We are nowhere & it's now

cinematographic artist & citizen of the world.

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What's for dinner?

Last Sunday I made pour over coffee and sat in the office cupping my mug with both hands, eyeing my plants. I skimmed over our combined collection of books and found my Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. I've read it a few times but I can always commit to a short story. It inspired me to write about a sliver of time in my life from so long ago.

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I did yoga for the first time when I was a Senior in High School. My mom had a VHS in the house she probably bought at the dollar store with a fleeting aspiration to give it a try. One of her many half-attempts at starting healthier habits.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was watching the recorded PSYCH 101 class I missed earlier that week. I was taking a "distant learning" college credit course via Onondaga Community College. Class consisted of us video chatting with the Professor. One of my oldest friends Emma Pratt was in that class and it really rekindled our friendship. Pretty sure that Psych class was the reason Emma invited me to her wedding. Anyway, that was "virtual learning" in 2009. The concept of catching up on a lesson you missed by bringing a VHS home and watching it, was new. No one even has VCRs anymore.

I finished the tape and rummaged through the VHS collection in the guest room. Formerly Matt's room, Russ's room, Sam and Mike and Shelby's room. At the time it was just an extra room. I found the Yoga instruction tape, read the cover, and popped it in.

A woman's soft voice told me to raise my arms faarrr above my head, finger tips out stretched toward the popcorn ceiling. She says to extend my arms out as if I were giving a big hug, then slowly bring my hands to my chest, touching palms, bowing my head, breathing. It was surprisingly relaxing and felt so good, so peaceful. A golden afternoon. Full of discovery and solitude.

After the tape was over, I took a nap on the guest bed, it was March. I woke up when the sun was setting, stumbled downstairs, barely greeted my mother and just blurted the words "what's for dinner?"

Three words I couldn't possibly know at the time how simple and sacred they truly were. And how I desperately want to say them again, ever so nonchalantly and almost annoyingly. "What's for dinner?"

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The Flaming Lips at Brooklyn Steel. 11.9.21

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Accidental photo 👄

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by twothousands

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Jules de Balincourt (French, b. 1972)

Take Us With You, 2020

Oil on board

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Halloween: Alone at a bar

I'm not sure why people write in public places. There are so many distractions. Especially when you're still afraid of other humans.

There are so many children in Brooklyn...It's funny...Halloween is the only day it's acceptable to take candy from strangers.

I'm looking at a man with white hair and a fedora holding a plastic pumpkin full of candy, standing on the corner of Prospect Park and 16th Street. One lone candy giver. Not associated with an establishment, just handing candy to kids--no questions. Bunnies, Chuckies, Gremlins, Devils, Ghostbusters, Pirates. A culmination of a full month anticipating just one day.

Sitting in a bar alone reminds me of heartbreak and crying in public. There was freedom to that, crying in public.

The man with the fedora is talking to someone now. I think his neighbor? He's probably a safe man. He must do this every year. He does seem a little lost though...directly holding out one fun size candy bar in front of a clump of children. No takers.

I am self-centered enough to think that the women pushing strollers, carrying babies, and holding sticky gremlin hands see me (alone, drinking a beer with nothing but my thoughts) and envy me. This is a true narcissistic flex--coming to a bar alone to write? I scoff at this person. Oh well.

The entire time I am writing this, I am seeing myself from an outside perspective, standing over my own shoulder.

I have been cursed with this self-awareness, the feeling of being watched...gazed at.

The man and his neighbor (wife?) are leaving now. They seem disappointed. Things just aren't the way they used to be.

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Collections

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you laugh, I laugh. 

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POEM BY R.POPE, 2018.

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