Serial Sequencing... the story you are on is in bold... the previous and next (if written) linked...
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane -|- How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? -|-  RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... -|- [next story, unwritten] -|-  

NOTE: hmmm... 

Sunday morning, just before the Tuesday morning which would be the big day, maybe the biggest day. He found himself awakening to a loud crackling, nearby but still distant echoing explosion; just up and over there in a corner of his neighbourhood, Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Not so much waking up, more of another coming to. Another morning's fog of half-remembered realizations of what he'd got himself up to the night before. He wasn't alone. He found himself cuddled up with a cute n' plump Greenpoint girl. A neighbour he'd met at the corner bar quite late into just another Saturday night. His then current girlfriend had gone upstate somewhere, Ossining perhaps or Tarrytown, he wasn't sure it didn't matter. Somewhere up in Westchester County he was certain... she'd be screwing someone that weekend. Him? He wasn't at all sure if he'd been screwing the cute n' plump Greenpoint girl. They were pretty much more than half naked, but given there was that much coke left over, he was pointed towards the notion they'd probably done far too much to have actually been able to be screwing. Waking up with someone who wasn't his then current girlfriend wasn't so often the norm; but it did happen on occasion and was legitimately within the contract he'd settled on with the then current girlfriend… but that’s for later…

He came to groggy again, just a little bit more than half naked. The plump n' cute neighbour he'd never seen before nor would ever meet again still sleeping… He'd only just noticed the far too large pile of coke leftovers ...when. The louder than expected nearby but still distant echoing explosion made him immediately he realized he'd once again traded yet another could have been interesting spectacle, something to be seen, for a night of drinking and debauchery... again… these wasteful trade-offs quickly counting up to far too many times already. A night of lively and useless conversations, meaningless corner bar chit-chatter. Instead of getting up a bit earlier than when he'd half fallen asleep... heading on over to Pulaski bridge to watch them controlled-explode a couple of old, maybe 10 story or so decommissioned oil storage tank towers that sat along the Newtown Creek; the industrial ditch of a river that ran through the wasteland that divided Brooklyn, Kings County from Queens. He lay there half-nakedly missing the pre-planned dropping of Greenpoint’s tallest towers. Trading what anyone who had enough of his own little boy still kicking around inside him would have not wanted to miss. Damned cocaine. Getting himself up and over the awkwardness of saying his goodbyes to the plump n' cute Greenpoint neighbour; he tucked the leftover cocaine above the medicine cabinet, with all the other things he wouldn't want his then current girlfriend to find...

He stood there for what was one of those forever moments that more likely only an instant. Nearly mesmerized by the slowly growing, burning around the edges hole in the north side of the North Tower. The fires around the edges burning an image far more deeply into him than he ever would have imagined. He was far enough uptown to not really recognize for certain just what those dark falling things were, the little black dots, mixed in with the other bits and pieces of things that fell from the hole. Irregularly falling, black dots, some seeming to simply let go. He'd could never really know just how much this burning images, how those little black irregularly falling dots he was staring at would been burned into... or how deeply.

A crowd of people, stopped dead in their tracks in the busiest of cities that was now quickly shutting down, began forming around him. Crawling out of this subway entranceway or that office building doorway. All of them, looking up along with him for their own instant forever moments. Quietly at first, but as was likely, even human one supposes, perhaps the site of large looming towers with big burning holes were given enough New York minutes to become, what, the new normal? Or was it just that there was no frame of reference, no context, enough mental confusion that prompted the folks around him to get back into what it was they had been doing. The only thing that did seem normal; their phone calls and conversations. He drifted from his own mesmerized moment to the sound of chit-chatter, random bits and pieces... "I'm going to be late..." "the damned subway's been shut down..." "I'm looking for a bus, now..." "tell them I'm sorry and I'll join them in the conference room as soon as I can"... As New Yorker's often, no, always do, they all started talking, again, all at once. Happily sharing a minor misery, a too long a line up or a late bus with anyone next to them that would listen; the nattering complaints prompted by the day to day annoyances they all loved to hate in a city that demand you loved to hate it... When in New York, you gotta complain like a New Yorker. He could never describe to anyone who'd not lived there the civilized camaraderie this continuous complaining fostered within his neighbors, all these New Yorker. Obliged to share, everything, each annoying little hassle with each others, one upping, elevating and exaggerating... in a way the humor in it all did make it all the more worth it.

