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The Last Day of May
May. 31st, 2005 10:09 am72 hours later:
Patched back in here at the Gray Farm. The clock swallows my card, whirs, clicks and with a quick punch, tattoos 8:25 Tue deep into the empty column. It whirs & clicks again then ejects the card back out for me. I'm suddenly reminded of the whorehouse in Sigonella. The bored face of a middle aged prostitute, her job done the moment I was naked, the moment I had agreed. Already waiting for her money as I slide out of her unfinished, quietly defeated by her indifference. The sick smell of old people, wood polish & a sugary perfume making me dizzy. I rise off her and catch a cockroach crawling across the vanity mirror, crawling quickly across our reflection. I count out the funny money (much too big & too bright to have any real value)into the palm of her hand. Only now is there a hint of enthusiasm in her eyes. Her pimp is a cab driver and he drives me back to the base in silence, letting me soak in my shame alone. I slide the card out of the slot and place it back in a different slot, a rack of names cascading down. Frozen. I'm officially on dead time now, time to grow money out of laws & injuries, time to tuck myself away in the KafkaCube and jack into the headphones, form a bubble of music to keep the noise dust off my attention. My fingers carve green codes into a black screen; numbers that glow the color of the future.
36 hours ago:
Party at the Magpie's!!!
I showed up with L____ & the Scholar a little after 11. Our host hadn't arrived yet, but his roomie Reg was there and so where his guests, which consisted of his whole family. The Magpie's usually bohemian atmosphere of faux buddhism & local art contrasted sharply with the familys of drinking dads & cousins, the laughing comradity of the Moms & Aunts and the storm of activity of younger brothers, sisters & other cousins, squealing & laughing running back & forth along the length of the house. I made my way to the grill downed two burgers & some homemade potato salad and decided to go with Rum rather than Jack tonight. Within an hour, at the back of the kitchen an informal jam session is starting up. Reg, a tall lanky kid full of a wonderful mix of patience & curiosity, is playing this African instrument I can't really spell. But he did, however, take the time to teach me how to pronounce it phonetically: Beer-Um-Bow. It looks like a home made long bow with a small bowl located at the bottom of the shaft. Held and posistioned like a stand up bass, it's plucked fiercly and gives off a unique vibration that floods the room with head bopping & foot stepping. Some hipster picks up the other Bow and synchs right up with Reg. I pick up a tamborine off the floor and start drumming my fingers and palms along the quickening beat. Soon some of the family make their way to the kitchen. The Fathers dancing with their daughters carried in their arms, the older females lined up and dancing with synchronised moves, each shooting the same foot foward to beat. Reg's little brother tries to keep up with the womens moves, but is constantly off, shooting out the opposite foot the women use. After a song I'm out of it, and we make our way outside where some of the Magpie's Film Friends have finally shown up. One of which takes up a posistion on a large drum and I surrender my tamborine to one of the Matriarch's in Reg's clan. Right there on the porch, two blocks down from the Edgewood Candler Park station & just a block shy of Hosea Williams, under the pouring rain we flood the night with music & anecodtes, with rolling laughter & kisses, with drunken flashes of insight, with the smell of meat cooked with beer & charcoal. A wonderful, wonderful night that just sprialed faster & faster with the spinning of the straws of our mixed drinks. The weather & the hour hiding us from the demands of the world, the rules of reality. This is all we need. A few hours when the guards asleep, when the cameras are down & the key stands erect, forgotten in the lock. A few hours where children play unopposed, couples dance proudly, friends take shelter in an old story, where boys meet girls, where a bad actor can be a great drunk and vice versa. A few hours where even the clocks are afraid to go alone, where all the money in the world can't buy smiles this sincere.
And back again:
Almost lunch now. I almost make my qouta within two hours. Slow down boy, always remember any job is just like fucking, by which I mean it does a man no good to finish too early. Just means more work for ya later at best or a bad review that spreads across the lips quicker than cold sores at worse. Just give 'em what they want, finger out the numbers, give it to them slow, give it to them hard and always give it to them proper! Doing dead time on the Gray Farm. Living like angels in the secret hours. Well this is my stop.
