They Can Touch The Heart Only By Bruising It

You might be wondering what Dela was thinking about when she saw me. She knew Buckley and I were great friends, and that my family didn't have the kind of money her ex-boyfriend had, that any kind of interaction with me besides a purely friendly one would never behoove her because though her family didn't have money either, she had the breeding that allows one to move up in the world  - she was exceptionally beautiful for a girl of just more than middle height, with eyes that shone like sapphires, almost purple, and which glistened as you moved around her, her swanlike neck cocked deep in concentration as she studied differential equations; she was a math major, a very intelligent girl. Dela saw me as a young man of simple means; she never saw me without thinking to herself: poor guy, how can he manage? He works hard at that market, his mom is crazy, dad's never there, and he has to take care of his sister. Gradually she came to feel pity instead of shock at all of the things I lacked.

Dela was one of those city girls you might take for a fool for the first two weeks of your acquaintance. She had no experience of life and made no attempt at small talk. Since she was gifted with a delicate and lofty soul, her instinct for happiness which is natural to all living creatures, provided that she paid attention to the behavior of the gross creatures amid whom fortune had thrust her.

 She would not have ventured to say a harsh word to anyone and the most trivial cough from Little Buckley could send her running to nurture and care. A burst of crude laughter and a shrug of the shoulders was all she ever received from her Stanford boyfriend whenever she attempted to open her heart about matters not including academia and politics. His variety of humor, especially where regarding feelings and sentiments, twisted the knife in Dela's heart, ultimately causing her regret, but not an open disavowal of a wounded relationship. Too proud to discuss matters of this sort, she approached her one friend, a Jackie Franzinnini, with the attitutude that all men are the same - coarseness and brutal indifference to everything that was not money, study or women; a blind hatred that went against feminine interests; these qualities seemed to her as natural to the male sex as wearing suits and ties.

Hence the success of Gabriel. When he entered the room, little Dela's brow just containing the slightest hint of a furrow as she waded through her homework, lightened, as if she sensed the passing of a cloud over the sun, only to reveal ample light and warmth. She found that he was worth listening to, even when talk concerned the most ordinary and wretched subjects: on one occasion, there was a cat that was seen run over on First Street, and eavesdropping with ears and sidelong glances, she noticed that the fine arches over Gabriel's eyes contracted and loosened in sympathy. Gradually, it seemed to her that the nobility of spirit which she had hoped for in her boyfriend was indeed apparent in this friend of her younger brother's, two years her junior.

On reality television, this relationship would blossom after two or three dates, giving forth to a drama-sparked breakdown between the love of either Stanford ex, or the newcomer Gabriel, resulting in personal astonishment on the part of more than one member of the triangle d'amour, and possibly, hopefully, even violence. Television would outline the roles for them to play, as if they were simply stereotypes, or imitators of love. Yet because Gabriel and Dela happened to be intellectuals, at least to have had the capability to reason and understand the conventions imposed upon them by societal standards of heartbreak and courtship, and because they were city children, used to things happening quickly, and therefore all the more apprehensive about the speed of events taking form to which they were unaccustomed, they slowed their behavior, and acted all the more naturally.

When Gabriel attempted to speak to Dela in more than inchoate stutters and nods, he had to gather his courage every time he opened the Buckley's door, because after years of being friendly, he not only text messaged Buckley to plan and alert him to his imminent arrival, but told him not to bother getting up from masturbating to open the door for him, he could just as easily enter himself, in hopes of seeing beautiful Dela sitting at table working slavishly in her three inch thick volumes, quietly scribbling and that soft brow just beginning to squirm in thought – just the notion of this neighborly beauty in proximity made his palms sweat and his heart patter. On a Thursday evening, after dinner, when parents are watching television or reading, or doing whatever it is elderly people do in those soft and quiet post prandial moments, there she was, lucubrating at the table. Surprised, he seemed not to want to distract her but carefully and curiously made his way over to Dela, who sensing his presence hovering closer and closer and not drifting towards Buckley's corner, was preparing herself for more than just the customary hello and broad smile she was so used to affecting for him.

