trying not to get my signals crossed

my first post collected words I spoke to her last night she was bursting with joy over her small success their understanding of the fire burning their grasp of lifelines underlying the words     I told her to try and channel the potency turn it into something real massive     permanent      she was already way ahead of me              I was so glad       I love being in love having someone in love with me even if it makes the creative expression more difficult at times            not all of the time most of the time I guess  when I’m clear focused all around               I provide content that’s what I do it’s not about the sleekness of the design the usability of the product not Facebook or Apple or Google               but about the use the shells provide what their existence conveys the exchange of idea of art and philosophy of music and song                        try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm/’come in,’ she said, ‘I’ll give ya shelter from the storm’            the romance of life            the exchange that propels pushes            the equations that boast love = 1+1 nothing more nothing less            the fireplace glances keepin’ us warm while the night blows cold              the sounds shattering the silent night              the movement pulling at me so the gentle swaying of hips                  the lyric attaining eternity through pain             the simplicity keeping me on track               the spark that moves up the spine tingling the bones   the limelight where the stage is nothing to be feared practiced immersion         it’s found in the valiancy of attempting to make something breathe                where nothing stirred before            

the ticking of the clocks.

             ‘So write,’ Anna says, ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You’re in a total enviable position that any writer would kill for, you can just write and write and write without other obligations,’ and I don’t respond, thinking of her words, turning them over, letting them rise up to the surface where they exist as mere sounds before I decipher them. She’s right, I conclude.

            ‘You’re right,’ I tell her, picturing the cavalcade of motorcycles escorting some politician to some political event or other that surround the voice on the other end of the line. ‘I should just go off and  write somewhere.’

            ‘My head is hurting from all this talking on speakerphone,’ she whines, ‘and I’m so tiiiired.’ She stretches the last word as if it’s a yawn twisting its way out of her twisting mouth.

            ‘Go to sleep,’ I tell her, ‘take a power nap.’

            I hang up the phone and set out into the drizzle in the direction of Amsterdam. I’m on 93^rd street. I feel that pounding of coarse blood charge through my streams, the one I know predates a change in the air around me. What's it this time? I’ve still got no job, still one of the many unemployed. I picture a queue of despondent, silent immigrants wearing tattered, dirty clothing waiting for a bit of soup, a piece of bread, outside a shelter. Weird, I tell myself, before my thoughts change course completely to explore what the morrow holds. I’ve got the Paul McCartney 9/11 documentary at 5, that should kill some time, I think, before feeling the grayness all over again at the unsettling prospect of a life where ‘killing time’ offers strained comfort.

            I hear the surge as the drizzle transforms into a pour and think of the song lyric ‘Come in, she said, I’ll give ya, shelter from the storm.’ My thoughts dance between Anna, running away with Anna, running away to Anna, escaping to be with her, and the colder grey blah of life in Manhattan right now. I need some shelter from the storm.  I take a deep breath. I know it’s absolutely absurd, but I sort of wish she meant it when she flung out the teasing ‘Let’s quit!!’ I miss that girl. And I’m afraid of the city.

            I saw Jay Kalb on Monday afternoon. Was that his girlfriend he was with? Must have been. Who else could it be? They were getting into his car, heading off somewhere. We spoke about Salomon’s wedding. I was out of breath from biking uphill. He wore his facial hair oddly; a bushy beard without mustache. I commented on it and he said ‘Why does everybody I talk to make some comment on it?’ Cuz it looks weird as hell, I thought to myself. I shook her hand, sneaking looks at her throughout the course of Jay and my brief chat.

            ‘How was the wedding?’ I inquired.

            ‘Nice,’ he said, ‘I was chilling with Jordan, and you’re name came up in conversation. I forget how…oh yeah, that you’re dating Anna Greyser, it came up that it was weird.’

            ‘I guess so,’ I responded. Why’s that weird? Nobody says a word. I latch onto something, anything, to boost the lagging conversation with momentum.

            ‘Right, I guess it’s weird cuz she went out with Salomon at some point.’ Eh, that’s weak, you could’ve said something better. I realized Jay isn’t that coherent of a speaker; he jumps all over the place and pours out words with the very minimal amount of prodding. I like people like that; it means I have to do less talking. I prefer to listen and ingest the ideas and thoughts being expressed rather than force words out to merely have them out there, to avoid the silence that means I’ve got nothing to say to the person I’m speaking to.

            ‘There was mixed dancing,’ he smirked.

            ‘Scandalous,’ I replied, my voice betraying uninterest. Why? I am interested.  We parted ways, I told the girl it was nice to have met her, and I continued biking, past the Casper house and down the hill into New Milford territory, my thoughts on Jay Kalb.

            I’ve never particularly liked him. We’ve always been friends more out of a sense of necessity than any real desire or common interest. Sort of friends in school, not really anything outside of it. His intellectual rebelliousness in high school, espousing superficial philosophical ideas and diatribes against the school administration were somewhat impressive back then, but they’ve since matured into what I’ve come to realize as a stunning immaturity. What the fuck was he thinking, handing out pro-Palestinian flyers at the Israeli Day Parade? I think, Ben was right to grab them out of his hand, no matter how pissed off Jay was. Immaturity. Immaturity. I’ve always been easily swayed and seduced by people with confidence when it comes to art, philosophy, religion. Anybody with an assured air about them. They just get to me.