He started chatting with the first fella standing next to him, a big guy right beside him. A huge big bear of a fella in an odd for the weather brown vested three piece suit, bearded. This fella had gotten through somehow to the folks he'd meant to be meeting downtown and was sharing what little info they'd given him; pretty much more mass confusion; a description of what sounded like utter chaos. No one knowing what to do, nor what would come next... a near but mid-distant, louder than one would have expected explosion as the North Tower, that unfixable hole still burning, black dots dropping, letting go... falling... straight into what could best be described as a big billowing mushroom cloud of dust, dirt and still more dust one could imagine... as that once looming tower came down... utter terror... sheer panic... the seemingly longs since, now immediately over mesmerizing moment at once becoming, what the hell do we do? What the hell... what the hell were we all to do... now, shrieks, and loud shouting; he noticed the big bear of a fella, now his new friend. That big bear of a fella was almost crying... without even thinking he gave him a hug as the big bear, now seeming panic-stricken said "my friends are down there" and took off in some unknown direction... his own little boy, the one still inside him kicking madly and screaming to get even closer. Get down there, help out... over ruled, he started running in the better direction; to 7th Avenue, towards the makeshift office still vacant... the phone wasn't ringing, neither incoming nor out... no circuits... try after try he'd finally got through... "the second tower's down"... his then current girlfriend, herself now screaming, please meet me, come and help me... the next thing he knew, he was with her outside her office, just up from the backdoor of Macy's. Like everyone around them, scrambled searching inside themselves for, no context, no reference, for some plan, something, anything an idea for the next thing to do... the little boy inside him wanting to leave her with someone, head downtown to witness the action... they headed uptown, almost running.

They would never fix it, it was all over except not over for the rest of that day, the next weeks, months and year after year and year after too many years it would take for all of this bullshit, the towers, his then current girlfriend, everything in chaos to play itself out...

To be continued (or not, but more likely)

Serial Sequencing... the story you are on is in bold... the previous and next (if written) linked...
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane -|- How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? -|-  RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... -|- [next story, unwritten] -|-

Now here's an odd story of the three act performance, so common that few seem to know anything much of it at all... That so many more claim themselves expert, confirms it's truly an odd little story that's never quite told even close to correctly; told here with similar doubts. A story of sex as it's applied throughout all our ages, first conforming to the norms, then twisting itself into an almost admirably honourable perversions; then losing all meaning, becoming a mere aberration or simply that uncomfortable adjunct to everything else. Some of us crave it, other deny it, many stuck inbetween spend their days looking, searching, seeking even desperately striving for the quickest way out of having to act out the performance, at all.

I write it, this story under protest; as its a story I, like many, would rather leave unsaid... but recent over-thinkings and partial observations have awoken that old friend, that good friend, lets call him the ancient young man deep inside me, who when even at my rope's whits end; has always kept me going. I guess I owe him this favor, after caging then valiant attempts at retraining, then believing him and leaving him for half tamed. Starving his feelings on little but hallmarked perversions and pornagraphic leftovers that, if one gave any realistic thought to his situation whatsoever, his thinking... of course you'd draw the conclusion, that he'd gone quite insane. So, here is the favour, the part of his story, he's told me... to some extent is true. (more or less)

In our twenties this ancient young man leads us on missions simply to get what he wanted and I wanted too. To get to act two as quickly as we could with whomever was there, good looking enough, kind enough but more honestly anyone, thing, or flickering image would do. Act two so contorted simply seemed part of the act one mission to get to the ending, that feeling, that craved for buzzing bee, swirling in one's head, that scrambled boy screaming, woo-hoo. An elated emotion or feeling so wanted that sometimes it drove both of us quite simply and easily totally utterly self centeredly and childishly crazy. Act three? Get the mop bucket, there's a mess to be cleaned up... quickly quite often but for some, sadly a chore that remained a forever conclusion, a prison of sorts... a life lived in a long endless the sameness all the same, day after day... after day.

Just a little bit later we'd become much more crafted, directed and focussed. This mission we were told had a grand purpose, to build a new family, boldly with purpose, to extend one's historical dna strain. Proudly we chained our ancient young men deep inside us, not yet into cages but began at least trying to teach them some manners. In other words fooling ourselves by denying act one's mission was exactly the same. With weapons of flowers, maybe poems all smiling sales tactics we hunted for victims, that sad lonely game... Act two still exciting, at least at the outset, searching a simple answer to the most basic of question, would this be the one we'd bend over and ourselve over backwards for day after day? Act three an illusion, still so much to be cleaned up that most of us fooled ourselves by not thinking it all the way through. Accepted the assignment, cheerfully grabbed the mop bucket and did every last little thing, we were told what to do. Other's you know them, they juggled these age related old problems and let their ancient young men out of their cages one night, maybe every night, more often than not, sometimes, more than two.

