed by one mind we
agree to adventure and set off.

we quickly realize that it is::see last question::

::keep up in the back. if i lose members of the tour group it comes out of my pay. *ha*. now we're heading south to beautiful downtown new york city. on the left is the mass grave of too many
innocents. on the right is the UA Battery Park Theater created in a growing effort to rebuild and bring more business downtown. when.......::

walking parallel to the wound that poisoned the world. thinking no tower of any height can inoculate it or us against that fireball. that bullet. tainted with madness.

staring into the abyss that drove the world insane i turn my head to look for her eyes, to tell me it will all be ok. her shoulder, to support my cold dead weight.
she's not there::is she a dream to be or a delusion for moments like these
right now there's just me. strong?::
-that oft repeated nanosecond concludes-

reality returns

i return my gaze left.
::without her::my heart tears in two. one half limp and defeated, supported by the strong other::like a carmalized apple on a stick ::
i hear a cacophony of silence. i hear voices. thousands of voices. yelling. SCREAMING. quietly. with voices so loud with absence that it is deafening.
::the strong other pauses. gets a better grip on all. and carries the cold dead weight. strong ::

they rebuild. a bridge to the spot has been constructed::a bridge to death. imagine the view!::
we try to enter but are disallowed access.

.
.
.

we continue south in attempt to find a path to cross the street so we can head east, to head back north again.

we cross

and find ourselves in the bowels of the city formerly known as new amsterdam. that one place scattered across the york that you stumble upon. so urban. and its yours. your pocket. one of those
kinds of places they find in vancouver or sydney to define new york.

we explore the bowels.
shine a light in the colon.
poke our nose in the lower intestine.
and we discover those left behind by the ghosts. the closed cafe::once down the small block. once on the same sidestreet that touched the place with all those people::
the pizza place open in the late hours trying to attract more to replace the many many many that it lost.
we see what's in the upper intenstine

and we emerge. proud. back on one of the major arteries. no worse for wear. the brown stuff on the chin a badge of honor

we ascertain our surroundings and

on the northbound trek for a subway home we find ourselves at the "official" face created by a city in mourning, at other side of the site.
gated off for your safety::and emotional security::

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood. this is one.

we walk north more. find the subway to go home.
we ride
i write this
benny shifts under a weight all his own. we often catch each other eyes. each in our different headspace. each trapped in a world of our own design

around me the scene changes. people shuffle from car to platform, platform to car, sitting to standing and vice versa
strangers enter.
strangers exit.
i write this.

benny departs
we shake hands our way
and i resume writing

around me the scene continues to change
i write

i write, but stop mid-sentence
i hear the far off song of an accordion being played by a man i know to be blind, who guides himself from train to train day to day with a broken cane barely mended by duct tape following each play
which can not earn him more than a dollar.

i pull out 50 cents to give to the man::not even poverty should stop one from giving::
i groan and curse quietly to myself::for being reminded again that the world is a place neither happy nor fair::

which is heard by the girl who at some point claimed the seat that benny sat in::is she cute?::

a conversation begins. we talk. we laugh

at some point
i return to writing
i look up and see a spark in her::but is she cute?::

i say so much to he[a]r that never leaves my world
hearing nothing because i said nothing she eventually leaves. but not without giving me both a sideways glance containing a smile and a goodbye
is my notebook the chastity belt of my heart::an excuse to not express myself. thinking hurts::

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood.
did i just find another?