Part 3

crisscrossing between fate

The car is parked in a quaint, quiet neighborhood. Mostly row homes and sad little apartment complexes. The bitter cold beating down against them and highway lights streaming off in the choked dark nearby. Christmas decorations still adorn the doorposts and windows of the small houses here. Giselle leaves the car with one of the cousins and goes inside. I say my humble goodbye to her and wait for Giselle to return with Adrian. Inside the car, Adrian and I ponder the graffiti markings on the garage door in front of us. “It’s probably a gang sign. Look, it’s over there too. And I saw another one before we got here.” I humor him with his little quips and comments of gangs. I flip through the radio trying to find something. I get raucous Latino sambas, annoying pop, aggressive rap, and unhappy rock. I leave it on a station blaring advertisements and endless talk. It tapers off into overall silence. Giselle returns about five minutes later with another prima. A little toddler, wrapped in a pink winter-coat, barely capable of moving. Poor little nina, such a cute sight watching her waddle to the car.

Of course, it is Giselle’s responsibility to feed Adrian before we get home so we set off again in search of the holy corporate arches of gold and red. We turn through more streets, ever the contrast. A great circle of manors with Christmas lights, old schoolhouses with century old brick sleeping in the darkness, modern business buildings towering over tiny storefronts, and streetlights flickering on and off as cars swerve and shift through this little town. The talk between Giselle and I is mostly short and quiet. This night has thus far gone downhill, and any chance of being intimate with her seems slightly impossible with the little ninos sitting in back. I keep my mouth shut, put on my glasses, and pretend not to be a complete awkward geek as we pull up to a McDonald’s. Big shiny lights and all of Amboy seems to stare at us here in the middle of New Jersey.

“You got any money?” she asks. “I got a 20.” fumbling through my wallet. “Don’t you have anything else?” She knows a twenty dollar bill is an expensive piece of paper when purchasing fast food but so be it, I hand her the money and we both accept the fact that I’ll be getting a decent amount of change back. Giselle is tired though. Her eyes are stressed and the glow of the lights emanating from the drive-thru illuminate her beauty here in this dark part of town. She is radiant yet exhausted and I feel a bit sad. I wish I could escape back to Florida with her and live amongst the old palms, rickety bridges over lazy rivers, and letting the old Atlantic sun cast its rays across us on some sandy beach. Adrian’s food arrives and Giselle hands it back to him. He ravages through it, wolfing it down in his hungry little frenzy, and off we go back into the Amboy town darkness.

As we drive back to the train station, the radio hums a Spanish tune. “Ah, this is funny.” says Giselle. Despite my extensive study in Spanish during high school, I still can’t understand any of it. “What’s it about?” She laughs. “It’s about a guy who drank too much and lost his girl. Now he has a sad heart.” A sad heart, and the guitar sounds keep strumming on the radio and the singer laments the tale of a man who took up the bottle in favor of his lover and like all of us stupid hombres, men, boys, and chicos, we lament and regret for our lost girls and chicas. We pass through a Hispanic district and Giselle points out the Spanish street names and I admire the little shops and how everything is so sound and sleepy here. Amboy dreams. The stars peak out behind distant clouds.

The unhappy train station again, it hasn’t gotten any friendlier but looks more gloomy and miserable than before. We park and stare out into the shops and streets in front of us and it’s subtle yet dark. Giselle sits in the driver’s seat, eyes wide and awake but looking upwards. Upwards to the old heavens above and the stars peer back down. My eyes follow hers but I stare at the rearview mirror. Adrian is sleeping alongside the baby nina. Little hermoso children, dreaming of big city folks, movie stars, and video games. I have to leave this little family, this beautiful little group of Dominicans with ancestry that could trace back to bayside villages and leafy hamlets nestled in Santa Domingo jungles. And I can imagine Giselle there, sitting on a wild beach. Legs outstretched, her tanned skin a healthy brown and the wind swept sea breeze flowing through her hair. Her small but beautiful body calm and relaxed, and her eyes, nose, mouth, ears and all, all so aware of the beauty of this world. El mundo perfecto con Gisela. Caribbean waves gently touching the tips of her toes and a gleeful smile of love. Love of all little things. Such crazy imagination and thoughts. The ninos drift into sleep and we wait for my train to rush in from the South.

Giselle and I talk, mainly of her current boyfriend. She seems somewhat distraught with the situation. “I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure I want a relationship but how could I say no to him? He just asked me out, I didn’t want to be rude.” Jealously fills my mind, and my heart sinks. My little angel here is always in the hands of some other suitor, some other boy, some other soul admiring her in all her beauty and charm. During the one year in high school that I knew her, I never could drum up the courage to say, “Hey, want to go see a movie?” or some other dim witted offer to go out on a date. I figured beauty like that belongs to other beautiful people, and kids like me have to watch from the sidelines of life and wait to succeed elsewhere. She was an adorable little freshman, and I was a bumbling senior caught up in the performing arts and squandering my academic time on trying to get with other girls and skipping class. The last time I ever saw her within the halls of old Notre Dame was within the sweaty and creaky gym. She thumbed happily through my yearbook and we joked about how she was the only cool freshman there.