And then the disaster, as the rest of our life get in the way of this already strained friendship with these ancient young men deep inside us. The pressurized build ups and getting oneself buried in boxes, compartments of stories half written, some abandoned, never finished, some rewarding other simply fancied illusions we still hoped to get to one day. We'd done everything requested though often half hearted... some of us seemingly quite successfully thinking they'd made it all the way though. But upon taking that good look... all a self-fooling old con job as at this age in our lives so few are at all even remotely close to the happiness that's expected, projected to us by the flickering light tubed boxes of noises we find ourselves now subjected to night after night by our lonesome. The missions? Deserted... Act two, if ever got to, simply rolls into act three in mere moments, a clean up to be avoided... even with the dreamed of mistresses too. It all seemed so... over done, finished, we were lied to? Pour me, I mean poor him... my ancient young man, head in hands, now lost deep inside me softly whimpers, boo-hoo.

But then... if ones lucky or clever or made a right decision or two. We stumble and bumble onwards together, perhaps even enlightened into something quite honestly wonderfully true. Call it proper love making, with someone who has been through all the above madness with many another or even just one poor fool head in hand, whose exactly at least quite likely not very much different than you two. A companion co-pilot a kindred spirit a partner whose seen it from her side, all knowing and caring, simply delicious the spirit you've searched longingly for all your life through... maybe, I mean if this story is anything but true...

Act one, far more than simply a diversion or a pleasant distraction from those remaining compartments, those boxes and pressurization for more than just a mere moment much more than the morsel you chewed through on your ancient young man's mission to get it... Act two, simple pure pleasures no hurried-up mandates to reach that elation or anything for else for that matter; and far far more importantly beautifully something than just something to do... If you're brave hearted and brilliant you'll unlock the cages, throw open the door and let that ancient young man who you thought had gone missing come out and play with you ...and you know who too. Act three? As easy as the dishes, an almost instinctual now pleasant part of the performance; done so many times in a mere blink of the twinkling eye and the sudden and thoughtful realization the performance is not over but a  better and comfortable non-conclusion to a more reasoned, soft spoken rewarding and pleasant emotionally thrilling and spiritually enlightened three sinuously connected and now a totally cohesive contiguously sound, sometimes thrillingly easy portrayal of those wondrous vignettes you've played out in acts one and act two.

How's that for a shot of almost unbelievably optimistism for those of us still mired and blue? And here's a little secret, the rub, not the lesson but something to consider maybe pounder for a mere moment with the ancient young man deep inside you... at any old age one can easily unteach all the things we've subjected ourselves and our misbegotten ancient young man deep inside us; unwind those pornographic expectations and embrace the part of the hallmarked elation that are actually quite true. Although he's quite scary to many, frightening us with his grunts and blunt wants and ways in this modern world with it's missions we'd been told almost lady-like how we'd have to get through... every now and then get down to your basement, bring a sandwich a tall drink of something you find pleasant, a paper and pencil or a notepad or two. Those lessons you've taught him may have come in quite handy if conforming to nothing is all that you wanted to do. But... if you want it to be special, sensuous caring and loving... tear up those lessons... and let that ancient young man thought lost deep inside...  teach... you.

So, now that that's written for him, he asked that I leave a note for the ladies, a postscript perhaps as you're a big part of all his stories. I do know for certain, it's not simply a suspicion as I've met a few of yours too. Down in your basement, we both know she's in there, maybe not locked in a cage, but playing with toy dolls, reading old books that you've written and maybe a sweet poem or two. Your ancient young lady, that pretty little darling lover thought lost along the way with so many like them in those basements... I'll say this, almost pleading perhaps even begging because in the end. This story is as much about her as its about these ancient young men deep inside us. These lost men within us, in our own very basements... they have one simple purpose, the finally grandiose last mission and truly quite honestly and more specifically... it's all about you.

In this particular insignificant segment of yet another chapter in his life, he'd been taking the 7 train to the bottom of Time Square when getting himself from Greenpoint Brooklyn to work in the city rather than the G to the F to the top of Herald Square. He'd started this a few months earlier so he could escort his then current girlfriend to her office. It was less direct, but he enjoyed the extra few blocks walk to start the day and would take this route even if no escort was required; when she'd sleep in, or call in sick which was surprisingly often considering how long she would eventually keep that job. On this morning, she was along with him. Beyond the extra walk, another pleasure he took from taking the 7 was it''s arrival at their station; how it seemed to bore n' grind itself right into Time SQ/42 Street, which at that time was the terminus of one of his favorite lines in the city, for many other reasons we might get to later. 

