The Pontificating Goddard|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
[ << Previous 20 ]
[ << Previous 20 ]
|Saturday, August 12th, 2006|
|hi, i'm Jacob L
i was waiting on the ground floor of a run down warehouse, drinking a coca-cola slurpie, waiting for an elevator that seemed to run on faith but wasn't running at all at the moment (what does that say about me)?
younger barefoot long skirt and a white tank top standing next to me asked me what i was drinking. i told her. she looked down, disappointed, it was completely different then the ice blended fruit she had and i think that fact broke her ice breaker. her tall militant friend liked my selection, "that's old school" she said, "middle school style".
the elevator hadn't moved from the 6th floor light, so i tried the button marked BROKEN
and it wasn't
but the elevator went up
"you're good luck, guy" said younger barefoot
"kinda" i replied
then i took the very locked looking stairs, picked up the elevator on 7th, and road it down
younger barefoot gigglepurred, while taller said "thanks"
it was a slow elevator, and a small space
barefoot moved up to me while locking my eyes and she slid her hand down my back pocket. pulled out my wallet, flipped it open and said "hello Jacob L"
we hit Four, she handed it back to me, and i let them walk in front of me, watching them whisper.
in an torn down room with clip lighting on the exposed ceiling there was a collection of variouses
they were doing a tutorial of hand altering old 16mm film, to be projected at the end of the night while a band reacted to it (i got bored half way through and called the 'Fu from a fire escape)
Make a Risinghttp://www.tonewplanet.com/MAR.html
tons more to write, but i'm sleepy
oh yeah, somebody told me to post more pics to keep her entertained, but she's all ready seen these
but maybe you haven't
|Tuesday, August 8th, 2006|
this is my cat
i don't think she likes you
i'll write more later, so Jess doesn't beat me up
|Saturday, August 13th, 2005|
We walked through the abandoned lobby, barefoot and bittersweet. the empty floors, stairs, and elevators lowered their prudish eyes as we passed by, out of reverence for the moment.
and as she walked in front of me, she glowed.
She's Secretly Meek, and her tears shimmered in the shadows of the 50 foot statue that had watched us without judging for these few short days. i kissed her cheeks as she cried, she'd never been more beautiful.
we clutched to each other in that dark empty space, and it was filled with love and sorrow.
we waltzed barefoot and bittersweet on the pavement and we held each other close while the seconds counted down and the sun begged to rise. i lost my hands in her hair and her eyes stole the words from my mouth. i left bloody footprints on the carpet when i returned to the hotel, but the gap in my arms where she was supposed to be hurt more.
She's Secretly Meek, and she's crying again. but i'm not there to feel her sobs and kiss her tears.
she's afraid she's hurt me, and i don't know how to make her understand that all she's done is heal.
|Wednesday, August 10th, 2005|
|Sunday, August 7th, 2005|
went to Chicago
and a good time was had by all
|Friday, July 22nd, 2005|
|Wednesday, June 8th, 2005|
|Monday, June 6th, 2005|
|a new pic
taken last night
just because i'm sooo hot in it
|Thursday, May 26th, 2005|
|what i didn't post two weeks ago
my brakes quit, sending me careening through the center of philadelphia, white knuckled and screaming. i slid onto the side of the street and took the two hour walk home in the rain as penance for the emotional masochism i was planning on inflicting that night.
she left, my Adorable Little Hippy Girl, she decided she'd rather be homeless in Belgrade and Budapest than comfortable in Philadelphia. her pets have been passed off to friends, as well as most of her belongings, everything had be redesignated and reappropriated; everything except us. her one way plane ticket for the next mourning greeted me when i visited for one last goodbye. it was well after midnight and she yelled at me for waking her roommates with the doorbell when she opened her door, i don't know if she couldn't smell the alcohol in and on me or if she was just choosing to ignore it.
we talked a little, danced a little, and talked a little more, but it hurt me to be there, and she knew it, so the stay did not last long. as i left i ran my thumb slowly over her lips and stage whispered "you have been a delightful aggravation, and i don't realize how much i will miss you yet". she gave me her melancholy smile and whispered back "ditto". a kiss, a hug, and a closing of a door.