Perth Amboy night rushes through my synapses again, my memories fade, and the winter chill bites at my backbone. I hide my jealousy and try to offer some comforting words. “Well, maybe it will work with him.” I’m not that convincing but I listen. I agree and I feel just as tired and disillusioned as her. The urge to kiss her is growing too but I don’t want to intrude. I remember her saying before that she doesn’t randomly kiss just anybody but what have I really got to lose here? We make improvised plans to meet tomorrow but I know they will probably fall through. The little ones nap in their own siesta worlds while Giselle and I sit side by side in this car, if only I could hold her hand and tell her how much I do love her. I know it’s just stupid schoolboy love, puppy love, and it’s all just fleeting romance trickling away second by second. Yet, I think it’s something more and if only I could truly demonstrate it and show her that despite all this bundled up lovesickness and want for affection, that there is a heartfelt desire to be with her. The want to tell her she means something more than just the average girlfriend, a social network comment, a pretty face, and a string of text messages. She is the heartbeat of ancient peoples, the smile of baby ninos, and the eyes of all girls, tired and restless across America. And perhaps, it’s not even anything romantic here but just us, a simple boy and simple girl. We are imperfect, we are flawed, but we have each other. Friends, individuals, and teenagers. That is what we are, both lost out in the great divide of American Nowhere. We’re together in the dark, streetlamp lit train station and that’s all that matters. I love her and I know she loves me, and despite how naïve and childish it sounds, I’d give the world for her happiness.

Before I can contemplate a kiss, the dreadful clang and ring of the train approaches. No, why must this little slice of eternity and heaven be stripped away again. I dash out of the car and Giselle chases after. I dare not turn back, I don’t want to regret this, the chance to give her a kiss and feel our lips together for some split second in the endless line of seconds that make up every living thing’s life. No it’s too late, I need to get on that damned train. Giselle and her little self galloping down the cement and brick stairs to the train platform as I sprint up the stairs and into the nearest passenger car. The train is going to leave. I cringe and cry in my soul, this isn’t happening. Quick, think of something to say! “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I yell to her, thinking that perhaps we will meet again within twenty four hours. I know that isn’t going to be true. There she is, her hair whipped up and her little body in that red jacket and sad eyes peering back out to me onboard the train. I love her and it pains me to leave like this, so rushed and no time to say goodbye. No adios, no hasta luegos, no nothing. I go back to Jersey commuter suburbs, and she to Florida golf course suburbs.

“Get yourself some love tonight kid?” says the train conductor, noticing my call back to Giselle and obviously Giselle’s loveliness, visible even from a distance. “Yeah, sure. This is the train to Rahway?” “Oh no, it’s not.” He replies in a half-smirk. “What? No, it has to be!” My heart sank more. “Sorry kid, I don’t know who just jumps on trains like that but you.” “But… alright. Where’s the next station?” I was defeated but this jerk really wanted to just play on my already frazzled nerves. He laughs, “It’s the right train. We’re going to Rahway.”

I sit down and wait till Rahway which arrives quite shortly. Unknown to me, I’ve missed my other transfer train back to Hamilton. Winter laughs at me and the bleak Rahway station casts it’s frozen winds at my neck. The blood vessels in my nose and face burn, the cold eats away at me. To the New York north, a smokestack with plumes of smoke from a distant factory churns out the streams of chalky air, the great lines and clouds flow gracefully. Luna Moon hangs over me and weeps, the bright white bulb in the sky. Below the platforms and across the street a Christmas tree and lights read ‘Season’s Greetings’. They taunt me and the new year. All I can do is think of Giselle as I wait in the awful cold here. My phone is nearly dead so I cannot even text her nor are my fingers capable of doing it with the blood rushing to them, swelled up and painful to touch anything. I’m sick of it, I head inside a nearby taxi depot and wait. Baseball sounds crackle from the overhead TV and two guys make idle chit-chat and my face burns. The air still snapping at my veins. I collect my wits and head back out. A few more stragglers like myself await the next train. Hispanics chatter in ancient Espanol, two Asian men wrapped in clothing stand waiting their train. A youthful kid my age is out there too, goofily parading the platform grounds. He’s not well dressed either for this burning cold and he paces up and down the long platform. I shiver, my body feels frigid and all I do is shake. The kid, who’s name I never learn comes up to the locked waiting room area, and complains into his cell phone, “Oh this is so lame. They shut it up to keep out the bums.” We greet each other and talk about the moroseness of this situation. We make light of it and laugh though and I praise Buddha and Dios for him there. He says he’s from Woodbury or somewhere. He’s got his girlfriend on the phone and says she won’t stop talking. He gives me the phone and I say “Hey, I’m Blayze, how ya doing?” and hand the phone back to him. We laugh and joke and somehow manage to survive in this awful New Jersey cold. He asks why I’m here and I say “I went to see a friend.” “Oh yeah, is she hot?” “Yeah, she is.” I say. My train arrives and I say goodbye. I wish I learned his name.

World keeps on turning and we keep on passing by.

I collapse into an empty seat, a sullen family sits adjacent to me. I drift in and out of sleep, thinking and glaring out the windows. Night chokes the sky and somewhere, Giselle is in bed, fingers patting away on her cell phone or computer keyboard in a warm little Amboy house. I shift in my seat, and think. Rutgers flashes by in the night, the great university halls and parking garage towers hidden in the dark, little lights showering the patches of brickwork on the old buildings. The great rivers snaking through the cities and small town children in bed dreaming of tomorrow. Playgrounds draped in the glow of the singular streetlight. It’s all passing by in my train window.

