Irreparable ear damage.  Blame the whisky.  Heard a Radiolab last afternoon about how some people lose their hearing and start to hear music.  Spacial, wandering music.  Like some galactic orchestra warming up in your cochlea.  Imagine that.  One of them, this one guy, he goes to get it fixed.  The angels singing, he gets it fixed.  They plug a chip into his head and the music stops.  Cold out.  Sounds of the doctor fade back in.  Talk about your all-time bonehead move.

Paparazzi itself has no real meaning.  No deep trigger, no purpose.  It has elements which fascinate me.  The pleading of it all, the beg to beg sort of thing.  This weird, sado-masochistic lust for attention.  The parallels of being both seen and trapped in a time when fame can literally shine on anyone at any age at any moment.  Anyway, it’s best to skirt the issue.  This kind of meaning can be whittled out of ply-board.  What matters is its structure.  I usually find these songs a year or two after they’ve passed, largely because I avoid pop radio.  This is not out of pretension, but rather the opposite: I’m extremely susceptible to pop music.  It hijacks my system.  What kind of organism is hardwired to just totally submit to these sounds?  There’s deep psychology underneath it all.  Decades of research lead to new flavors.  The same science that brings us the big mac is effectively writing these songs.  Shortcuts to pleasure lead to sloth.  We gob this stuff down with a new kind of sadness: we’re so far into history that our lessons are learned.  Basic truths become banal: fame is a curse; sweets make you fat; love is inconstant; it goes on and on.  Pop lyrics are almost exclusively about these things.  We gravitate towards tragedy because we want to be tragic.  We want to make the mistakes.  We want to learn our lessons on the deathbed, not the dance floor.  Haw.  All of this overlaps a series of notes that are designed to strike the sensor: that spot on your emotional boss that blinks red.  Drown yourself out in whisky and pop riffs and take that fucker out.  Move on.  Next level.  Up down left right start.  Papa, Paparazzi.

Wait a minute, so who doesn’t fall asleep to Paparazzi at 125 per cent, sped up, cranked at all levels from ear to ear?  Is this not how you sleep?  What personal tricks does your own mind play?  No, give it something else.  Mine, the tweaked out systematic grind of mass love.  Papa, Paparazzi.  Experimentation near sleep.  Slow the music with your mind.  Flip the card, ace, a diamond this time… Christ, what coal you need.  Still: focus: slow the progression.  Lull it with you, the heartbeat slowing.  Ease into rapidity: the eyes, the motion.  A slow descent.  Rock-a-bye to jet planes; where are you tonight?  Still against the grain, push off.  For hours, if only, push off.  Right-O, captain.  Papa, Paparazzi.

Otherwise, this would be a perfect world,” she said, and I tried to agree but it all seemed so pointless so I stopped and tried to think of something physical, or violent, or something that makes any difference at all.

“This is because you lack conviction,” she said, and I thought Jesus Christ where did the lines go in the pavement, we’re about to get nailed by a ten ton truck, and she said “You’re either losing your sense, your mind, or your nerve, but whatever it was it must have suited you because you look like shit right now,” and then she laughed, having never noticed what’s missing before, and I said “One more crack out of you and it’s back to the ocean,” these washed up mermaids have the wrong sense of humor, but she took that last one kind of hard and we didn’t speak for days.

Later when me and Frank were bowling he asked me how the move was coming.

He said “Has she moved everything out?” and I said “Everything but the water in her tank, and, well, her, of course. She’s still there. But I can avoid that room if I need to.”

“It’s really a shame,” said Frank, “She was one in a million,” and I said “I imagine there might be others,” and he said “But not like that one,” and I said “You might be right” and then he rolled nine strikes and a spare, and he said “God damn, that was close!” and I said “Well, at least you still have something to live for,” and he said “Who says the goal is to live?” and I said “I suppose I guess I just assumed that it was,” and he said “The sooner I get this over with the happier I’ll be,” and I said “Well shit, I guess we’d better start another game,” and he said “Can I ask you something personal?” and I said “I have no idea what isn’t,” and he said “What was it about her that you loved so much?” and I said that she was the greatest thing in another world but she needed me in mine.

On the drive home the road outside the window felt distant, but not the kind of distant you’d expect the road to feel if you’re driving late at night and depressed. Not the never ending, unreachable distance, but the distance that seemed to say that as long as I’m driving this far, this fast, that I will always be stuck behind a windshield. And I’m lucky, I realized, that I’ll never be reminded of her touch when the wind goes by. She was encased in three things: her body, the water, and the glass that contained them, and I must have touched the glass pane the most.

“You know,” I said, sitting down on the sofa, “This has become some kind of nightmare.” “Well then why don’t you just let me go?” she said, and I said “You’ve always been free to leave, it’s not my fault you don’t have any legs,” and she said “It’s your fault that you’re not carrying me back to the ocean,” and I said “I never thought you cared so much for catharsis,” and she said “I’m doing this for you,” and I looked out the window and the sky and streets were silver and it was brighter than it should be underneath a crescent moon, and she said “Who knows, I’m a mermaid, I might turn into gold or something,” and I said “Thanks, but I’ve lost enough already,” and I hoisted her up and I carried her out, back to the beach where I found her.

It was a short goodbye, the water was cold, and she slipped back into the sea. I walked back home in the extra light and stared at the empty tank.