The slope of the track entering Time SQ/42 Street coupled with the ricketiness of the rolling stock; "who doesn't love those old... redbirds" he'd say to his friends; these countless-time-retrofitted over their service, tin can like train cars that seemed to twist apart at the seams around each corner, over each bump n' ripple on this older line inside the world's second oldest subway system. Another of the many more things he loved about NYC. A transit system commission that seemed to enjoy matching it's oldest equipment with the most decayed infrastructure; who doesn't love a city in seriously need of repair. Wandering around the most run down parts.... but again, that's for later... 

The 7 train would lurch downward just as it approached Time SQ/42 Street; as it began to slow from top speed, which on this old rolling stock felt like 700 mph. Gravity would throw one forward then from side to side as the under-repaired uneven ripples in the track made for a rough sea, choppy-like little breakers. The cars would shake violently, just to that point before one might describe it a vibration. In his often one fifth to halfway hung over or, did way too much of that stuff state, it was pure tactile pleasure. A bit of a thrill ride even; the morning's awakening reminder that he was here, in the city, for certain, quite alive and living in the liveliest of cities he'd always loved and was now able, finally, to call home after just more than a year's occupancy... here. Upon the slowing. not sudden but bouncing stop. In the squint of a, if one felt the need for dramatic-fantasy, miraculously surprising safe arrival at Time SQ/42 Street; he would plunge into the tussling mix of morning morons who felt it necessary to race, be the first, up the stairs. He exited the station at his own happy just to be here pace. Never the first to emerge into, what was on that day, the crystal clearest, cloudless blue sky n' sunshine anyone would ever remember the streets of midtown Manhattan being bathed in.

He couldn't recall what meaningless chit-chatter he was having with his then current girlfriend on their walk into the works this morning. Maybe the bickerings, perhaps as was more often than not, simply the dreadful silence she'd invade his happiness with as she headed towards the easiest job in the city that she hated with all her might. There wasn't much might in this one, more a shuffling along through it approach to life and living. Him, he was still holding tight to the inkling of a notion, that things would always get better. Good fortune, and maybe a bit of Forbes like business fame was as always, just around the corner; and in Manhattan what's around each and every corner is quite certainly, maybe famous indeed.

Let's just assume that on this day, they shuffled in silence along 7th Avenue from 42nd Street to the doorway to her office's entrance at 36th Street, just up a block from the backdoor of Macy's. Dropping her off was a happier part of the walk on the days he'd escort his then current girlfriend, after the vacant kiss and the "see ya laters" at 36th Street, he'd be afforded another more peaceful 11 blocks of a walk on his own. A chance to light up a smoke without being nagged, soaking in the city he was so in love with, able to let thoughts of what he might do next with his life run wild. He was always two steps and a couple of dreams of greatness ahead of where he'd find himself, today. On this day, nothing special nor memorable came to mind, or happened along the way... except for the sound he'll never remember but would later always know for absolute certain, he did fucking hear... it. The shriek of jet engines on a too low jet airliner, a distinctive shriek, he knew quite well.

He had grown up in the little town of Trenton, Ontario in, what he had for quite some time by the time he'd get to New York City considered the wretchedly boring old Canada. Trenton was home to a military base, actually Canada's largest, busiest and most important Air Force base. For him, a clear sky full of various aircraft was just, the normal. When he visited his outta town, up the river cousins in Brockville, Ontario, he'd stare for ages at the Great Lake Ships his cousins had come to simply ignore as they chugged upriver and down the St. Lawrence on their way to and from Thunder Bay. When these cousins visited him in Trenton, he'd chuckle at how they couldn't stop and look up each time a Herc or a Buffalo rumbled through the skies, or when the deafening shrieking pitch of a 707, those old airliners, made it almost impossible to finish one's conversation... he'd instinctively learned to ignore the air-traffic above him, distinguishing one plane from the other simply by the sound it made; an almost subconscious skill that would prove helpful in putting his and more importantly his then current girlfriend's mind at ease... later that morning.

Upon arrival at the makeshift Manhattan offices of his New Jersey based employer, just another collection of kids who had decided they'd "rule the world" by opening yet another makeshift digital, internet marketing and advertising agency meant to compete with  stolid, gray n' old agencies who hadn't a clue what they were doing in digital just up and over on Madison Avenue... Funny enough, even fifteen years later, nobody, except him of course, knew what they're doing in digital marketing and advertising... but that's beside the point... He unlocked the door to the makeshift Manhattan office, and entered to a far too early to be ringing, ringing phone, that, if asked he'd likely say seemed to be ringing off the hook.