I dream of Giselle that night. I miss her.

Visiting Republicans

I went to see John McCain’s political rally in Hamilton New Jersey today, my home township. It was held in a small firehouse, barely 2 minutes away from the house I grew up in. Anyway, despite being crowded for over two hours waiting for McCain to arrive, I suppose it was a unique perspective to be on the Republican end of the campaign, especially with the frontrunner comeback kid himself.


I had managed to get up pretty close to the stage. McCain at certain points was less than inches away when he moved up and down the platform. To my bigger surprise, the Republican Powerhouse was in full effect. Florida’s Charlie Crist, Joe Lieberman, and yes, even Rudy himself showed up for this. Of course, a lot of it was the usual war monger talk that most republicans pride their speeches on but it was neat to see all these heavy hitters up close. That, and they are kind of friendly too. McCain came off as humble but determined. He recited his main points such as no pork barrel spending, keeping the troops in Iraq, and even gave some credit to Bush for preventing terrorist attacks during the post 9/11 years. The crowd ate it up, especially the assortment of crazies near my side of the stage. A plastic bugle blower (you can hear it in the video), a nutjob lady with a blouse that read ‘Revolution’ on it (she also banged a miniature plastic flag on the nearby iron railing whenever the audience applauded), two big mouthed Navy vets, and a former Miss Wheelchair New Jersey. Only I have the luck of being in the middle of such people.

But, for what’s it worth, I enjoyed being upfront and seeing the political hooplah. And who knows, maybe crazy Johnny McCain will be president. Then I can sell my pictures of him online to future generations.

I’ve provided a few, shakey, blurry, ‘Cloverfield-esque’ videos. Hope you enjoy.

part II

The two of us meander through the aisles, I continue to grab whatever looks remotely interesting. We pass through the language section and Giselle comments on some Spanish books, and knitting. She adores yarns, patterns, and strings. I never knew she had such a desire to knit. Empty handed, we eventually exit the store and check movie times for Johnny Depp’s Sweeny Todd. It doesn’t start for an hour, so we leave the theater.
Back in the main concourse of the hum drum mall, we stroll about a Sharper Image. Giselle is enthralled by all the gizmos and gadgets, particularly all the i-related machines and doo-dads. I-this, I-That. Ipod, Ispeaker, I-television, I-chair, I-world. She pokes about a stereo-esque looking device and suddenly, it plays an orchestrated melody. “Cause it’s just a bittersweet symphony, this life.” The singing voice laments and wails amongst the sad violins and drums. “It’s by the Verve.” I say. The clerks at the desk don’t seem too pleased with us clicking and playing with all this overpriced junk. Giselle and I just laugh and keep moving along.

The prima and primo come trodding back with some shopping bags and ice cream. The little one is licking happily away, slurping up every tasty little gulp. The prima shows off her purchases to Giselle. A shirt that says “I love you” in some clever lettering. We stop by one of those novelty photo-booths and they fumble around in it while the little one goes to ask for change. Giselle and I take some blurry photographs with her digital camera. I look atrocious but she looks pretty in all of them, despite the glare and blurs. The kids’ parents call and so we just head back to the parking garage. We pass the brand new Cadillac parked in the mall’s entrance, and I joke. “It’ll be 2025 before I own a 2008 Cadillac.” To our dismay, Giselle forgot to turn her car lights off. The little one, Adrian, makes some odd statement about global warming and Giselle woefully claims “We’re not gonna have any power.” I brush it off, surely the car wouldn’t die that easily. But it does. Giselle cranks the ignition, it chirps a woeful grunt of gears and death. It won’t start. Perth Amboy coldness wraps around the tiny vehicle. Giselle sighs and I stare into Perth Amboy distance and darkness beyond the rearview mirror.

We bunker down and sulk in the car. The kids shoot suggestions and a discussion of jumpstarting, jumper cables, people to ask for help, and global warming occurs. The prima darts out every now and then to ask random passers-by if they have cables. None do, and Giselle calls her back or reprimands her for asking so rudely. “You need to say ‘By any chance.’ first!” as though there was some unwritten etiquette on asking for jumper cables in this awful place. My Giselle, ever the proper lady but Giselle laments, the cousins are restless, and all I can think about is relieving myself. The cold parking lot blues of the world, a security truck rolls by several times. It’s orange lights flash and spin in their glass casing as it patrols the endless nothing of this garage. The primos yell and desire we ask it but Giselle groans and says no. My lost desolate angel, lost in desolation in the Kerouacian desert of urban nowhere America with lost familia, and me. Punk Irish good for nothing nobody kid who loves her so. Giselle makes calls to family and friends, seeking for one of them to rescue us from this sordid situation. I give up and just go inside to urinate. I say I’ll ask somebody for help but I’m more intent on just finding a bathroom. The mall is still as bright and boring as ever. I walk in a hurried pace along the long corridor of stores till I spot a bathroom and go through another long path of corridors till I reach a dimly lit Men’s Room. Afterwards I have a less rushed walk back and notice the great nothingness of the mall. Pretty little airhead teens talk and blabber and a boy is sitting on a couch with a girl and I think suddenly of Giselle. Why can’t Giselle and I be there, smiling and just enjoying the simple nothingness of mere talk and laughter? I press on, past the damned Cadillac and out into the rush of the Northern cold again. The prima is outside the vehicle, eyes alert for something to rescue us. “Having fun?” I ask. “No.” she replies with little effort. Giselle still sits unhappily in the driver’s seat. I try to make small talk, but nothing really works. The kids are thrashing about in the back and Giselle is laughing at them, occasionally texting away on her phone, or calling somebody named “Piggy” to come fix the car.