Frank’s gotten pretty good at tying the straight jacket, but I could still use a younger assistant. Maybe one with perfect teeth and legs that go all the way up.

haikusafter8:

Suddenly my dog
is scared, and she doesn’t owe
anyone money

~

~

We gathered early,
sat by the clock, and waited
for the hours to blink.

~
~

Just got a warning
from the City of Cambridge:
expect flashing clocks.

~

~

At the CVS
we were looking for panic,
batteries, and food.

~

~ ~…

I.

Human interaction keeps the heart-rate up;

I find that throwing yourself

into large groups of people is

great for calisthenics. Wind troubles

occur when your instrument’s un-

clean, so carry what counts for

a cloth or a rag in your back

pocket at all times. For some

this is a Bible. For others it might be

a twenty dollar bill: whatever it is that will help you feel safe.

Safety, of course,

is a feeling and nothing else, and can be represented

symbolically

like all things.

II.

It was a mistake to wear this jacket, which is flashy.

To explain that this is your only jacket is apologetic and

weak. Spend your free time finding another jacket, one

which no one can think anything of. These are the colors of

your culture, to camouflage. Walking between the rain storms

the street musicians retake their seats and play less successful

versions of very successful songs. You duck into a cafe. Upstairs

there is a sign which reads “Please limit your time to 1 hour”

which means that logically you do not need to leave

until everyone else has left.

By counting the hours between each storm

you can feel somehow involved.

III.

What makes your situation comical

is the stasis presented by

options. Yes,

that’s better. Imagine

the Venus De Milo

wanting to move

and the Venus De Milo not

wanting to move.

The stone’s appearance

leads us to think that the stone has wants

and feelings. This is

projection. People

at tables wear beards on their

faces they’ve likely seen in films, and

these thoughts are thoughts that you’ve likely imagined

your favorite characters

thought.

IV.

Think of your stress as the mind’s secretary:

useful, removed, and objective.

The World’s Greatest

repost for posterity

Chariot Parking @ The Harvard Coliseum

Fireworks

Part 4 of 4

This is My Favorite Ride

Big Thunder Mountain

Part 3 of 4

Splash Mountain

Part 2 of 4

Teacups

Part 1 of 4

The weather in Boston is 82 degrees and partly cloudy. Its wind is blowing south-east at a speed of eight miles per hour. In exactly one hour, the wind will have traveled eight miles. Eight miles south of Boston lies Milton, Massachusetts, the town where I grew up. There is wind, this minute, heading straight for my house. No one will be there, the house will be empty, and the wind will go away. This is what wind does. Please calm down.

The weather in Boston is 30 years old. It has tattoos on its ankles and rides a bike. It drinks iced coffee and supports local business. It will never have children; it is the last of its kind.

The weather in Boston is a shameless flirt. It tossles hair and looks up dresses. It should be locked away for the things it does. We are trying to get by without tackling each other. Our textiles are thin and we walk a fine line. The weather in Boston wants nothing but action. We should lock it away, this weather.

It is 53% humidity, 38% blue, and 9% carbon dioxide. It can be contained, shelved, and stored for ages. There are many of us that depend on it for smooth communication. When we talk, us two, it’s of the weather in Boston. “The weather in Boston stayed over last night. It was drunk, I was tired. It slept on the couch.”

When I lash out I lash out at the weather in Boston. My fists hit nothing, the wind dies down, and I’m suddenly left in a wet, thick heat. I can get hot and uncomfortable. There is a river nearby where I dunk my head, but nothing changes when I come back up. The weather is always changing.

“The weather is cold,” you told me. I wrapped you in a blanket and mulled some wine. “You always forget,” I told you. “The weather can be mean and distant, whereas I can mull wine and distract you from your problems. I have blankets, I have tools. Listen: I can talk to you. There is a way to warm the body emotionally. We’ve been working on it for years.”

The weather in Boston cries then brings us flowers. It takes us to the park and to the beach. It falls to its knees and begs for our forgiveness, and when we give it none it grows cold.

But today the weather in Boston is beautiful. It is 82 degrees and partly cloudy. It is heading for my house this very minute; I must be there to open the door. We will spend the day together. We will discuss new topics. Please be here when I get back.

Somewhere in the Atlantic between St. Thomas and Antigua, past the Anegada Passage and into the Caribbean Sea, Brady Matthews is lying on the sun-deck of the USS Baltimore, a defunct warship reconditioned for cruising. His body almost sizzles in the February sun.

Out this far the ocean is quiet, the waves with nothing to break against. The seagulls stayed back in Coral Bay, squawking at the fishermen throwing their chum and pecking at children with ice cream cones, hovering fierce in the Harbor. Any birds still in sight must be on a late migration or know of a reef nearby.

Miguel, a member of the cruise ship’s staff, comes wheeling out a cart of towels. The tan-line running diametrically across Brady’s side resembles a peach gummy ring with its thick, white base. Miguel leans over to remind him to flip.

“Mr. Matthews,” he says, “You must flip, you’ll burn.”

But there’s no response from Brady.

Miguel looks around for any other passengers, but everyone’s down on one of the lower decks. Even the die hards on the USS Baltimore wait for noon to pass before they start tanning. The sun is angled directly above them, without a cloud in the sky. Leaning in closer, Miguel can hear him sizzle.

“Mr. Matthews,” he says.

Not getting a response, he kneels down and twists back the tanner’s black goggles. A shocking white tan-line is revealed underneath, framing the dead man’s lifeless, clouded eyes.

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