in the fall, i'd make arrangements to accommodate my tendency toward flight. it was at this time, and again in early march, when the row of trees across the dirt road would swell with black bodies. sadistically or scientifically, i'd clap my hands or offer a low guttural sound into the air, sending the birds into a temporary migration (much smaller than the one that had brought them here), simply for the pleasure of observing their own method of withdrawal and the dark cloud they'd create as they relocated to the roof above me. i once drove down princeton road, creeping through slowly as the windows and world had fogged. approaching a swarm of them in the road, i crawled into the assembly, causing them to stir, swallowing the car in a black hole [though less menacing than Hitchcock's portrayal]. this moment may be the most spiritual i've ever known. noel says he still thinks of me when he sees these birds, twice a year. and like the mother whose legacy has been left in pies, i wonder if i could invest my being into this image, and that it would awaken memories in people i'll eventually leave behind.
it was not the birds that i sought, though their process of displacement perhaps spoke a marvelous parallel and eased my sense of reclusiveness. no, not the birds, but the solitude. thoreau's walden pond was really not as secluded as we've been led to believe, and neither was the farm house on 25th between the two princeton roads. but there was enough distance, and enough gravel between "here" and "there" to enable a major purification. these days, i don't know where to escape, what quiet places will afford me the same sort of soul revamping that i found at the house by the lagoon, with the dog who shared blueberries with me on the front steps.
so i hide away today in a bistro on milton.
i look around for the motorcycle that may have carried him here - the Japanese man that looks like a Kamikaze pilot or a Bolshevik in his long leather and his fur hat. Sharp angled face; liquid eyes. he asks for crispy bacon in English, stirs his coffee with a clamor, unfolds his Japanese language newspaper. or maybe it's Chinese; we never discern these differences. the leather pants seem only to indicate some deeper connection, signaling the presence of some other story or object (the bike). because who dresses up (or down) for middle-of-the-day coffee? paired with high boots that snap on the outer edge and a white knit zip-up. contradiction follows stereotype, and my confused emotions follow suit. the proposition to split a carafe of coffee, and its acceptance, is essentially a backwards way of seduction. but still, a dead ringer. am i a premeditated tease? is this to the first or second degree? and entailed are how many years in prison?
the procrastination modeled by lone spoons jutting out from white cafe coffee mugs. [a bit more in the cup. s'il vous plait.] the rumor mill next door, rumbling like a brothel, and the constipated movement of red sauce in a glass bottle. you'll need the knife to tap on the side door, or in desparation, to reach up and drag some victory back out with it. fan circulating, a blowing-the-nose sort of shuffling of the hot air with the cold. the cafe in a weather system. it laughs like a portrait of a wide-eyed and wide-legged eastern european with a bob, this paper remake of the average joe leather portefeuille. slots that serve as pockets for specials that are not so special. they'll come next week in a new form, but always in the paper laminate. language switching, in the foreground; self-help tear sheet announcements, the backdrop. so un-Hopper, with his controlled lines and clean counters. numbers require no conversion, at least here. shaking hands could profit from seasoned potatoes, cut into with knife and fork. one gesture even the anglophones embrace.