Eventually, Piggy and his crew roll up to our downed vehicle and Giselle gleefully leaves the car to greet them. The kids and I act as observers to the whole situation, as though we’re all kindergartners watching a bunch of zoo monkeys. Adrian quips, stating we’re all probably going to die because one of the screws or wires is cold or not properly aligned as Piggy flips up the front hood with his adjacent big eyed pal. Something or another, Adrian mutters his childish reasoning for our doom. And for some reason, I agree with his oddball kid logic. The sweet innocence of a kid, the world may be burning all around but they somehow see the cute light in all the darkness of us dreadful adolescents and teenage deadbeats. I love them too, pobre ninos.

Piggy, or “Mike”, irks me though, he’s New Jersey bred and instilled with that sad gritty Hispanic mentality. A tough beat-em-up soul, kind of stocky, who in a past life lived amongst the thieves of old Madrid or Mexican alleyways smoking old cigars. Now here he is, working on this poor car with me and two little angel ninos with me. The other one has a wily look in his eye, reminds me of Dan Ulerio (Bless his old soul) but far more crazed and out for something. Who knows. Piggy clanks and grips the cables and Giselle giggles with them. In their car, more of Piggy’s ilk look on. One sticks out his tongue to Giselle, probably implying something sexual and with her back to me, Giselle probably returns the same little display of the tongue to him. And sex is on my mind too but don’t tell the little angel ninos.

Piggy opens the door to turn on the ignition, and I’m sure they are all still kind of in a little bit of disbelief to see me. A dim scrawny white kid hanging around with one of the most beautiful girls they or me could be in the presence of. Nonetheless, Giselle hops back in, she unwraps a stick of gum from it’s shiny tinfoil packaging. She must have got it from them and chomps away on it. I kind of envy it as my breath is dry and pungent as all I have is my saliva. Pleased though, she presses her foot down and turns for the exit out of this asphalt hell. Yet the driving nightmare ensues again, and I cling for dear life, as best as possible without looking too panicked. The ninos again give directions but poor Giselle doesn’t make a turn in time. We aggravate the rushed traffic coursing about the two lanes, enough to the point where one car honks it’s miserable fury at us. Giselle pulls into a gas station and attempts to collect her wits and breath. “I’m so embarrassed.” She says, her nerves rattled and the whipping stream of unhappy cars behind us. “Don’t be.” I say, in the best voice I can, trying to act convincing. Dios, I want to save her from all this. Get away from all this dead ended four wheeled madness and love her, take her back to the islands where she came. Her big eyes aware of the sadness and shame for pissing off some damned Jersey scumbag en route to nowhere. Why be embarrassed my love? Whoever honked and accelerated his car is nothing. And we, all four of us kids, are nothing too. And all of creation is just nothing roaring and yelling and driving across Nowhere America where all the Piggies speed by, and all the Giselles turn a sad eye to the Moon. Luna Moon, don’t weep for the holy nothingness because it is all just nothing. Still, all the fools such as me wish for love in the passenger seats of the world. Love in a driver’s seat with a pulsing heart, my angel Dominicana. I’d kiss her here if I wasn’t so embarrassed.

I’ve been lost in my melancholy thoughts again, we’re done racing the highways and into a little residential neighborhood. Parked. The bittersweet and cluttered homes.

A recollection of events, part I

The easy afternoon sun was beginning it’s descent down onto the horizon. Clouds drifted lazily by in my old suburban world, the drab cape cod homes dot my neighborhood and dreary trees wish for the warmer summer months to breath new life into them. I mutter about on my faulty phone, talking to dear sweet Giselle who I have not seen in over two years. Her voice makes me smile, and being the overtly bitter person I am one must give credit to her for making me force a grin. I’m heading to Perth Amboy, where she’s staying over the holidays with her aunt and uncle, and numerous little cousins. In my crazed head, I’ve devised a quaint little date with her which I’ve recreated in my dreams countless times. Be it in a movie theatre or on a park bench, we’re always smiling and happy, fingers interlaced and everything is right in the world, at least in my made up fantasy. She is so beautiful.