“Hey, whatcha working on?”

Sigh. “Just some Diff E.Q.”

“Cool.” Three seconds of silence. “I'm taking some calculus right now, but it looks like algebra compared to this stuff. Is that a triple integral?”

“Ya.”

“What's it mean?”

“Well, you know how the integral is used to find the area under a curve?

“Ya.”

“Well, the triple integral is used to find the area of a three dimensional object, like a box.”

“Cool.” I hover and bob my head in appreciation.

She smiles, shakes her head slowly, I'm in, yes. “Nah, it's kinda tedious.” God those, teeth, they're perfect rectangles, I would live in those teeth, make them my windows, and look out of them, how are they so white... She recognizes my silence and fawning appreciation, but isn't sure whether it's over her breasts or her knowledge of integrals in cylindrical coordinates. I pause, embarassed, not sure what to do.

“Well, guess I'm gonna see what ol' Buckley's doing.”

“K. You have fun, be safe.”

Be safe? Be safe? Like what are we going to be doing? And who does she think she is telling me what to do? She's not my mom. I mean, sure she's a bit older, but come on. It's not like I wouldn't listen to her, though. And we should be safe. Safety comes first. She's so caring, loving, always looking out for us... “Sup Buck.”

Field Day

  But let's go a fishing to the pond.

We'll have fun whatever we bring along,

No need to distrust the meaning of the song,

All that's needed is a lending of the hand.

We'll basket and luncheon by the shoreside

Making sure everyone is satisfied.

And the sun will beat true and clear and blue

Sky above us illumines me and you.

And the water splashes and the fish laugh

As they jump alive into our palms.

We'll roast them then, and eat our fill

In luxury; we'll have not worried minds,

Because life was good to us today,

Another blessed one to say the least,

These days shouldn't be so hard to come by.

-New York Writers Inc.

What is this about? Radiators and Stan.

There's something to be said for confidence. It is innate and it is reckless, it spreads and fosters risk and reward. There's no real way to be forcibly confident. You have to practice it. This I found out when I was sixteen after my first real sexual encounter. These are the things we remember, vrai? No, I'll save you that one for another rainy Sunday. I don't think, I drink, like my mother. She imbued me with this predisposition in the womb. Part of me always thought it would be fun to be a raging alcoholic, to have the disease. You can blame things on it, you can be drunk, and who knows what kind of crazy lifestyle comes with those two things. And talk about creative! Can't you see me just thwapping away on the old typewriter smoking cigarettes drinking Jameson neat in gulps? I can. Anyways, where was I – confidence. Just have to put it on, like a suit. It takes time, some preparation, some fixing of the collar, but when you're ready you feel it. I'm thinking that I can watch the whiskey visibly melt the ice in my glass, slowly bobbing in minisucule modulations barely visible. There are two radiators in my room that otherwise I would not bother describing because they are boring. But with my buddy, oL' Jamie over here, I'm going to do it. Yes, I'm going to give you an idea of how integral these radiators are to my well being and the character of my room. Here goes: These radiators are about two and a half feet high, and are painted in white paint that looks very old, like it was painted at least before 1970. They have little legs maybe three inches high that make them look like pygmy radiators that could start waddling forward at any moment. When they release heat that is necessary for my comfort, they hiss slightly like a tea kettle before it's really ready. Too many slits to count, maybe fifteen, line white panels of metal releasing heat and are dark because of dust or maybe just because they are close together and I am looking at them from an oblique angle; I would be four o clock if they were the center of the face. On one side of the radiator is what looks like a small, oblong bell but could also be a CO2 cartridge attached to it. On each end of each radiator are six slits (in two groups of three, a top and a bottom) and on top of the top middle heat releasing slit is what could be a compass, painted white, to direct the little men inside of the radiator where and how much heat to release. Oh, there's one below the bottom middle too! I hadn't even noticed that one, probably because it is better painted and just above it and below the top one are screws also painted white, they must get hot, must be some kind of special radiator screws perhaps. And on the other side of the radiator is a valve that can be opened or closed to release the amount of heat. There are two radiators directly underneath my two windows and are bordered by thin white painted wooden frames that are actually in-frames that are framed by the wainscoting of the window which is not at all perpendicular but reaches straight to the floor, making the north wall of my room, look like it has two eyes with two lower eyelashed lids, which are the radiators. It is very symmetrical, my wall, and the two skateboards in between the windows, up against the wall are like a nose, a black nose on a white face.

