Sunday, November 29, 2020

Re: The Cycle

Redoing my website has turned out to be an emotional experience exacerbated by or, at certain points, caused by various technical difficulties and I am almost there to being almost there, a win for progress following yet another mishap this Sunday

Saturday, November 28, 2020

Deep Thoughts 2020

Sometimes I hear what sounds like people screaming in the distance

But then I remember

that's just my psyche, compartmentalized

Friday, November 20, 2020

Human

Sad that so many people are going to die, even with precautions, because they wanted to be with their loved ones, the most human impulse there is.

Though I'm refraining, though giving in to this impulse is foolish at this time (and yes, damn the unmasked), I understand and am sorry this is the choice any of us face.

Saturday, October 17, 2020

These Impotent Fisticuffs

Today, a person was riding my bumper so close on my way to Albertsons that they were almost hitting me for blocks, zigging in and out behind me in the left lane into the left turn lane, scowling, staring me down, hunching over their wheel, all the nonsense, as traffic moved slow but steady in front of us. I don't mean tailgating with feet to spare; I mean tailgating with inches to spare.

When I braked and hard at a red light, the tailgater became even more enraged and got out of their car behind me, looming and yelling out there. They got back in their car, moved into the right lane next to me, positioning their car very close to my passenger side and so I couldn't read either of their plates, jumped out of their car fists balled, and began punching and punching and punching and punching and punching my passenger side window.

I honked the horn, pressing my palm hard down on the center of my steering wheel, a few shock seconds of regressing to my grandfather’s car, the Oldsmobile, the tank, the booming proud trumpet of a horn, only to hear beeps instead. I moved over a bit into the left turn lane to create space between us. Once again I had nowhere else to go with a car right in front of me. The nearest open left turn was long blocks up Virgil. There was no one approaching behind us, no sign of a potential human being in front of us.

After a few rounds of these impotent fisticuffs, the tailgater started to leave as everyone else on the road just continued to play This Isn't Happening, all seeming to get further and further away from me without moving with each second, with each punch that passed, even though there was someone right there, right there in front of me, and someone else right over there, right there in front of this maniac, a bad 80s horror movie.

I waited as the tailgater walked off after fisticuffs round two. Once they drove away, I planned to follow a good distance behind just long enough to get their license plate. I wanted that license plate.

When they saw, though, that I wasn’t fazed enough to leave, they changed their mind, doubled back, launched themself full body against my passenger door and delivered another two to three rounds of blows to the glass pane, leaving impotent fist marks and most likely injuring themself by then, which was fine by me, though I was amazed the light was still red after an eternity had passed. Guess it hurts to do an eternity’s worth of window-punching.

I’ve been in enough weird situations to understand that in a sense I’m an observer in those situations (journalism), and what I observed in this situation today was a “Fucking psycho,” the exact words I yelled while holding down the horn button again and missing my first car the Oldsmobile that had a horn I could have described as “leaning on,” and actually leaned on. I wanted to lean. I wanted this surreal-long red light up ahead to turn green or for something or someone beside the tailgater now just standing there screaming at me to move, to go. I didn't want to make myself easy prey to be followed onto a side street, but I could tell they weren't going to relent.

I detoured into the left turn lane and zipped down the long blocks to the next cross street and turned off. They did not follow. They did not move to get back into their car for several long beats. I cannot remember what kind of car they were driving. Something sporty. I think it was black, a little souped up. I watched them in my rearview mirror as they remained blocking the right lane for a few more long beats then moved up and made the corner; I watched them turn fast in the opposite direction, disappearing backward in my rearview mirror.

This was a practiced routine and still, even though they were deliberate in their behavior, they would insist I instigated their fisticuffs, as bullies do. And who would have stepped up to disagree?

Where was the driver to peek their head out their own car window and shout, "Hey, knock that off!" Couldn't one of the other handful of drivers have also honked their horns? Disappointing and I knew calling the police was out, a waste of time and focus as my Toyota was being pummeled.