I race to the train station and board my old claptrap train and it rumbles onto Rahway Station. Rahway is a sad little stop in the middle of nowhere New Jersey, doomed to small town obscurity and outright dullness. I’d have more reason to despise this place later. For now, I race through the tunnel and up the stairs to the adjacent boarding platforms and the sun is nearly gone. Cold blackness drapes the Northeastern night. The train barrels down from the north of New York and I step inside, and the artificial warmth is a relief to my bony body. The train is nearly empty though, eerily quiet but I know I’m en route to Perth Amboy. In almost no time, I arrive at the station which is a dark and dimly lit place that stands in the shadows of the foreboding downtown district. Dingy neon bulbs light up old storefronts and a big red brick building looms over me in the not too far distance. Giselle calls and I tell her I’m in this hellish place. An unhappy clock looks back at me on it’s streetlight pedestal. This place doesn’t like me. I fumble around with the ticket machines, trying to buy a ticket home for later. An attractive black woman of fair skin gets out of a taxi nearby. As I struggle to cram dollar bills into the ticketing machine, she walks over and asks if the next train to Newark came. I assume it did, which doesn’t help her situation. I carefully insert what quarters I have into the machine, freezing my ungloved fingers in the process from the brisk cold. An odd man offers to give her a ride but she trots off with some excuse that I didn’t hear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Giselle in her car, barely a few feet away. I pretend to not see her.

Here she comes, wide eyed and bubbly. Everything you could ever want in a girl.
She stands patiently before me while I continue to fumble with my change and ticket, a little kid she is, waiting for a hug. “I can’t believe it’s been two years” she quips, freezing too in this blasted artic air. I give her a half hearted hug as one of my hands is clenching my wallet and ticket, and she scurries back into her vehicle. To my surprise, she’s brought her little cousins. I don’t make much contact with them at first but they seem friendly. Giselle is already fiddling away as the gears of the car shift. The last I ever saw of Giselle, she wasn’t driving but now she spins the wheel and I just let the whirling vehicles dash by my window as nowhere America burns on in the dark choked night. She handles the small little mini-van SUV hybrid as though it was some wild beast lost out on the great plains of America. It revs and twists, the kids in the backseat contort and administer a bevy of directions to Giselle. We’re reversing, lurching, turning, careening, and darting in and out of traffic. It’s a long wild ride to the mall as Giselle has decided that would be the most ideal place for our little reunion. She’s brought the cousins so that they can entertain themselves while she and I can spend time on our own.

After about fifteen minutes of trying to find a way into the mall’s parking lot, Giselle gives up on her cousin’s directions to get to the upper floor and just abruptly parks. We exit the little vehicle and proceed into mall. I give them my phone so they can call when we leave and off the cousins go while Giselle and I stroll over to Barnes and Noble. We casually glance through books, but me, I’m striding about like some Manhattan aristocrat from the 1800’s. I’m also eyeing Giselle in all her beauty of course. This is the first time I’ve really got to see her in complete light and all the lovely qualities she had back at my old high school still resonate now. Her little red jacket, her colorful shirt, her big eyes, almost sad they are. All the ancient history those little eyes hold, millennia’s worth of Dominican souls, old antiguo peoples sifting through the waves of the Caribbean. Sun beating down on their backs and great warmth from the particles of sand beneath their feet. Her ancestors shine through in her eyes and smile, perfect. She is the beautiful girl that somehow got dragged to the great east coast and now stares back at me, big nosed and droopy eyed I am. Her black hair dances gently on her shoulders. Every miniscule imperfection on her, the earthly wear and tear of the human frame only makes her more attractive, more human, and alive. She is tiny and thin but not scrawny, she is what the moon and stars cast their lovely gaze on in dark sad night. Giselle is Hermosa. The ancient incarnate of some lost beauty who smiles at me, the foolish jester in the big florescent light lit bookstore with dark black peacoat. My mind commands me to throw my arms around her, if only for a moment. Just to see if she’d laugh or return the favor with a kiss or a mere smile. Yet I restrain myself and just keep on with our little book finding dance. I playfully talk with her, and she playfully slaps me on the chest whenever she disagrees with me, emitting a giggle now and then. Whatever book catches my eye, I snatch and thumb through quickly and Giselle hovers around me saying her thoughts, and I just stare back at her. Nodding and putting forth my thoughts as well but continuing to admire her and she laughs. Holy laughter of the world.

We circle the store twice, picking and prodding through every book. We managed to find our way to the history section and what of course catches Giselle’s eye but Hitler’s end all manifesto, Mein Kampf. Giselle seems to be captivated by it, if only because she likes the German translation of the phrase “My Struggle” yet she makes note of it.

Square

Square

There’s a little park in New York City.
Named after some famous general
with name etched in history.
A giant arch stands over the main entrance,
inscribed on it are this great general’s words.
Too bad stone can’t speak as the phrase is
never often heard.
In the center lays the central fountain,
Off center and built millennia ago.
Beneath it, souls of the past rest below.
Above the ground walk the students,
tourists, and city dwellers.
Unknown is the graveyard cellar.
For the old trees and rickety benches
provide a grand oasis in the midst of the
city rush.
Yet there is no quiet hush.
This place is home to
performers, singers, dancers.
Vagrants and artists looking for answers.
The spray of the water,
the old statue of an
Italian revolutionary.
All call it home, this wayward sanctuary.
Old Square abode where one day
I rested my feet and head.
Saw children splashing in the fountain’s bed.
A young women in red dress sat down next to me,
She apologized for smoking her cigarette so close.
“It’s okay.” I said observing my little fountain sea.
Both content as the whirls of her skyward smoke rose.
She flicked off the remains of ash and tobacco debris,
and leapt back into the city heat as I just watch and repose.
I must have appeared to her as some vagabond foreigner.
Sharing our quiet moment hearing music from every corner.
Observing the urban decay and urban celebration.
Seeing politicians giving their speeches and orations.
Saw homeless and excessive,
the degenerate boy and the suit and tie man with
a smile that appeared expensive.
The nearby NYU intellectual thumbs through books,
where Bob Dylan once strummed his guitar
and got some weird looks.
Every walk of life has treaded through this
little park, nestled within the
canyons of skyscraper city.
Some asphalt, grass and dirt are we to pity.
Washington Square will crumble,
Gutted and overturned, gone are the humble days.
Redesign of everything ancient,
the desecration of old New York cement.
Everything in the past never remains.
It’s just memories
scattered about in our brains.
My old square now lay in dystrophy,
because of corporate catastrophes.
They are going to rewrite me
and everything in history.