Well, that was successful, I think. If I wanted to write a very self- conscious kunstleroman, then this would be a part of where the young artist is attempting to write about things that aren't very interesting, to try to make them interesting in an objective way that is really just his subjective point of view. While drinking, that is. Because drinking is supposed to bring forth creativity, right? I can't wait to be an alcoholic! That would be a good idea, to write a novel like that. I think that that level of self-consciousness would be good for literature, for everyone, because too many of us are too unself-conscious. Is that a good thing? Isn't it nice to be unself-conscious? Yes. It is. But, artistic Daniel rejoinders, doesn't a lack of self-consciousness lead to ignorance? to complacency? Yes. It does. So being able to control self-consciousness in writing, like we do in real life, when we are experienced and older and can contribute positively to social interactions, to moderate it and mediate it, how would we do this in writing, artist? Well, by jumping back as the writer! I poured a lot of Jamie. He's gonna be my ol' pal, but I won't have to get a drink till much later, when I'm out at the bar, and when I do, it'll be beer, because I may still be tipsy from hangin with Jamie. Boo, that's no fun. O beer. Hey beer. How ya doin. Ya. That's cool. Or maybe it'll be a fun beer! Like a seven dollar ale, from a microbrewery. Hey ale, you're so hoppy and flavorful tonite! I'm glad you made it!

“Thanks, man. It's good to see you too. It's been a while.”

“Ya well, times have been tough, you know?”

“Sure, it's a recession. But it's good of you to drop by.”

“I had too dude. Bud Heavy was with Coors Lite, and they were talking about going to some cockfest out in the woods man.”

“Dude, you made the right choice. I mean there are some beautiful girls here tonight!”

“O hey Alex. Ale, this is Alex, she's my girlfriend.”

“Hi Alex, I'm Ale.”

“It's nice to meet you, Ale.”

“It's a pleasure, Alex.”

Alex places her hand beneath my elbow and wraps it around my bicep.

“So what were you guy's up to tonight?

“Well, we were at this lame bar in the east village; it was loud and the music was dece," I tell Ale. “What were you doing tonight?”

“We were just hangin' out at Sam Adams', shootin the – hey man! It's Stan the Janitor!”

“Eyyy! (Like the Fonz.) Stan is the janitor. He wears loose grey trousers, beige boots, a green t-shirt, and a kind of vest that only covers his belly and protects it from hernias; it has shoulder straps and looks like a marsupial pouch. He can be seen pushing a garbage can on wheels, running through the hallways of my brain, cleaning up all of the refuse that accumulates over the course of the day as well as Coles Gym, where I work, and his tools, which shake on his belt are: a yellow flashlight, gloves attached to a carabeener attached to his belt loop, a radio and a silver chain which runs across his left leg and keeps his wallet in place. He is of about middle height and is from Brooklyn, an doan fuhgedid. Stan's demeanor is blithe, proven by a cachinnation that follows after about half of everything he says. He's loud and gruff but he's really a sweeheart – he gets off on the Chewbacca groan he affects so well. He is balding on top and when he's had a long day the stray hairs of his sinciput become unruly and dishevelled, rising like his pate had been rubbed with a balloon an though his ears look as though they've been pinched and pulled, are about half an inch wide, almost elfin, and have cropped black tufts of fur in the areas most visible, he is still a not unattractive. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his eyes are large, brown and unintelligent, though not dull. His nose is aquiline, but broad and somewhat cucurbitaceous. Like his hair, his beard is gray, but jet black high around his cheeks, a remnant of his youth, and runs eagerly down his neck into the clumps of chest hair spilling loosely from his collar. He swears freely and casually and talks to himself when no one listens.

