storytelling


i still don’t know how to finish it… maybe it’ll never happen…

___________________________________

i’m sitting at a starbucks in cartagena
enjoying the
exotic
kenyan blend
when she walks in

no choice but to notice her
with her deep hazel eyes
with her birth of venus hair
skin specked
spackled
freckled
with cinnamon
legs from here to there
and perfectly shaped breasts obscured
by the hunch of many years of study

no choice but to notice her
to notice her
turning on her heel
and leaving as soon as she’d stepped in
(overwhelmed, no doubt, by the exoticism of the coffee and lifestyle shoppe)

i’m expelled
i leave
i follow her across the way

she makes her way into a columbian-only cafe–i loiter outside
with my iced mocha 20-ouncer melting in the humid wind
into a steamy hot-cold puddle…

i drifted in and out of consciousness all flight from kennedy
one third world to the next

we flew via salt lake city for some reason
maybe to make some sort of a socio-political point

in my stupour, i was seated next to a french couple with one finger missing
who read buffalo-bedecked lonely
planet guidebooks
entitled “ouest americain pour les westmans et les greenhorns”

they were en route to missoula and such
as european tourists are oft wont to do

the flight was otherwise fully filled with men in bad 80s shoulder-pad power-suits
–those never came back, did they?–
many refused their $2 headphones
but laughed nonetheless at Robin Williams’
slapstick mishaps with a recreational vehicle
–it was reassuring to know that the mortal danger on the flickering screens wasn’t going to be actually, you know, MORTAL.

right after the pablum, and to add to the psychedelia of the warped in-fuselage entertainment/stupefication
the besieged and besotted captive audience received a salt-lick doggie treat

gleeky
porno
graphic
fetish
network-footage
came
on, onto our trays

along with the unrequited love of enriched white flour crackers

and newspaper page-boy-like urgings to purchase
montreal nosebleeds!
we got ’em right here!
get ’em while they’re hot!
montreal nosebleeds!

maybe i was just dreaming
maybe i wasn’t in cartagena at all
but somewhere much worse
like Los Angeles.

maybe she wasn’t real and i was just a jetlag
Wreck
standing on the hot
pavement like they call it in philadelphia
burning
without my spf 50 pour bébé

too early in the dream for self-analysis, i’m thinking
if this is indeed a dream at all

she saunters out of Little Columbia
as if she had 10 minutes to get across campus

brushes up against me,
(blush, eyelashes and all)
doesn’t notice my not noticing her on purpose
i’m a stranger
and not even a familiar one at that
i want to be upgraded out of coach
i want hot towels, the whole shebang

i stand there frozen
like the 17 1/2 ice cubes i explicitly ordered in my drink
my daily fiber-substitute
my daily parkinson’s

poor choice of strategy
–her stride dissolves her into the chocolate city

i run after her, tap her on the shoulder
ever so lightly

she turns and–

tbc.

i looked at my wallet and said, yeah, i have enough here for milk and celery and a loaf of bread. went to greenstar, got milk and celery.

every time i’m there, the super tall, kinda-nerdy, kinda-cute woman is working there, she’s like those eyes on paintings–not really following you around, but following you around nonetheless. then she automagically appeared to bag my groceries. she was cute, but i suddenly realized how hard it would be to live without L’s freckles, if ever i had to. it would be the most terrible thing. it’d be like having to swear off cinnamon for ever. actually probably worse, since i’m not addicted to cinnamon enough that i have to experience it every day.

anyway, back to the wallet story. after that i went to ithaca bakery, passed by the less highly-priced breads and went straight for the 3-seed. you know, the one that tends toward phallicity:

nsfw bread from ithaca bakery 1

clearly my intention was to smear/honour Int’l Women’s Day. clearly.

the bread was almost 4 bucks. i let the very attractive and stylish mom with a baby on her arm in front of me know that her wallet was virtually, literally, pretty much falling out of her jacket.

i pull out my wallet to pay, and there are only three greenbacks in it. i’m like, Self, there better be some change in the coin purse part. there barely is, but still not enough for $3.95 that the guy behind the counter quotes me. i say: “this isn’t going to work, i’m going to have to get a less expensive bread, what’s in my hand is not 95 cents”. to which he replies: “oh wait, it’s actually $3.75, how much do you have in your hand?”

i had 76 cents.

currently enjoying two 3-seed sandwiches with honey, butter, and the closest thing that Wegmans has to Polish twaróg—Bellweather Farms’ Fromage Blanc aka Farmer’s Cheese (less runny and less sweet than ricotta):

essentially twarog

chased down by a lactose-free iced mocha made with JJBean’s Coloiera espresso grind and two Lindt Truffles milk-chocolate “death stars”, of course:

Death Star 2

(unfinished)

(poem?)

She saunters out of Little Columbia as if she had 10 minutes to get across campus. Brushes up against me, doesn’t notice my not noticing her on purpose. I’m a stranger, and not even a familiar one at that. I want to be upgraded out of coach. I want hot towels, the whole shebang. I stand there frozen, like the 17½ icecubes I explicitly ordered in my daily fiber substitute. Poor choice of strategy—her stride dissolves her into the chocolate city. I run after her, tap her on the shoulder ever so lightly. She turns. She’s wearing…

(wtf, did i just feel a 10 second earthquake here in vancouver? just as i typed up that last word, there…wtf)