Two Churches

There are two churches in Princeton,
both of which are built of old gothic stone.
They lack the sheer grandeur and height of the
university’s main cathedral.
Yet, they are quite quaint and regal
on their own.
However, under the cloudy and
snow puffed clouds that loom
over the old Ivy,
these old churches seem to lament.
They aren’t very old, their stone
is still quite white and together.
Few chips or cracks are in the ancient stone.
Forged by masons years ago
when carriages and billionaire industrialists
walked these streets with ease.
The brickwork lacks the charm of
hundreds of years of rainy storms
and the wear and tear of age.
The weathering of the man made world.
Only the oldest cathedrals
in Europe can boast that kind of
treatment from the elements.
So they are young churches, with their stained glass
and big circular Rosetta window overlooking
sad cold wintery Princeton.
For what does the old Ivy care,
it looks like an old medieval castle
with great fortified walls and towers.
The Huns themselves would find
this an intimidating stronghold to invade.
If only to realize it’s merely a school.
And so the two little Churches just sit idle.
Tourists gawk and take pictures.
The churches sit idle on Nassau Street.
They could be anywhere in America
or lost in a Tuscan hillside village.
Or a French valley where the grapes smile
in the old country sun, warming their purple
and red bellies, all nestled and bunched together
so they may grow up to be a fine Merlot or Chardonnay.
And they would just while the days away.
Like my two churches.
If only churches could talk and give their
opinion on the world.
The daily happenings inside of them.
Their opulent and decorative apses,
the long narrow nave from which all
who enter these two pass on through.
What would these old stony, stoic,
and tragic structures say?
They remain silent forever
and overlook their streets,
tend to their backyard graveyards,
and sleep alongside their fellow
colonial huts, office buildings,
and trendy big name restaurants
that dot the sides of the street.
And not many passing cars
will grant them a mere wink.
No, the churches will just keep
on looking to the heavens,
with silent bell towers,
awaiting eternity’s end to arrive.

Onset of Winter

The brisk winter chill of old Northeastern winds roll in and the waves are crashing down, not too far from quaint little summer Doo-Wop motor inns that line the tips of the Jersey shore. There’s frosty air being exhaled from New Yorkers out onto cold 42nd Street and Central Park too. And in center city Philadelphia, the old jazzy sounds and souls feel the grip of winter. Up in Chicago the great lakes are pulsing, their nigh-artic breezes are heading down old North Michigan Avenue, the Magnificent Mile. Even in dusty sun baked and cigar smoked Cubano Miami, they too notice just a slight intricate drop in their temperatures. Enough to make even the most antiguo (ancient) of them to take notice. The snowy season, the shopping season is upon us. Mothers (and their reluctant husbands too) are out now buying ipillows and ifood and itoys and ishoes, and all the other doodads for their bratty little tykes and unforgiving relatives. I wonder if the big old imaginary pagan deity dressed in jolly red, with big jelly belly would have any say in this, if he could, he’d probably be appalled. But then again, I’m not Papa Noel and can’t vouch for what something that was once so sweet and humble (now corporate and cold) would say about the holiday that plasters his image everywhere. Mostly in the vain attempt to get pee-brained mommas and papas to buy whatever because some hot shot big box department store advertising committee slapped a sticker or a Santa-like phrase on a bag of Doritos or a Coca Cola bottle, and surely it wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t buy said things.
Ho Ho Ho.

No, I just enjoy watching the hustle and bustle of all the maddened peoples of this world scurry about, searching for this and that. A high tech etch-a-sketch, a robotic dog, a new video game console, an overpriced purse, some wacky looking shoes, Bill O’Reilly’s Christmas Edition of “The No Spin Zone.” It is all just mere commercialism and vanity. More so, a silly attempt to appease our loved one’s for another year with some expensive garbage that ends up in the basement, the attic, or if you’re not too lazy, returned to whatever forsaken Wal-Mart the gift in question came from. Yet who needs gifts, and presents, and the political correct nonsense to call it “the holidays” rather than “Christmas.” When did it become a cultural norm to believe in all this capitalistic junk, melded with pagan and Christian beliefs anyway? The holidays are fake aren’t they? If it wasn’t for the outrageous light and decoration spectacles which are always a blast because they are just so zany and bizarre to begin with, (50 foot pine tree with glittering bulbs anyone?) I would have decried the holiday season as the onset of the apocalypse when I was five.