“Eyyy!” Stan's gait has a bit of the waddle about it and he greets me and Ale with a dap, takes Alex's hand like a gentleman, with his unoccupied hand behind his back and a farther torso lean forward. Removing the square lid from the garbage can, he whips open a bag and asks me, “Ya know wha tha new word is fuh tha new yea? Neudral.” Stan turns back around bends his torso slightly forward and pauses, holding up his index finger. “Neudral. Ya know why? Cuz errybody roun heah eitha likes ya uh they doan. Thas why.” Wieldy, he throws the full bag of garbage on top of his overflowing wheeled trashcan. He finishes balancing it and stands in front of me while I have sitten down in a chair and turns to me as he says, “Ya god tha? Neudral – right uh wrong?

We agree.

“Cuz errybody iz alwayz lookin fa whaz right.” He roars gauchely. We laugh too.

“Fuckn doo many people doinza wrong.” Again, we weakly follow his laughter.

“Yezzaday I wuz on da zubway. An dis piece a shit comes up and dozen even lukka me. Putziz stuff down nexta me, duznt say scuze me uh nuthin. So I lookz at im, I zayz, Scuze me, ow bou a lil commun curtezy? E lookz a me, takez iz stuff an zitz zumwheya elze. Fuckin pizza shit. Do many peoplez, dey ain't got no curtezy. Looka me, Ima uman bein, I doan cayuh wha ya do, just ave da commun curtezy ta lookame. Right uh wrong?”

“Right.”

Stan turns back to the teetering garbage can and begins to push it down the hall toward the secret janitor's lounge. As he walks past us he says as he daps me goodbye, (don't tell Ale, and Alex, it was her first time meeting Stan, so...but I'm his favorite) “Ahright, you be good. Eyyahaha.” Stan knew it was safe to speak like this to us, to tell us his how he was feeling, what was on his mind. He seemed not to care what people thought, but only of their thinking about him. And honestly, isn't the only thing worse than being thought poorly of is to not be thought of at all – does anything else really matter in life?

Cyber-Spatial Points of Reference

I am indebted to Guillermo Creus for this project. When Jameson defined postmodernism he wrote, “The political form of postmodernism, if there ever is any will have as its vocation the invention and projection of a global cognitive mapping, on a social as well as a political scale” (54). Obviously, this is the internet, whose social mapping manifestations are evident in sites like facebook and myspace, and whose political manifestations are evident through the election of the current American president. This poem delimits my spatial coordinates over the past six months in a post postmodern manner:

If you don't weed your garden, you'll have a garden full of weeds.

Being taken to the river; eppin' around equals lone star.

Partying in austin! I'm a man.

Thanks y'all for the b-day wishes.

Back from campin'; le rouge et le noir.

“Away” for the weekend, infinite jest.

Just don't know what to do with myself, bada bing bada, using skaterade: god we're ep.

New York city: my gorilla is my butler.

Papapa; crabcakes n golf on the island is exceptional.

Ay, in the very temple of Delight.

There's no better reward for a job well done than a savory lamb gyro.

Come to Dtox on 2nd and 2nd tonite for free drinks!!!

Bossin' latin is a great white shark.

Yanks world series champs.

Grubbin is going to Longuyland.

Smells a rat(tail).

Dreams are disasters when drugs are your master.

Errybody love bacon.

Hearken, and hammer day and night.

Hovercraftin drinkin salsa.

If crazy was money, I'd be a millionare.

Cure for hickups: 9 sips of water.

American pie: if all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.

Fried turkey, dos equis, and jose. Getting blacked in manhat w midlug. I'm artfucking montrose.

If I were a sea creature, a narwhal I'd be.

PDX infiltrates NYC in the a.m. This week is the culmination of my educational career.

Gotta love longjohns. You don't have to be jewish to eat chinese food on christmas eve.

Riding a coda deck and taking an infinite jest tour into boston and the heart of Qubecois rebellion: ol' Montreal.

Spaghetti with epsauce.

Finite jest.

Excitation!!

It's gonna be wild and I'm gonna be crazy.

New York Writers Inc.

