The Allbe #2 2009
Rye woke up in the best of moods! He ran straight into the bedroom in his PJs with neon bugs all over them. I was making the bed, he was asking me to play particular songs. Once the covers were in order and the tunes were going, he climbed up on the bed - jumped and danced. A life-highlight, no doubt!
In biographies of famous poets who rallied in San Francisco, the scenes are always fresh and wild and new. They moved with no trouble at all through the days and nights of hyper-awareness and short-sticking disappointment. They danced in coffee houses spitting long-breathed lines of friends gone mad and reckless celebration.
In 1999, living off 29th and Broadway in Oakland and taking the train into the city, the streets smelled like piss, and public transport ran over a bicyclist with regularity competing well with a weekly calendar of appointments.
I was there testing and tasting a bigger city life, and spending my time with midwestern acquaintances. Back home in Indiana, we’d see each other now and again, saying hello and maybe good luck. But at a dark and crowded bar in the Mission, we’re suddenly the best of friends, remembering old times and parties that I hadn’t gone to.
Three in the morning in the Mission and I’m walking alone down 24th to the BART station. The dipped-in doorways of shoe stores, bakeries and bars are sleepy with broken men.
“Those are the leftovers,” people would say.
Walking past me, whistling some haunting tune or call or warning, is a sixteen-year-old kid with his cap backward and gold chains swinging from his neck. On the corner, where the stairs lead underground to the train, McDonald’s is pitch fucking black. A group of thugs take no notice of me. I scurry half-way down the steps, then see the motionless round-abouts through locked metal gates closed and locked up tight. I curse myself for never learning the schedules of these trains. I’m stuck for a while.
(written 2001, tweaked 2009)
Here's Rye frustrated that he can't get his hands pulled into his sleeves correctly. A major victory that he's wearing a sweatshirt at all, really.
Earlier this week, the two of us were in Target. I was looking at electric razors and he was asking a few of his favorite questions 10 or so times each. The women cruising the aisles around me browsing hair driers, moisturizers, and nail polish were all giggling and smiling appropriately. Then we reach the "Daddy, do you have a penis?" question with volume set to 8 or 9. I can't hold in my own laughing, but the women shopping at Target in earshot were all true pros. They kept it all inside, slowly spinning and walking away casually. I replied: "Yes, I do, but maybe we shouldn't talk about it here."
It's football season, and I'm trying to pay attention.
see also: twitter.com/decorporated | crizzle.us