"Do you hear sirens?"

The boss he'd rarely seen almost screamed at him hurriedly, oddly he even sounded a bit panicked as he spoke into the Jersey end of the phone... He hadn't, well he'd heard no more sirens than one would normally hear in the city on any given day's walk from 42nd Street to 25th. Just as the question was asked, he'd come to realize; just right then, as he was being asked, yes, the city did seem to come alive with the wailing sound of way more sirens than usual, all of a sudden.

"A plane hit the towers..."

That certainly didn't register at all. What towers, what, when where... plane? What plane... huh? The conversation was becoming more frantic and fractured as all the early risers who worked at the Jersey office started barking the new news. They'd gathered around the TV, likely as soon as they'd got similar calls from their friends or loved ones. His boss had somehow managed to tell him the plane was maybe a FedEx cargo plane; definitely not a single or double propped private plane. A large enough airliner to do considerable damage had shrieked at full speed right into the North Tower of the world trade center, and that's all anyone knew... and they had a TV... in Jersey... so they knew as much as anyone else and way more than he did, standing alone, in a still darkened makeshift Manhattan office space, just off 7th Avenue, in an old garment trade building at the top of the garment district, just below midtown, in that in between no-man's land near The Garden. The part of town someone who didn't know better might have called, the lower edge of Hell's Kitchen, but was actually way way closer to say, Chelsea...

"Another plane!!! Another plane just hit the other tower... the south tower, another plane..."

He overheard one of the early risers in New Jersey, not on the call, scream loudly in the background behind the conversation he was having with his boss... What the FUCK! Who knows who said that, him or his boss, or neither of them... the conversation was abruptly over except for his, almost too calmly saying something to the effect... "I better get out there and see what's what... I'll call you back as soon as I know something"; Or some such offer to be a helpful but quite honestly lousy salesman they'd hired to work out of the makeshift Manhattan office. Hanging up, he bolted for the door, subconsciously taking the stairs, raced through the lobby, out and across 7th, over to 6th where he knew he'd have a clear view of the Towers. A beautiful view of the biggest things you'd ever see looming over any city let alone the city that had become so fixed in the dreams he had dreamed up for himself since the first time he'd visited there on a Grade 11 Urban Geography field trip back in 1979... On 6th Avenue, he stopped dead; not quite startled, looked up into a now planeless and utterly clearest of clear blue sky to see the big burning hole in the north side of the North Tower. A flaming at the edges burning hole like one that would form in a sheet of paper if you'd held a lit cigarette to the center of it. He looked up at the Towers, for what he couldn't have known at the time would be the last time he'd have the chance to look up at them and thought, quite frantically, sadly even, most definitely confused by what he was looking up at, thinking to himself... How the hell are they going to fix that?

To be continued... (hopefully, or not)

Serial Sequencing... the story you are on is in bold... the previous and next (if written) linked...
Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane -|- How the Hell are We Ever Going to Fix This? -|-  RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... -|- [next story, unwritten] -|-  

It was a not too unusual, for this time of year, wet n' warmer grey kind of day as I turned to walk down the garage lane alleyway I'd walked down with her such a seemingly long time ago. One of those first of the season warmer grey days that told one it would be warmer yet still; and reminded one how much one can indeed enjoy a good ol' grey kind of day now and then. If it's warmer enough. It had even rained earlier that day but sadly enough I couldn't for the life of me get it out of my mind just how we had wasted those pitter patter of rain drops on the window on this particularly wet, warmer grey kind of day... Not the usual because we were rushed nor hurried with no time to wait as had been before; just that certain decisions had been made that prevented our enjoying the rain in the morning together... today.

I grabbed and pulled at the sash metal slat emblazoned with a familiarly old 7UP advertisement that served as the handle to an almost antique rickety wooden screen backdoor. This backdoor served as the front door to Mr. Wong's Chinese Wonton n' Lawyering Shoppe. The paint on the door had peeled in so many spots one could easily see that it had been blue then green then maybe yellow at one time before; it was one of those old wooden screen doors that when pulled to be opened, bent a bit at the bottom just enough to make one stutter his step, just a stuttering moment no more. 

Inside all was pretty much the same as the last time I'd seen it. When last we had been there to seek the advice of Mr. Wong oh so many years ago when we had first felt the need for some form of a contract to settle our unsettled things straight; set ourselves on a path towards a sound n' solid friendship... The Law offices of Mr. Wong's did double-duty as a kitchen for the Chinese Wonton part of his business; the part that put food on his table, so I guessed.

