And we are rolling...

There are strange people all about my apartment building. Its as if aliens have taken over. They are friendly. This is Hollywood in my backyard. I have started having nothing to do on Friday nights. It is okay with me. I watched an ABC tv show and felt rebellious since NBC is the station filming outside. The station who negotiated the street space. The people who found it fiscally sensible to take down the dividing walls of the four garages in the back and turn it into some strange place. They speak loudly and quietly. There is a gentle hum of human voices and machines. Every now and then someone shouts “Rolling” or something of the sort. I saw a chair with Dania someone’s name on it. Cast on another. This is the real of un-reality. I sit by my phone and type with my fingers and wonder how long a week is. The week in between Christmas and school starting was forever in kindergarten. How I longed for school to start again. The week between Christmas and work starting was only a night. How I did not long to ctrl alt delete and log into my computer again. “Quiet Guys” “Quiet Please”. I am doing laundry. I wonder about the laundry lives of the people outside my windows. Are they all rich with maids, and or stay at home lovers? Do they arrive at a time when all the clothes are dirty and they are shoveling their laundry into the machines at the laundrymat. I heard that in NY laundry service is pretty standard. People take their dirty clothes to other people who return them clean. Money is exchanged. “Pictures…black tiers” I am making things up. I don’t know what they are shouting. I like the show Pushing Daisies because of the rules and the straightforward nature. The narrator explains the who what where when of the bad guy and of the characters emotions, when things get too intense that I am about to fall of my seat. The rules are simple: if she touches him or he her, she dies, so they don’t touch. (I only fall out of my seat because I was trying to get comfortable and my chair is on wheels). I am going to go read poetry now and fall asleep. “We’re rolling. Quiet Please” and a few minutes later, “Cut” I feel so old fashion that my art is words and paint. “Standby”.

In so many ways I see how 1 plus 1 does not equal two. Because one has hands and hands have luggage. Black suitcases with red tassels tied to handles so it’s easy to identify at the baggage claim. In those suitcases are history books, pages dusted with anxiety and fear. One has rainbow colored suitcases that need no tassels, they are always stored in the overhead compartments. They are heavy with dark chocolate and braids of garlic that for years have tried to use gravity, but yet they still curl and twist and turn against conventional wisdom.

Good night. Sleep tight. "Quiet please"