Later.
Patched back in here at the Gray Farm. The clock swallows my card, whirs, clicks and with a quick punch, tattoos 8:25 Tue deep into the empty column. It whirs & clicks again then ejects the card back out for me. I'm suddenly reminded of the whorehouse in Sigonella. The bored face of a middle aged prostitute, her job done the moment I was naked, the moment I had agreed. Already waiting for her money as I slide out of her unfinished, quietly defeated by her indifference. The sick smell of old people, wood polish & a sugary perfume making me dizzy. I rise off her and catch a cockroach crawling across the vanity mirror, crawling quickly across our reflection. I count out the funny money (much too big & too bright to have any real value)into the palm of her hand. Only now is there a hint of enthusiasm in her eyes. Her pimp is a cab driver and he drives me back to the base in silence, letting me soak in my shame alone. I slide the card out of the slot and place it back in a different slot, a rack of names cascading down. Frozen. I'm officially on dead time now, time to grow money out of laws & injuries, time to tuck myself away in the KafkaCube and jack into the headphones, form a bubble of music to keep the noise dust off my attention. My fingers carve green codes into a black screen; numbers that glow the color of the future.
36 hours ago:
Party at the Magpie's!!!
I showed up with L____ & the Scholar a little after 11. Our host hadn't arrived yet, but his roomie Reg was there and so where his guests, which consisted of his whole family. The Magpie's usually bohemian atmosphere of faux buddhism & local art contrasted sharply with the familys of drinking dads & cousins, the laughing comradity of the Moms & Aunts and the storm of activity of younger brothers, sisters & other cousins, squealing & laughing running back & forth along the length of the house. I made my way to the grill downed two burgers & some homemade potato salad and decided to go with Rum rather than Jack tonight. Within an hour, at the back of the kitchen an informal jam session is starting up. Reg, a tall lanky kid full of a wonderful mix of patience & curiosity, is playing this African instrument I can't really spell. But he did, however, take the time to teach me how to pronounce it phonetically: Beer-Um-Bow. It looks like a home made long bow with a small bowl located at the bottom of the shaft. Held and posistioned like a stand up bass, it's plucked fiercly and gives off a unique vibration that floods the room with head bopping & foot stepping. Some hipster picks up the other Bow and synchs right up with Reg. I pick up a tamborine off the floor and start drumming my fingers and palms along the quickening beat. Soon some of the family make their way to the kitchen. The Fathers dancing with their daughters carried in their arms, the older females lined up and dancing with synchronised moves, each shooting the same foot foward to beat. Reg's little brother tries to keep up with the womens moves, but is constantly off, shooting out the opposite foot the women use. After a song I'm out of it, and we make our way outside where some of the Magpie's Film Friends have finally shown up. One of which takes up a posistion on a large drum and I surrender my tamborine to one of the Matriarch's in Reg's clan. Right there on the porch, two blocks down from the Edgewood Candler Park station & just a block shy of Hosea Williams, under the pouring rain we flood the night with music & anecodtes, with rolling laughter & kisses, with drunken flashes of insight, with the smell of meat cooked with beer & charcoal. A wonderful, wonderful night that just sprialed faster & faster with the spinning of the straws of our mixed drinks. The weather & the hour hiding us from the demands of the world, the rules of reality. This is all we need. A few hours when the guards asleep, when the cameras are down & the key stands erect, forgotten in the lock. A few hours where children play unopposed, couples dance proudly, friends take shelter in an old story, where boys meet girls, where a bad actor can be a great drunk and vice versa. A few hours where even the clocks are afraid to go alone, where all the money in the world can't buy smiles this sincere.
And back again:
Almost lunch now. I almost make my qouta within two hours. Slow down boy, always remember any job is just like fucking, by which I mean it does a man no good to finish too early. Just means more work for ya later at best or a bad review that spreads across the lips quicker than cold sores at worse. Just give 'em what they want, finger out the numbers, give it to them slow, give it to them hard and always give it to them proper! Doing dead time on the Gray Farm. Living like angels in the secret hours. Well this is my stop.
Later.
