Nobody's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Oh, Dear Reader, where does one begin? The day after, the next day, the follow-up, the closure; how does one do it? From where does one draw upon the necessary resources? I try very hard not to pollute this space, this creekbed, with the news of the day, or my day to day goings on. And it is hard. Believe me, it is hard. When I wake up and have to somehow digest the latest “flap” over the latest “comment”, or comprehend the latest “death toll”. Or, say, I am bored. And want to just tell you, hey, I am bored. I fight the urge, for you and for myself. You can get such currency at other banks. To hold my tongue. Is not easy, friends. Because we live in a ridiculous world, the only we have. I show up here from time to time with small offerings, a smile etched in my hand-drawn face. Runes, symbols, etchings, sketchings, figures. Old pictures you have not seen, and really do not even need to see, but. One wonders why one even does it sometimes. But. The answer is always the same, and obvious—what else is there to do? It is fun, or ought to be, this play of words, this one-sided dialogue, this one hand clapping. You, in my mind, are a rich listener, and I, another travelling pauper with song, dance and tiny, beaded outfit. While the world rages around us, we create tiny paper animals.

Okay, so, Last Night. Halloween. The thing began simply enough. But if forced to again choose, maybe deciding to do cheap domestic beers and Wild Turkey down at The Drawing Room, as opposed to, say, dinner, won’t be repeated. But there we were, my sister and I. And why not? Halloween and all. All Hallow’s Eve. Better yet, Dia de los Muertos. All that. Picture me as skeleton. And at some point we are back at our apartment, blurry, music turned up, and I am dancing. Dancing! A kind of goonball aerobics. At this point, it is still early, still very much a decent hour in other, decent human beings' world, and although Lindsay and I had discussed the need to acquire some sort of “candy” earlier in the evening, should trick-or-treaters, our neighbors, come a’knocking, as of course they were bound to, we had not made the move. No candy in this home, friends. No treats. And like a ridiculous dream where you know something is happening, where you are simultaneously aware and bearing witness as you are even deciding, realizing the thing in your mind, the doorbell is ringing, the dance lurches to a halt, Lindsay and I share an oh crap moment, and sure enough there in the eyehole is one of our so sweet neighbors and their sweet little kid, Dear Reader, please bear with me, and Lindsay is answering the door, and I’m hearing “trick or treat!” in some far off corner of my mind as she hears the thing in real time in the very real (too real!) open doorway, and I am frozen in the kitchen, petrified, and then she is scrambling, my sister, looking for something, picking up dirty clothes, looking under desks, tyring to find something, anything, to give, and suddenly I’m doing the same, I am rooting about the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets with wild-eyed fear, and I hear her throw several items into the sweet kid’s candy bag, and then I’m scurrying erratically toward the door clutching a bag of unpopped Paul Newman’s popcorn in my hand, ridiculously, and I’m saying, “Give them this,” and the poor, dear sweet mother, bless her heart, is saying, “No, no, that’s fine, thank you,” trying with desperation to get as far from this doorway as possible in as short a time available, but it’s not enough for her, there is not far enough away, there is no soon enough, because Lindsay has given the poor child one caramel candy from God-knows-where and I am clutching unpopped popcorn, and then somehow the door is closed, the encounter done, when not moments later there comes another knock, another neighbor, one who has not learned the lesson of knocking on the Stone’s door on Hollow’s Eve, there with dear, sweet, perfect child, an awful re-run, and the mad scramble again in our apartment is upon us, and this poor, beautiful child, God bless his heart, has to watch as Lindsay drops an apple and an open pack of gum (spearmint gum! an open pack!) into his treat bag, and, adding insult to injury, I hear Lindsay fairly shriek at the kid, “What wrestler are you?” because, God, the sweet little thing loves wrestling, and he obvously has dressed up as a wrestler again this year, but I do not see any of this because I am crumpled in the kitchen, on the kitchen floor, like a discarded, fearful thing, and I’m forced to bear witness from afar, with my ears, and this is even too much. Wow. Rarely has the simple, rote question “Trick or Treat?!" been answered so bluntly. Trick, little friend, trick, the worst of tricks, and I am so sorry. How does one apologize deeply enough? What banner is big enough? What font appropriate? There are not words in the English language necessary for such expression. But, I am sorry. The answer is trick, and no, this mask does not come off. How did I come up with this costume? Don’t ask. And next year, it is in your best interest to skip past Apartment Stone, shield your eyes with cape and travel far, fast, to the next apartment.

And then suddenly we were driving, hurtling, into North Hollywood with one friend (sober, this friend, mind you) to pick up another friend and at some point I had a light sabre between my legs, in some kind of insane, new sabre technique, a ridiculous wielding. Do not ask.

Okay, so. Again. Take this—as all things creekbed—In Jest. Have fun with it. Thank you for stopping by. I pray that your day is somehow fun for you to-day. It’s a gift, really, to-day. The old cliche—like all of the old cliches I toss into your Treats Bag—is true.

Happy after, Dear Reader, you are the best friend I have.

Prince Danglion
Hollywood, you are on notice. This thing is available. Come with currency.