Filth

I see the others, hesitant, tentative, making their way slowly through the foul muck. They try to keep their heads up. I stand at the edge and watch their struggle. There is no urgency, but I am drawn. I slip down the side of the wall, slick with mold, feel the decay envelop me like bathwater. Thick, rancid, full of debris. I swim through the detritus, grasping at driftwood, rotten 2x4s, trying to keep my head up. Someone is drowning in the muck, sputtering silently, there is no sound here, and I slip an arm around her and together we wade through to the other side. I leave her and join the others, standing in small groups or alone, covered in filth. It fills the creases of our skin and coats the beards of the men. I kneel in the gutter and heave my guts onto the cracked pavement, cough up thick gouts of the steaming filth, which is weird because I thought I kept my head up.

It's nice here in the dark. Okay, it isn't completely dark. Outside, the moon, dull behind heavy clouds, casts her grey glow over the slush and snow, and inside, digital numbers glow greenly. The refrigerator hums mechanically and the furnace clicks on and off and the house settles in creaks but otherwise the world, my world, here, is still and dark.

What's that, Bear?

You're right, of course. You're always right. When the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan, I know I can always proverbially count on you.

As an aside, is "I know I can always count on you" a proverb? Doesn't there need to be a lesson in proverbs, some sort of Confucius-esque wisdom? By that definition, "when the shit hits the fan" probably also doesn't qualify. There is no wisdom in shit.

Ah, there goes the furnace.

Oh, hey, Marigold. It's late. What are you doing up? What's that? You couldn't sleep, either? What can possibly be going on in that stuffed-cotton head of yours that keeps you up at night?

Man, you said it, sister. Come here. I want to squeeze the stuffing out of you. You don't mind, do you? I promise to sew it back in later.

Thanks, I really needed that.

Sometimes I wish Humpty and Dumpty weren't just giant heads with feet. I feel like destroying something. Ripping those pathetic little arms and legs off just won't do. No wonder you and Bear always kick their asses. Who the fuck can race with legs like that? Just between you and me, Marigold, I don't know how they keep smiling. Is there some bit of eggy wisdom they possess that they just don't want to share? If you ever get one of them alone, see what you can find out, okay?

You know, it's a good thing we can communicate telepathically because I hurt my throat this afternoon. Screaming at traffic. Rage and fear and frustration erupting out of me in a black metal howl. It caught me a little off-guard, to tell you the truth. It wasn't just the traffic.

Yeah, I know, Bear. It's just hard sometimes. If my insides were stuffing, it'd be easier. We're messy, we humans. Blood and spunk and puke and tears and snot and shit, not to mention all the slippery insides you can't see. You've got it easy, trust me.

What's that, Bear?

Yeah. I will. I promise.

Okay, listen, you two, I can tell by the little hand that it's almost 3 o'clock in the morning, and I really should try to get some sleep. Come on, I'll tuck you in.

There. How's that? Snug as two bugs in a rug. If you see the Polkaroo, tell him I said hi, okay? Good night. Sleep well. We can play again tomorrow.   

Poem

I am going to write a poem.

In this poem, I will vomit up my insides in a spew of blood and bile and froth. Metaphors will choke my throat and I will strangle on similes sour as choler, thick as phlegm.

In this poem, I will wander hallways dead as dreams and kneel and heave my yellow guts at your feet. My muscles will contract and convulse, spitting bitter truth, acrid and strange.

In this poem, I will be opened up, emptied out, left spent and aching and raw. And there will be a hollow place and relief like porcelain, firm and cold and clean.

A Childish Acceptance of the Study of the Stars

My father would pore over his books, wrapped meticulously, protectively, obsessively, in thick plastic scotch-taped to the insides. Books on astrology, philosophy, psychology, parapsychology, buddhism, zen buddhism, spirituality, religion, astral planes, mythology, enlightenment, UFOs. He fancied himself a scholar, an eminent expert on such matters. His library was extensive; his knowledge unparalleled.

And I believed him, of course, because children believe.

This, he said, pointing to a triangular-shaped figure on one of the many pages of my professionally-read horoscope, means you are destined for great things. You will be a leader, a prophet, a woman among men. And I believed him, as daughters will.

And when the astrology fails, what then?

When I find myself contemplative and alone, furnace humming in the dark, knowing that my potential for greatness is slipping silently away into the night and that one day I will cease to know anything at all and be lost and unremembered like all those other triangular-shaped figures destined for greatness and lost in a jumble of yellowing papers at the bottom of a box, I think back to my father's books and their plastic armour and I believe.

I believe in my body, in hunger and thirst and pain and sleep and sex.

I believe in fear and desire and sorrow and frustration and compassion and achievement and love.