I'm also well aware this incident could've gone much worse for both of us. One day, this person is going to pull these antics with someone who turns out to be as violent as they are. And as for me, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know better than to get out of my car when a fucking psycho attacks.

Sunday, September 06, 2020

My Life as a Rorschach Kafka Quarantine Dream


The light was gray and the air was close, cold. My eyes kept going in and out, ceasing to function, coming back, and while I could talk on the phone to my mother, sitting there on the near-empty Long Island Railroad, dim for once, I couldn’t do so in a way that could be understood. As a result, she remained cheerful, oblivious to my intensifying despair of ever getting on a train going the correct way, of ever getting anywhere again, let alone being with her or anyone going forward. The two train conductors I encountered in person remained blasé as I became more disoriented, including about becoming more disoriented.

I was trying to get to the Iroquois Park stop, but I made a rookie’s error getting on a train going the wrong way at Woodside because I just didn’t think because I just couldn’t think any longer. But I was still expected to do things people who can think are expected to do, like call when I’m on the train so they know to pick me up or present questions about train routes to conductors in a semi-coherent manner. Instead of myself the trusty traveler, I was the anxious woman who is there, there dear’ed and ignored, some annoying non-silent lady who should really be traveling with a man, or at least not alone, and I felt myself devolving, legs treading water without moving

After some long minutes or hours being frozen, I got up, looking over my shoulder, over my other shoulder, and began wandering between cars, opening the first door I found. Pushing

down that faded lever erupted me into a car stuffed with rows upon rows upon rows of maskless white Long Island people, all facing me, all lit garish by the normal fluorescence, until I blinked and found myself in the fluorescence of Penn Station, where everyone was also unmasked, including me, to my additional horror.

Next blink I’m back on the gray train, masked, looking out the window at blurred gray landscape moving faster than the train, unable to orient. I sit up in the hard, old seats, designed for commerce not comfort, and again attempt to interact, to ask for help in a semi-coherent fashion from my mother on the phone, who again suggests I talk to the conductor, and then the conductor, who tells me, bored, I can get off the train at the next stop, climb an impossible number of rickety, steep metal stairs to get to the opposite platform within a minute and from there maybe find a connecting train that might link up to one bound for Iroquois Park. And here’s an updated schedule that is even less readable than the last one, letters blurring into unrecognizable symbols blurring into blur

Iroquois Park, Iroquois Park, Iroquois Park; when can I rest? I stare out the window, the relentless non-view, and think of the native Iroquois, slandered as vicious fighters, white man killers, in an early social studies text that I had the misfortune to remember in detail, though I could not identify where I was and had given up on understanding anything happening in the present at that point

Friday, August 21, 2020

Northern California







Tuesday, August 18, 2020

Operator

Earlier as I was driving down Griffith Park Blvd., I was dreaming of a magic carpet with an operator, someone to transport me around, a better option than driving or walking when I'm feeling more inclined for a stretcher with everything going on with everyone everywhere all the time in

America, though of course a magic carpet with or without an operator would be preferable to being carried on a stretcher by multiple people. The closest I've ever come to being carted off is after passing out and becoming unresponsive on a family road trip at age 12 or so, somewhere in Georgia, which is what happens to people from New York in Georgia, I've heard told, and/or to people on family road trips. I remember regaining consciousness to see

a man in white running at me with a wheelchair and urgent eyes, the mouth of the ER door 20 feet behind him gaping open overbright against fading daylight.

Conventions

Conventions: yet another waste of our tax dollars and yet another occasion for more of this stodgy infantile condescension from our moral inferiors, who also enjoy playing helpless along with the deluxe healthcare and stability they deny us every damn day

These conventions also function to remind women what second-class citizens we are, with the alleged professional class, anchored by the professional marrieds (money, 1950s gender roles rebranded, stories about how loving they are), throwing us under the bus every time to embrace their secret heroes, misogynist right wingers, every time to tell us men we don't even know hold more power over our own bodies than us