But I was five, and the holidays meant so much more. Perhaps it was because I thought in my own greedy little childish ways, accumulating mountains worth of presents. And if not that than perhaps the old smoky fireplace atmosphere and warm old Christmas tree with zipping little ornaments and whatnots spiraling around in all their trippy colors. The little tyke mind is a simple thing you know, from what I recall. However, by the time you’re twelve years of age, your mind is cluttered with the beer infused ‘sex sells’ mentality of the world, and the more you have of whatever is popular and usually expensive, a better advantage for you. An advantage in what though? Nothing really, it’s just some façade in the great persuasion of nothingness. The more you have, the better? Well, you can believe that if you want.

The holidays can be a generally dull time if you ask me, and you’ll probably see me puffing away on some dinky little cigarette and poking fun at the festive and silly shoppers wandering about Times Square or the local mall, seeing them get all hung up on what to purchase or buying environmentally sound light bulbs in support of Al Gore’s eco-plight. Let everyone else get fetched up again in the seasonal marathon of consuming and purchasing and returning because little Suzie’s Gucci purse wasn’t the specific one she asked for.

However, I suppose, around here, all the manic shopping has somewhat decreased over the years, and mommies aren’t willing to shed blood for that coveted Tickle Me Elmo or beanie baby or Furby as seen during the horrid moments of toy hunting in the 1990’s. There’s no real “it” item out right now, and former “it” items like the iphone and Playstation 3 have failed to live up to their high expectations. Instead, you’ll hear the incessant pounding of Soulja Boy’s “YOU!” blaring around at top volume in car speakers, kids jamming their fingers onto keypads to generate some hum drum text message, and Beyonce Knowles trying to persuade you to buy HDTV during a commercial between a Patriots and Eagles game. Now it would seem like everybody is in so much debt these days that even Beyonce has been reduced to touting high definition television. Ha, stupid money starved world.

Yet, what about the family? Isn’t that what the holidays are about? Well, let’s take a look at my family during the holidays. On my mother’s side, we got a bunch of uptight dingbat medicated nutjobs who have their filet mignon and wine, and then casually watch home videos of yore. It’s really just a complete bore, and most of them complain more than I do, setting off endless tirades rooted in some mucked up racist ideal or deep rooted hatred for some old friend or distant cousin who never gave them the time of day. (I believe I’m becoming the latter) Now on my father’s side, there’s a more relaxed setting as these folks don’t really care as much. Nascar is usually thundering on the TV in the living room, the hum and roar of the cars whipping round the track or a football game is on, and there’s whooping and hollering and drunk laughter. And old uncle Tommy is discussing some old religious doctrine or something the evil Nazis did way back when in the corner with aunt whoever. Too many to name. The little ones are mulling about, and the teens like me are happy but wishing they might be elsewhere with their own friends. And all my aunts are laughing and making jokes and there’s food and cheap presents that probably came from a dollar store or were half priced. Then there’s the traditional gift exchange game which degenerates into drunken banter and usually somebody falling down in bewildered intoxication because they got a lame calendar instead of a big bottle of brandy or rum. Red, blushed, and tired faces. Beer spilled, red cups, and it’s not such a bad place. And it’s all so kitsch and quaint and somehow American. Cursed by suburbia but still working and praying to the unholy ways of the world. Make a dollar Irish, Polish, Italian, German, French, Spanish, Russian, Puerto Rican, Every Nation sad family that dot nowhere America, coast to wind swept coast.

So am I just some old Scrooge that condemns all that is whimsy and bright and cringes if Carol of the Bells rides the internet airwaves of Youtube or a Christmas tree is decked out on some facebook profiles? Of course not, because somewhere, past all the bells and whistles and the artificial knickknacks, there’s still some genuine element of the holidays that permeates and transcends the money grubbing, the coffee drinking, the soccer mom arguments, the day to day commute, the pseudo intellectual hipster nonsense, the dead ended drabness of burned out Americana, and all the other deadbeat souls caught up in this garbled mess. Cause that’s what the holidays are for right? A respite from all that. You just have to find it underneath all the issues, the gift wrap, and tacky cards from relatives you’ve never heard of. Big eyed, big dream 34th Street miracles are still possible too, but I suppose you just have to believe if you want them to come true. Believe in what, well, that is another question best left for you to answer…

And somewhere in the ancient north, the old Turkish spirit of St. Nick sleeps under the snowcapped roof of the world.

The New School

Nobody really reads this anymore, so I’m just going to make it my own personal journal from now on.

Two Sundays ago my father and I boarded a claptrap NJ transit train at 6:30 am to New York. We sat mostly quiet, and watched the sun peek in through the tinted glass windows as the train sprinted through the barrens and urban centers of the state till we finally arrived to sad old New York. “I gotta use the bathroom.” he says. So do I, and so we head to Penn Station’s main lavatory, however, we notice its stalls are the temporary resting places of some bums, snoozing away on the toilets. Darn them, we can’t disturb them, they locked themselves in the stalls. But those odd bums are clever, you got to be if you want to live here. We exit unhappily and try to find another bathroom elsewhere. The corridors and main concourse of the station are also quite odd and quiet now, I overhear two teens who had been clubbing all night, and they sit and wait for their train back to nowhere America.

