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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and

2003-05-24, 11:46 p.m.

crazy dogs out tonight, baying

��������� �����quickly, by way of explanation:

"I been talking crazy, ain't I?"

"Yeah, Chief" - he rolled over in his bed - "you been talkin' crazy."

"It wasn't what I wanted to say. I can't say it all. It don't make sense."

"I didn't say it didn't make sense, Chief, I just said it was talkin' crazy."

He didn't say anything after that for so long I thought he'd gone to sleep. I wish I'd told him good night. I looked over at him, and he was turned away from me. His arm wasn't under the covers, and I could just make out the aces and eights tattooed there. It's big, I thought, big as my arms used to be when I played football. I wanted to reach over and touch the place where he was tattooed, to see if he was still alive. He's layin' awful quiet, I told myself, I ought to touch him to see if he's still alive...

That's a lie. I know he's still alive. That ain't the reason I want to touch him.

I want to touch him because he's a man.

That's a lie too. There's other men around. I could touch them.

I want to touch him because I'm one of those queers!

But that's a lie too. That's one fear hiding behind another. If I was one of those queers I'd want to do other things with him. I just want to touch him because he's who he is.

- from 'one flew over the cuckoo's nest', by ken kesey.

just .. because it struck me. even though all of that is over now. and by way of summarizing today:

i had an audition, it went very well, i made and ate spaghetti, it was good, i talked with lex who is incomparable, and i tried to watch 'taxi driver' in asa's room but i fell asleep. and so, in order to kick my sleep-cycles back into place, i am going to sleep. after reading a little more.

shades are pulled, it's raining, and i'm playing some slow jazz - miles davis - 'round midnight. because it is. round midnight, that is. slick pavement, small white birds in and out of the shadows, lights flickering in odd reflections skewing - the pavement is like an odd black sea, stretching from green shore to green shore - i imagine whales surfacing out there tonight. their melancholy sounds fill the air with a sort of languid triumph.

oddly enough, this feels like the hiatus after the happy ending of a movie. now i just have to wait for the sequel.

goodnight.

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�SEH