The walls of this office come kitchen were lined with shelves bearing row upon row of now long greasy law volumes, organized haphazardly, whole portions of them cover by things pinned willy nilly like a scatterbrain's corkboard. Arranged in a way so a scattered brain could look out loud at the very long list of things to do. Now, by no means and quite to the contrary Mr Wong was certainly no scatterbrain; these law book-lined walls with things corkboard like pinned  upon them muffled the sizzling sounds of the frying of this and showed what to he'd cook for that next order of that. As book lined walls go, they certainly looked more interesting than the fake wall of books they sit our local politico down in front of for their Sunday morning TV news show interviews...

"You here to apologize?"

Mr. Wong asked (in his very old Chinese food cook total-broken english accent). This question surprised me as it was almost as if he'd not even noticed I'd walked into his kitchen; I had done so as quietly as one could through a rickety old screen backdoor. Not that I was trying to sneak in, but rather to show a little consideration or try to, as I had walked in fully expecting to ask the old man for yet another favour again... To open, review and rewrite our contract, once more.

"You owe me apology"

Puzzled me... But, for certain he had it part right. Afterall It was merely three maybe four weeks earlier that we were at the point of tearing the fourth draft of his silly little contract to shreds. Barely a month since I'd blamed the interpretation of this barely legible legal scribble for all the pains I'd been feeling in the pit of my stomach. A few short days since the thought that I'd been somewhat mistreated by this ill-legally advised contractually belly hurting agreement had began to subside. I owed Mr. Wong an apology? I don't think so, I thought out loud to myself. I'd simply come in to see if Mr Wong might polish up a clause or two; help define this contract's applications to the more recent days developments. You know revise it to suite the needs of this man that lives quietly, perhaps selfishly inside me. The man who has recently laid claim and set up shop in... my belly.

"You eat noodles"

He scooped a bowl's worth of greasy beef and flat noodles; two dolla extra beef as I liked it into a reusable tin foil take-out container; plunked that down on what counted for the only table in the corner of the kitchen. It could've look like law desk of sorts, if one squinted; swivel chair squeezed too tightly between it and the wall, an old stool for seating one's customers across from the swiveling chair. The last time I sat here, she stood beside me as Mr. Wong and I spoke the words on this contract right through. This time more alone, I grabbed a fork, and not really knowing why, as I wasn't quite hungry, started in on Mr Wong's noodles.

"You a stupid young man"

What? Here I'd come all the way across town, well actually, just 'round the corner but all the same I had got up and out of my apartment, made the effort to give this half lawyer and not half bad Chinese Food cook a little more business I couldn't afford but would promise to pay for a little bit later, just like before... And the noodles? They were certainly oh so delicious.

"You say sorry to Mr, Wong"

Pausing for a second, well actually not pausing but plunging my now growing hunger into another forkful of noodles. I couldn't help start to think about the first time we'd come by here to this law office; a little emotionally dishevelled, a bit ragged around these edges we'd been trying to connect together. Bemused at times, befuddled at others; suffering the bunglesomes that had befallen us as I figure we'd been trying to sort out and set quite a tightrope like common companionship set of objectives together. On that first visit, as we stutter stepped through the old painted but peeling screen door, I kind of felt we were grasping at straws. I recall the door bending a bit at the bottom and I got back to eating my noodles.

"You a happy man today"

And he was right, at this moment I was. Being well fed in the back of his kitchen... yes. I was happier than I had been before. I certainly didn't have everything that I'd wanted, many parts of our friendship not specifically covered in this contract; things perhaps not anticipated correctly nor considered thoroughly enough through to the passage of good, no make that great times. Those things that most contracts never can cover as there are thousands of different ways things can play themselves out over time (great times n' all); And you know, as for playing, well, we likely had many a ways left to play through all of these yet unknown things, n' all.

"You say sorry"

So, with a satisfied sigh, I finished my noodles then stood and quite officiously bowed in Mr. Wong's direction. I mumbled a heartfelt apology then reached into my pocket a fished through my wallet. I left a five and some change on the corner of what could only be described as the best law desk in the city. This five and some change counted for about half what a bowl of greasy beef noodles might have cost if I'd entered through the front doors that served of the entrance to the Wonton n' Chinese food part of Mr. Wong's business. On top of this poor payment I gave him a compliment, describing his wisdom as being on par with say, Confucius and told I'd be bring more business his way. As I turned to start leaving he stopped me... and said.

"Confucius good man make lousy noodles"

As I walked out the garage lane alleyway and back onto the road that separated her street from mine. I gave all of this and our contract, not a second, third nor even a fourth thought; but what was more likely the thousandth of thoughts I'd had giving it over these days, weeks and a month. Just a little desperation left in my thinking, I did realize, I was happy maybe even happier than before. And she too, I now recalled had been giving many an indication that she was too happier.