The Hep-Cat Manifesto

Now that the new year is well under way, it is time for the world to understand the meaning of "hep." As this decade progresses, our movement will blossom. Join and see.
Below is the hipster. Everything is only for the image. He is holding a trusty trust fund check from his parents, wears beat-up old Vans. He skates; or at least pretends to. He lives in Brooklyn with a bunch of other bandmates, and they make music that no one buys and play at shows that no one attends except neighborhood deadheads. His bed is his favorite place; he is exclusive, and is resentful of everyone he doesn't know. He slouches continually, is always aware despite his appearance of insouciance, and is extremely rude. He is promiscuous and close with his friends. He has a lot of money, an ambiguous job, and secretly likes chick flicks. Also, he is obsessed with macaroni and cheese and video games.

We are the hep-cats and we're bringing the small town to the big city. We are inclusive, kind, congenial; we smile when we make eye contact, and nod -- it's not the half smile of yes I'm noticing your existence and trying to be polite about it, but a real smile of, gorgeous day to be alive idn't it? We aren't bored and listless with our trust fund money, if we have trust fund money we're grateful for it and keep our family close for it. We don't make you a present of our opinions in a priggish, too-cool fashion; we discuss and debate, we read poetry and literature, drink espresso in one shot and if we're in the mood to sip, order macchiatos. We value substance over style, but we keep it fresh too; to describe our fashion would be only to limit and stereotype it, let's just say we dig on plaid. This is the era of the hep-cats.

Stella Mena

Portia was a timid girl with big brown eyes, like my father, and walked stately with her long legs and perfect proportions with a posture that was of catwalk models and queens of yore. She was slender and yet her body undulated in a matronly way. She had a rather dainty nose with nostrils that flared queerly when she was perturbed or in discussion. Her wide set eyes lent her gravity in whatever she did and she combed her auburn hair in massive coils around her head when she was older, rarely letting it fall loosely down her back. Opposed to her timid style was her patriotic interest in politics and government, and though she wasn't a bookworm she knew plenty. I admired her flashes of passion, made that much more serious from the opposition to her ordinary character of passivity and pathos. Her character was a mediation between the intensity of my mother and the deep meditation of my father. Though she was less than two years my junior, I sought her advice almost daily, especially with regard to women. And yet when it came to matters of feminine deference she understood the importance of being admired and appreciated the attention paid to her beauty.

While we studied after school, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with ice cold milk, Mom made dinner and the smells of frying vegetables and the hiss of wine being reduced flooded the kitchen. That was one thing Mom always did well, even if she was drunk already, was prepare feasts.

Mom, when Portia and I look up in an interval from our homework and silence spreads too far, moves the vegetables in the pan with her spatula, causing steam to sibilate and rise, and asks, “So what did you guys learn today?”

“We learned that the atomic weight of Carbon is 12.01 and change.”

“I learned what prevaricate means.”

“What does it mean? I challenge.

“Lie.”

“Or circumlocute.” Vegetables sizzle.

“Very good.” Mom, though crazy, was fundamentally reassuring and supportive when it came to her children. No one fucked with her – we rarely did – and, as she would often warn, no one wanted to.

Rather than wait for us to ask about how her day was, she gives a little suppressed laugh as she breads the chicken. 1,2,3,4,5. “What?” one of us finally says. Mom had this way of sighing that was like a laugh, where she would raise her chin slightly and look skywards, which was in marked distinction from her keening sigh, which we heard only in the severest cases. “So today, I'm sitting at the computer, checking my e-mail. And I look over at Cynthia. And her eyes flash, because sees that I know she's got something in her mouth that she's not supposed to have. So I lunge, NOOO.” She makes a reaching motion and reenacts in slow motion her lunge. “I have to be careful when I open her mouth because she'd bite one of my fingers right off! (because nearly all of the kids Mom works with have only bicuspids) so I squeeze her cheeks and get her to spit it out. You know what it was? A piece of the freakin' trake she had chewed off, and she's sitting there, chewing it like a stogie! I'm like oh my gaw-awd.” She stomps her foot lightly. “And I turn to Bob and I say aren't these stupid nurses supposed to be watching her? Duh-uh. And Bob goes that's why we have you, Stella.”