I believe in the ultimate unknowability of things.

And sometimes, misguidedly, I believe that I am a leader, a prophet, a woman among men.        

Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Italy

I survived two nine-hour flights, traffic in Rome, 37 degrees, blisters between my toes, blisters in my heels, water "pressure," 4 a.m. bouts of wakefulness, my shitty camera, a union strike, cobblestones, too-firm mattresses, headaches, aching feet, an aching back, stiff calves, diarrhea, tourists, towels whipped into sandpaper by the warm Venetian wind, mosquito bites, intense sneezing fits and an alternating runny/stuffy nose, rose peddlers, no milk, the erection of scaffolding immediately outside my hotel window, and no rock and roll, anywhere (except for Queen on repeat that one time).

In return for the minor inconveniences that travel invariably brings, I was rewarded with Roman drinking fountains; cobblestones; the motherfucking Colosseum, man; gelato; the Roman Forum (you wanna see ridiculous? shazam);  the Ecstasy of St. Teresa; the bones of 4000 dead friars, artfully arranged; the "glory" of the Circus Maximus; statues of lions; plates of meat; Michelangelo's melting face in the Sistine Chapel; the babble and murmur of the Trevi Fountain; dancing Mickey Mouse and splat guys and blue-green lights in the sky; frottage on the bus; discovering Bernini; a cat sanctuary; gelato; a gondola ride under the full moon with my adventurer-love; Peggy Guggenheim's grave, and the grave of all her dogs; vino rosso della casa every day; the rolling marble floors and golden ceilings of St. Mark's Basilica; traghetto crossings; the stone prison cells under the Doge's palace; granite limone; the graves of dead bambinos; glass boobs in Murano and candy-coloured houses in Burano; Roxy's; soaking my weary feet in the jade-green waters of the Grand Canal by moonlight; my first opera; the ticket seller with Tourette's syndrome at the Correr Museum; gelato; the tomb of Galileo (that rascally heretic); Caravaggio's David and Goliath for the second time in my life (how lucky am I?); unexpectedly stumbling across Dante's house; the oversized head and hands of Michelangelo's David; olive groves and cypress trees and umbrella pines and vineyards; the zebra-striped cathedral in Siena, torture museums in San Gimignano, and tourists holding up the tower in Pisa; gelato; Italian children; scooters; bicycles; keyholes; a stroll by the Tiber and dinner in Trastevere; and, finally, always, in any situation, prego.   

My own bed, when I finally fell into it, was like clouds, and the contented purring of my cat while she lay wrapped around my head on the pillow was almost as great as more than 2000 years of art and history. The world is an incredible place, from the spectacle and tragedy of Rome to the decaying grandeur of the Grand Canal to the rolling Tuscan hillsides to the simple pleasure of one's own showerhead. Ciao, Italia, and, per favore, don't ever forget to riot on.

3 a.m. comedown

I see you in watercolour, pale pink and yellow and ivory, dark hair damp against your forehead, your head tipped back against the chairtop, a burning cigarette held absently in laquered fingertips.

The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.

There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.

Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Cuba 2011

I am barefoot, drunk on Cuban rum and Tukola. The sand is fine and forgiving beneath my feet, cool in the warm night air. Lights and music pulse behind me from the discotheque, where sunburnt tourists in Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts dance tragically, heroically, to the tribal danceclub beat. In front of me, the Atlantic Ocean is dark. There is no wind tonight, no stars, just the sand and the sound of waves slipping across sand and being sucked back into the sea.

We are drunk, all of us, on cuba libres. (Free Cuba, I'll think later.)

The waves slip and suck in the darkness as we strip, leaving our clothes together in a pile on the sand so that we can find them later. I leave my bra and panties on, unwilling, even in the darkness, to share so much with these friends, these strangers.

We run across the sand, naked, laughing, to the water, and the waves welcome us home.        

***

Rows of diesel-stained concrete and candy-coloured houses. Dark-skinned women with long legs and short skirts stand tirelessly in high heels by the side of the road, waiting. Old men stand in doorways and dogs roam the streets, alone or in small packs. With my platinum hair and pale skin, I am an exotic creature. Or a freakish aberration. Despite the glances, I am unafraid here.

The city crumbles. Old Fords and Chevrolets cough acrid black smoke. The image of Che Guevara is everywhere. A hero, a madman. Castro is crazy, our driver tells us. Is there talk of another revolution? we ask, and he nods. Yes.

Por favor, we say. Gracias. And always the answer: de nada. It's nothing.

We give the resort guard the beer from our fridge. Hola, we say. Cerveza? And he takes it with a smile. Gracias amigo, he says, popping the tab, and we reply, de nada. It's nothing.