I let thoughts wander freely read through the original wording. Reading the now ancient only one paged, even with pictures document in my minds eye and concluded, yes, It was all there pretty much word for word and in plain black and white... Mr. Wong had prepared it as well as his noodles, not a clause had been left missing, nothing really much more could be added, taken out or re-worded. Oh for certain at least many ways left to get through as things yet to come; but with my belly now full of those greasy great noodles and a new beefy pep in my step. I was pretty confident, this well prepared, thorough quite precisely written in the back of a Wonton Restaurant contract... did indeed, have our continuing friendship well covered.

With all do respect Mr. Wong, indeed I am sorry, oh and thanks for that noodle.

The old wandering man with a deep n' distinctly Canadian radio voice led me straight to the door of this old building; old as in it was one of those ugly early 1970's lump of form-molded now mouldering cement basically charmless old buildings. I stepped inside another nondescript glass double doorway, just like every other apartment doorway I've stepped into of late. An airless air-locked vestibule with a panel of apartment buzzer-buttons stretched from here onto almost well, just over there. Random code numbers not matched with any specific apartment nor any place else in space, time or... really. I pressed all the buttons I could with the palm of my hand, if even just to see what might happen. The door lock buzzed once, then twice... a third time "who is it?" crackled over the muffled tin eared old speaker; it didn't matter, I was already inside the inside glass double doors and on into the entranceway corridor.

These apartment lobbies never cease to amaze me. Arranged as if people might actually gather in here. An uncomfortable chair there, far too far away from the ugly unmatched couch over here. A French Regal knock off of a coffee table in-between; so ill spaced it would take even the tallest of someones a hearty lean n' lurch inwards just to reach someone's now getting too cold cup of coffee... A bank of four elevators, none yet on the ground floor. A small wait as I fixed on an idea of just what it was I'd get up to. That old man with the deeply distinctive Canadian radio voice may have led me here, but he didn't leave me a clue as to what I might do. On into the elevator, the one second from the left... no thirteenth floor, we'll head on up to fourteen, meh, it's all just the same... each floor upon floor upon floor and on upwards, all just the same as this mis-numbered thirteenth.

As I stepped off the elevator, feet firmly planted onto a well trampled down overly vacuumed still dirt laden body-oil n' sweat stained old carpet; with a pattern so ridiculous I won't bother to describe it. All at once taken aback by the far too familiarly spiced-pungent smell of poorly prepared ethnic cooking. A wretched smell with no specific geography, just for certain not from anywhere remotely near here. I went left down the hallway, the numbers shrinking down in my direction, growing back up to the left. At the end of the hall I found a door not locked but unopened. Why not, I was here, so I went on inside.

A spartan arrangement of more mismatched furnishings. Too stuffed couches and a recliner propped upright right in front of the TV... It was on, with volume turned down, I didn't recognize the show it was airing. I wandered around what little there was to wander around in. A peek out the balcony window, the bedroom strewn with a least a week's worth of unwashed clothing. An odor, faint at first seemed to swell as I approached what was likely the bathroom. I braced myself for forest greens or flamingo pinks and an un-flushed and stained stinky toilet.

Of course I was obviously a little surprised to find that old hag Mrs. Brown faced down on the, oddly enough bone white tiled floor. Her bluing hair matted in a clot of blood that had circled her head as if it was just a bit frightened to ooze out much further. A naked lump of a lady in a quite unlady-like arrangement; feet bent up backwards, dangling inside the bathtub. The torn off the rod shower curtain clutched in her now cold n' stiff wee little wrinkled old hand. No foul play. Just a sad slip and one less lonely old lady waits, getting colder, for some long lost uncaring family member to notice she hadn't called to complain for a few too many more days than as per usual... I let her be. First closing the slit of a lightless bathroom window so that the stench of her death might leak more quickly into and mix with the odor of the ill prepared ethnic cooking down the hallway. Someone would notice soon enough I figured as, I had, twice before.

Down at the other end of this hallway the Baxters were at it again. He'd started drinking for the very last time again early that morning. Mrs. Baxter's tears of enragement swelling up as she told him at the top of her lungs this was it, for the very last time... all over again like the last time. I had an immediate and eerie premonition that we'd be reading of Baxter's well timed and well planned in advance suicide in the morning papers one evening later that week. Above the Baxters ol' Ralph Simmons was having an uneasy sleep in his easy chair in front of a TV that hadn't worked properly for ages. Next door, apartment 15B, the sweet-hearted Mistress Patricia, the building's Dominatrix was turning most likely her 1000th trick; "NO SEX" claimed her advertisement. Apparently that was just to ensure guaranteed and regular insertion on the back pages of the local entertainment weekly. I guess someone somewhere still lives up to some standard through even all this... somehow they do it.