i walked half a mile before flagging down a cab. he drove me through my old neighborhood, which i had not been to in many months. not since i lived there. the first things that let me know i was in my old home was, of course, the transvestites and the rent boys. they were fewer than usually, the rain had turned into a kind of mist, the kind that leaves the street wet and your hair dry. the trannies inhabited their distinguished corners and pay phones, trying so hard to feel beautiful when every chromosome in their body tell them they are ugly and deformed. on the other corners were the rent boys, the hustlers, the trade. i was surprised by how many of them i didn't recognize, i had made friends with a few of them and was nightly mistaken for one of their co-workers while stumbling home in the early morning hours. these boys, these children, some my age, some younger, some older (but not much older) all left the homes that hated them looking for acceptance and found themselves here; with three hundred dollar shoes and hundred dollar haircuts, while sleeping on rooftops, or fire escapes behind clubs, or next to men who they pray won't get tired of them too soon. they live in constant fear. they fear the Hard Life Brother they pick up at a DL party will kick their ass after the night is through, they fear a bad nod (or worse, no nod at all), they fear the cops who take glee in busting the stupid faggy man-whores, they live in fear of getting sick, and they live in terror that one day they will get too old and will get passed over for prettier, younger boys. but they're never afraid that they might die, i've never asked why.
i know the men who buy these boys too, they've often tried to pick up me. they pull up and fling open their car doors if they do this a lot, they just nervously circle if they don't. i see them cruise through my old neighborhood, in their Lexus with HONOR ROLL bumper stickers as they thumb their wedding rings. they're here to forget their fat, bitter wives and their ungrateful children. they're here to pretend these eager young men are Teddy from the mail room, or the new intern from PENN. they should be thanking God that these are not their sons. i have no respect for them, and either do the boys on the corner. there's not a lot of room for respect in their business.
at the edge of the neighborhood we pass by my old apartment, one i spent two and a half years of my young life in, before a brief but unpleasant stint of homelessness. it's in the early hours, but strange lights are still on. i see blue bouncing off the ceiling, and i don't know why it disturbs me so much. i never had blue lights, i barely had furniture. i was still deeply into the white walls and bare fixtures aesthetic that i am just now getting out of, color rarely existed in the little world.
now The Girl Who Was Kind is gone. i'm surprised how quickly i got over her, and i'm not sure if that's a sign of growing bitterness or growing apathy; and i'm not sure which is worse. that weekend two weeks ago opened the gates to what might have been the worst two weeks in recent memory
but i don't want to talk about any of that right now
|Monday, May 16th, 2005|
i had a long and eloquent post planned out, about an early morning cab ride through my old neighborhood for the first time in almost a year and seeing strange lights in the windows of my old apartment
but it's late
and i'm tired
|Thursday, May 12th, 2005|
when we were all 12, a friend of mine from down the street built a robot; we named him Peter. every day we would all play with the robot and teach him things, he was our friend. then one day we told him he was a robot, and he didn't believe us. so we showed him a mirror and he started crying, and he cried so hard he rusted away.
|Wednesday, May 11th, 2005|
i need suggestions on what to post about next
leave your suggestions in comments
|Friday, April 29th, 2005|
|The Flat Possum Boys...
are not flat at all, nor are they all boys
though a few of them have the possum look down quite well
they are a bluegrass band, boys and girls, ranging from four to eight members at any given time. halfway through a set they pass around a beaten pressed wool wide-brim, and we all throw in dollars, joints, and lozenges for our gratitude.
too bad only two showed up tonight.
they did not play.
i scanned to tiny room, looking for friendly faces and found none, a few i knew and were familiar, but none i would call "friend". the tiny Smokey Eyed Beat Girl was not there, and the Scruffy Folkster Friend was not there. Only the Tall Bartender, who shot me a "i'm really sorry" look, as i walked out the door.
the group is a mixed bag, some true Hipster, Trickster, and Finger Poppers, and some Converse-with-Mini-Skirts who are just rebellious enough to keep daddy paying tuition and rent. the girl who introduced me to this place left home, and the time zone, at 15. true grit. and at only 19, is decades older than me
she called me today, my Adorable Little Hippie Girl, for the first time in two weeks; and i was surprised. i certainly wouldn't have called me.
i had been leaving old and interesting wooden boxes on her doorstep in the middle of the night, along with cute notes of self depreciation in the form of apologies.
fifty year old parchment and 100 year old boxes, and it worked. not that i expected it to
she cooed a soft and subtle warning, gently into my ear; and i indicated that i understood, and accepted.
i am to see her performance/installation piece on Wednesday. "it's not finished, it's a sketch really", she claims. i'm not sure i believe her, but i will enjoy it nonetheless.
and even if i don't, i will tell her i did, and she knows this full well.
|Sunday, April 24th, 2005|
|so, it's been a week....