And Mom explodes into the cackle, which is screech-like, and unfailingly turns heads within a twenty foot radius and usually causes people to either try to ignore it, or start telling jokes and laughing themselves, in the way that excessive laughter raises even the slightest hackles of jealousy and curiousity as they try to make it seem like they're as jocosely enjoying whatever it is they're discussing. It is then amplified by an hysterical gasping intake of air, as she throws her head back and then looks at us as she nods with her mouth open, displaying about twenty square white teeth, eyes closed, mouthing an inaudible two or three word exclamatory recapitulation or moral to her story as the laugh subsides and she tears up and the laughing sigh caps it off.

Portia and I look at each other wide-eyed, not knowing whether to force a laugh or keep silent.

“I know you guys think I'm crazy” says, shrugging and shaking her head. She tends the vegetables. “But I love it,”. “And no one else can do it but me.”

By eight or nine o clock she's usually five or six glasses of sauvignon blanc deep, and that's when she gets really unseasonable. We try not to engage her directly, or if we have to ask questions they're usually greeted with a strabismic glance and the kind of bobble headed shake that usually means she's thinking of how to respond, and that it's not going to be a real answer, but instead will be some attempt at a witty repartee – if she's in a good mood that is. If she's stressed or depressed, we usually leave her immediate presence because like playing with broken glass, sooner or later you're bound to bleed, and you should really just avoid playing with broken glass and try to clean it up instead. In her jovial moods, however, she assumed that any kind of conversation was an attempt to test her and her inability to think resulted in one of her favorite aggressive lines. On more than one occasion I came home from Buckley's and hungry for a snakc, searched the refrigerator for food. The only noises she ever made were from the cracking of her joints as she walked and the light jingle of her gold bracelets, which she only ever took off before bed, and consisted of a Tiffany bracelet with a quarter sized golden heart that she had received when she graduated nursing school, a charm bracelet, (for she was a fervent believer in any kind of superstition) a thin gold bangle, a twenty four karat chain, and a white gold elliptical link bracelet, which gilded about three or four inches of her wrist.

hmm now where's that gouda. ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, louisiana hot sauce, mexican hot sauce, stuffed bell peppers, thai hot sauce, soy sauce, o god here she comes.

“What are ya looking for?” she appears like an apparition beside me, wrist shining, holding her glass of wine high hidden in a paper towel, like she's about to take another sip, standing in her blue terry cloth robe with a cow jumping from one side of the robe over a moon to the other, sleeves pulled up, her hair up, with loose strays around her ears. She cocks her head and looks at me with the face of suspicion and imminent failed repartee.

“Uh, gouda.”

She bumps me out of the way with her hip, still holding her wine high and with a slight bend, her head dips below her aloft glass and immediately she extracts a wedge of gouda. She slaps it into my hand. “You gotta bend.”

I move to the cupboard and she steps in front of me. “What do ya want? Some pasta, vegetables?” I grab the crackers and move to sit at the kitchen table. The bags under her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are cerise.

“No thanks, I'm okay.”

She begins taking out various meats and cheeses, pastas and vegetables, leftovers, cans, wrapped gourmet items. “I'll make you something,” in a tone that is firm and challenging.

“Uh, okay.” i don't know why she insists i'm not even hungry whatever she'll probably just eat it herself she must be starving man this gouda's good must be aged at least two years if only these crackers weren't so crumbly god if she sees me make a mess i'm better off sleeping at buckley's that could really get her started. Strategically, I sweep the crumbs into an open palm beneath the table to catch them and dust them onto the floor.

“Are you fuckin kidding me?” Arms akimbo, wine glass set down, head cocked, I should have known that she would have seen that; she's got eyes in back of her head.

“Uh, uh, what?”

She walks over and smacks me upside the head. thank god she's in a good mood. “I'm gonna break your fucking bawls if you do that shit again. I'm not kiddin you dumbass. Don't you fuckin make a mess of my kitchen like that or I'll tweak your ear so hard...you don't wanna fuck with me.”

Silently I sit and simper as she walks back towards her stove-top creation, thankful that she's in a good mood.