The elevator bell dinged to let off some people; signalling the right time to duck into the stairwell. I'd rather I'd not had been seen wandering around all alone here in these hallways. The next best thought to go through my mind was to head for the rooftop to see if this lonely old dump of a place filled with lonely dumpy old people would afford me a view. Brilliant as I found no lock nor alarm, so in a breeze I was outdoors again, in utter relief just to breathe. I'd felt no sadness having seen the old hag Mrs Brown faced down in her final un-lady-like posture; nor any anxious anxiety having listened to the Baxter's have at it again. I just wanted out of here and into some fresher air on this very cold winter's evening... heading towards the edge of the building to have a good look, without even thinking I took one giant lurch of a leap up and over the...

As I drifted on upwards, the dump of a place shrunk before me in perspective against the snow covered mound upon which it uneasily rested. I was surprised not to find it nestled into a more likely clump, or is it cluster, of developer-densified, un-stylishly cheap-assed lower middle class highrise housing apartment might be situated in the projects... It stood there all by its lonesome, totally on it's own; on it's perch on the bald of this barron rounded mound. No other buildings, no strip mall nor plaza nor another split level ranch style house within miles in either direction.

Off in the distance the sights and sounds of three bright n' shiny well washed firetrucks racing toward the place caught my attention. Growing louder now and with an urgent official like vigor, they pulled up alongside this crummy old apartment. The reddest of red fire engine paint jobs glistened alongside the all day with nothing better to do polished chrome. Washed wiped n' waxed to the point where one could barely stand to stare into it, lest catch a glimpse of themselves they'd rather not see. A burly gruff of a well uniformed fireman stepped out of the first truck walking more slowly than one might have expected. He looked at the plaque bearing numbers indicating the address above the outside glass double doorway that lead to the vestibule too full of apartment buzzing buttons. With a turn to his mates, a nod in agreement, he pulled out a match, struck it and lit the shit-hole on fire. It went up like a light, like a late summer's Lower East Side tinder-box ghetto disaster n' poof... it was gone. That lonely dump of a place, dumped full of lonely people with so little left to do they'd stopped doing anything at all ages ago... It was gone in a flash puff of odorless smoke and good riddance. Except for Mr. Baxter not a single one of those sad lonely souls survived it... of course they'd all lost their battle to live to that loneliness in that lonely building oh so many long years ago...

Now and then you meet someone with whom it is just so much fun to play. You sit down together and your minds start bouncing about, ricocheting off walls and exploding with laughter. … We call these people friends. And I have been blessed with more than my share.

Still… the poetry game is something quite special.  And I’ve not had the pleasure of playing this game with all my dearest of friends – for whatever reason:  sometimes we’re just too busy catching up on life and, thus, playing with words doesn’t come into our precious time of sharing. The poetry game does demand some moments of leisure but, beyond that, it requires little: two friends, a sheet of paper, a pen, and whatever words fall.

It goes like this:

You flip a coin to see who goes first.  One person writes a line or two and the other follows with a line or two or three. There are no rules carved in stone – it’s a game, after all … and so it goes. It need not rhyme … although it can. It could be stream of consciousness prose  or a story that builds from beginning to end … shape it how you will. As an artist, I’ve also played this game of collaboration visually —for example, with other artist friends, sharing a palette and a couple of brushes, we’ve played around on one canvas … Sometimes it works, other times not, but it’s  the process – be it a battle or a dance – that is, at it’s very least, amusing.  At it’s best, it challenges one to release control and when that happens there’s a bit of magic in the game.  Whether with words or images, the point is not to create something great and masterful. It’s just an exercise. It’s play. And, occasionally something quite nice comes out of it.

Sitting down with my friend Gordon in my studio the other night – a place he affectionately calls wonderland– I brought a sheet of paper and a pen. As he loves words as well as I, it’s a game we’ve played several times. So, we flipped a coin – and he won the place to begin it all. And so it went … 

As yet, it’s untitled. 

If you’ve any ideas for a title, do send them!

The common push me pull you
The tangled shuffle on floors
The wrenching ventricles
of the heart
Leading us from wars

Those battles falling from thin air
The whirling chaos, an art
Where life falls into pieces
Broken,
But never apart

Moved from within, then straight ahead
Another hill to climb
We rise to higher places
Of heart
Soul and mind