and i have decided that she was right
she's just finicky, and i just needed something new to obsess over
i'll try and think of something entertaining and unrelated for you people later
|Sunday, April 17th, 2005|
one day, not too long from now, i'm going to look back that these last few posts
and laugh my fucking ass off
"i don't know what i did wrong
which is probably problem number one,
but i need to know what i need to do, to make things right"
that was the message i left on her voicemail while i was riding my bike back from her house
then i got hit by the car
|Thursday, April 14th, 2005|
|Wednesday, April 13th, 2005|
|this is me, not wanting to talking about it...so i'll talk about something else
My stage manager's uncle died today, they were close.
she got the phone call 15 minutes before the matinee show started, a show that completely consists of songs about people who have died. a 90 minute cabaret, remembering those who have passed.
i live on the stage right rail galley, a metal cave that hovers over the stage. the only light i see is reflected from the stage, off of the gridded curtains, or from pin hole laser beams that slice through the Stage Mist fogged air from holes in the thick black fabric that covers the sole, painted shut window that looks 60 feet over the back alley. what greets me over at the top of the cast iron ladder that's older then my great great grandparents are stalactites of cable and stalagmites of line. that's where i spend the performance, hands on the headset tethered to the concrete wall, awaiting my orders, a few out of hundreds, to tell which ropes to pull and when.
the stage manager is the one who tells me those orders.
she has the dry, cold, insincerity in her voice that can only come from old money and years of refinement in the finest finishing school. condescending sophistication drips from her skin and her wardrobe looks down on us all.
it's her voice that dominates the headsets, every few seconds a new standby or GO call, "standby on spots to open up on the girls, bounce and all black drop to follow, light que 68 GO"
we tend to fill the lulls with light banter, or troubleshooting things that are going wrong
today, we all got to hear this woman break down. we all listened in silence as she chokes out the calls we've heard fifty times before. i was perched in my suspended cave, in the darkness and the mist, listening to this woman fall apart, second by second.
|Friday, April 8th, 2005|
|a drunken post, my second
Goodnight Irene, Goodnight Irene,
I'll see you in my Dreams....
those were the words that ended the night
perfect words, i think
i 've found a new bar, though i only go there thrusday nights
the smokey eyed girl, small and thin, walked up to me
she touched my chest and whispered my right ear "you are a Beat, a real Beatnik, not like the rest of these fakers, these posers"
i could have married her right then
she walked out with come hither eyes, pulling on my belt, while the Object of my Affection, my current emotional addiction, walked in
so i stayed
she's smart, my Little Adorable Hippie Girl, she called me on my bullshit
"you're trying too hard, stop wanting me so much"
and she was right
and i thanked her for it
i hate her for knowing me so well
i hate her for being so beautiful
she sees through me, and i love her and hate her for it
this bar is a second floor bedroom, a co-op
the size of two minivans parked next to each other, but that doesn't stop the 40 people from cramming in, rubbing next to each other
in the far corner window box, there was a traditional bluegrass, folk band, playing the songs that my mother raised me with
only less drunk
i went home alone, but i knew i would
the Adorable Hippie Girl is like the flu, i keep thinking i'm over her
and i told her so
|Wednesday, April 6th, 2005|
|Scraps & Rambling, brought to you by insomnia
my father, the single most important person in my life, visited me a few days ago. he found me in a bad place, filled with bloodshot eyes, deep sighs, and the mourning of misconceptions and memories. i told him that i had not slept or been in my home in two days and he loved me enough to not ask past that. he brought me two gifts along with his company and his smiling eyes; a door knob, and a teddy bear. my teddy.
my teddy is smaller then my hand. most of its fur has been long loved off. its stitching and re-stitching are exposed strips of wax string lattice work, barely holding this little bit of me past together. i'm not sure who made it, probably a long forgotten, perhaps dead, friend of the family. its stuffing is uneven, the arms and legs don't match, and the head is barely attached. it is little more then a bit of fluff filled, worn out, gray and brown fabric. and for the first half of it, this was the single most important object in my life.
it was in my crib with me, the hospital before that, and sleeping besides me in the years that followed. i brought it with me where ever i slept. if it was left behind, i would demand that we turned around to get it, taking us many hours out of way at times. but they loved me, and i loved my teddy. scout camp, the knowledge of oncoming puberty, and an aching self awareness made me hide him, made me forget him.
now i'm holding my teddy in my hand, feeling his rough texture, looking into black thread eyes that i haven't seen in more then a decade. i'm picking off the hairs of a thousand dead pets and a thousand lost family members. i'm smelling it, and remembering old thoughts and the only kind of dreams that a seven year old staring at his dark ceiling can have.
i hadn't talked to my father in weeks, or seen him in months. i don't know how, or why, but he knew that his only son needed his teddy, and he was more then happy to provide.