1. Careless days. A string of them, like a pearl neckless around my neck, to chew and ponder and pat against my chest.
2. Movement of muscles, especially the ones that make crevices as the contract and relax. It is these nooks and crannies where I discovery actually means something to me.
3. Bombardment of imagination. Ideas sprouting from eveything, from children to flowers to rain drops.
4. Enemies with pizzaz and humor. The ones the run the red lights of decorum, the ones that snarl traffic for your friends who talk about the same damn things, that slow everyone down.
5. An understanding of the Inuit language, the language of nature, illumination, love, the language of Back to Basics.

Ketchup runs deep. Maronara is the answer. Or anything red, really. A red saunce, a red glare, red sparkles. Fuschia in a pinch. Pink, if desperate. Something warm, for the bones,  for the heart. Harmless red. How dare you portend such pleasure. Your garrulous way of jumping out from sepia tones; from a Spielburg epic to a soap opera , you are there, for me in, to alarm and alert and tantalize. Ready to Red yourself for me.

Papers pile up. Notices go unnoticed. Emails keep coming. It’s nice to ignore it all and sit with a cup of black, instant coffee and just see how much of if fades away. It all fades away, you find. Like the dissolve of a movie scene into another, something there always to take its place. The movie ends with a lone stranger sipping coffee, gazing inwardly, echoes of messages drowning out all other important things.

1. He knows I don’t listen to half the things he says or what anyone else says.
2. He knows I mumble as others talk–my passive-agressive way of saying “You have nothing interesting to say.”
3. Knows mumbling could also be “I love you,” only I’m too tired or lazy to say it.
4. Believes my over-enthusiastic responses to people are fake. This is only true part of the time.
5. Carries my secrets, takes me in, and then says “What are you talking about,” when I bring them up.

I just don’t want to do it. Or can’t. Or will, for awhile but will start to get bored and see the possibilities of the other side.
It always looks greener. Meaner. But even that bores me.
I’m supposed to have a variety of interests. But I only have two: food and sex.
No one knows this, except you, because you are both. I know you don’t want be. Sorry, maybe I’ll see something greener and move on.

I try to stay in the present, as they say. Because there’s nothing over there. I know: I’ve checked. Others have checked. Best to stay here. Although your mind will go there.  Let it go there. It will come back to you, as you wash dishes, ride a subway or get yelled at by someone. Your mind will come back from its reconnaissance mission with good things. Here is where I’ll stay.

I haven’t done it in decades. I think the last time I did was to a best friend. Who is still my best friend. But favorite way to do it,  would be to do it to a family member, who demands I give them money. Demands. I don’t have any, but the demand is what I’m looking for, hunting for, as this will make it all the more fun to hang up. And this should happen with one of those old-fashioned phones.The kind that clang, when you slam down the receiver. Yes, it should clang. They won’t hear the clang like I will, but that’s okay.

Yes, indeedy, that would be so much fun.

The things behind me are not for me to see. But I’m sure something must be behind me. But that’s okay. First things first. Or rather, front things only.

I say, get the the hell out of my way. I say it like those girls in 1st grade said it as they marched, Rockette-style, down the playground, saying “If-you-don’t-get-out-the-way-we’ll-kick-you-out-the-way.” I’m looking for the things that Don’t Make Sense, underfoot, stuck to the bottom of my shoe, like feces. That shit makes no sense, I’d like to say to as I smeare it along along the sidewalk. “You don’t make sense to me.” Or, “What the fuck are you doing there?”

I call the bookstore to see if they have any books by Lydia Davis. They don’t but that does not stop me from going there. On my way I think I actually see Lydia Davis though my memory is that she is a lot younger from the photo but I suspect the photo was taken some time ago.
But still, it looks like her. I move on.
Then I see a gay clergy from a church my boyfriend-not a gay church per se but that accepts gays. He’s there in a tank top and he has a large tatoo and I cannot study the tattoo without being noticed. Not that he would notice me per se because we met a few years ago when I had longer hair and was heavy. but your often suprised by people recognizing you.
Like Lydia.