Ah, the city is still sleeping. Wake up New York, this wayward native son of Jersey has come to pester you from your slumber. I leapt up off the stairs from the belly of Penn Station with Pa not too far behind and away we go. Even the taxis are still kind of slow at this hour, especially for the hustle and bustle midtown. We take the scenic route to Greenwich Village, which is 5th avenue to me. I love to point out all the architecture to my dad. “Look at the gothic design, and ah, the columns and that neoclassical frieze!” He grows bored of it, so much for the BA in art dad. Garbage litters the streets, and lots of it. More than what I see but I suppose this is usual after a Saturday night, what with the grubby tourists prowling about, tossing their junk and coffee cups everywhere. Sad old New York. Come greet the sun, I say to myself as we walk past Madison Square Park. As we approach the New School, I see two teenage girls, probably high school seniors with their balding father. They’re confused and are staring at the main doorway to Parsons, the New School for Design. I let out a small chuckle and make a right to Lang. This way girls, to debt.

I forgot to mention why we are going to the village today. As you may know, I am considering transferring colleges, and well, Eugene Lang College, the undergraduate division of the New School, has caught my interest. They are having an open house today and I figured, why not go and visit. It is free, unlike their costly tuition that would make Trump himself cringe just a bit.

We have a bit of time though before the open house begins, Pa grabs some coffee at a dinky McDonald’s and we stroll Washington Square. New York is waking up finally, the dog walkers and the usual crazies are patrolling their streets and usual haunts. But, I guess it’s time we go to the New School and sit through their trite spiel till we get to some substantial information, if we’re lucky. We step inside, the building itself contrasts with the rows of trademark federalist style row homes that make up most Greenwich Village streets. It is tall, black, a modernist piece by Joseph Urban but I won’t bore you with architecture.

Pa grabs more coffee, and urges me to get some too in their dining hall which is small but quaint. Bad idea, it’s only going to make me want to urinate in about 10 minutes but I gulp down the sweet black stuff anyway. Everyone was then huddled into the auditorium to watch the orientation video. Great, already saw it on the website. Still, I did like the auditorium, a testament to the art movement of the times, a modernist gem.

After pleasantries, they split us up. Parents stay here, kids go off upstairs to Wollman hall and listen to some students and professor babble. Okay, fine, whatever you say New School. Wollman Hall however, I enjoyed. It felt like being wrapped in a big blanket of warmth there, and on both sides, big large windows draped with a fine thin curtain, just thin enough to see the diverse peaks of the buildings outside. And the sweet clear baby blue sky behind it. Ah, I’d love to live in a room like this. It reminds me of an artist’s loft but before I can let my mind wander, my bladder begins to bulge and contort. All urine-based hell is breaking loose and I don’t want to be rude and interrupt this presentation about ‘dorm life’ and ‘curriculums.’ Ah damn New York. I spend more time waiting to use a bathroom here than I do listening, learning, or doing something of moderate importance. Last time I drink coffee there.

So more lectures on financial aid. A woman with short cut black hair in a white blouse addresses the topic. She is the director of financial aid and I know she’s heartless and in it for the money. I keep myself from shooting the big gun question I had, “The Princeton Review ranks the New School on poor financial aid, long lines, and red tape. Any comment on this?” But why Blayze are you making enemies so early? Always making enemies, enemies based on greed. Foolish, don’t you know that god is the dollar or are you just too backwards to see that? Enough internal philosophical blabbing. A cute girl is sitting next to me, and she’s shooting a few questions about what high school credits might transfer and this and that. Hm, she seems to mumble slightly whenever one of her questions is answered with a response that doesn’t seem to please her. Poor little kid. Find hope.

Pa and me grab one of the pre-prepared lunches the school has made and eat on the cold steps of the courtyard. Kids and parents are moving about, snacking down their sandwiches and chips and sodas. I’m cold and I’m not hungry, well, no. I’m just not in the mood to eat, I cram the remains of a tuna sandwich back into its bag and secretly curse myself for tossing away food while children starve in the barrens of Africa. I do take the included apple though and munch on that, like the bizarre 19 year old Newton I am. Gravity must cost money at this school too. Pa scorns the school for its poor aid while munching away on his sandwich. Still, we are impressed. It is progressive. It is scholarly. Yet, it still feels like an overpriced place for rich daddies to send their daughters to art school. My father is not rich, nor am I an artsy girl. What am I doing here? We still got a bit of time before the concluding information session and my preview seminar begin. Pa and I head to Washington Square again, we watch the tourists and joke about the debt I’ll be in for the next hundred years if I attend. 50 grand, I’d be better off as dust in the sand. That’s all we are anyway. Sumus quod sumus. (we are what we are)

Part 2, and off we go again. Pa heads to Wollman hall to listen to some more pseudo-intellectual babble and I go the mini-seminar. Into a crowded elevator and then to room 410. A nutty bespecled professor with cup of coffee in hand gets in my way as I enter the room. He goes in to talk with the two ladies inside the room. They both giggle and laugh, I pay little heed to them for the moment and take my place at the table. The room is small, a miniscule blackboard, a coat rack, and some old dirty windows looking down onto the courtyard. Two kids are already seated, a black and Chinese girl. They are talking and they are friends and I later learn they are attending some prestigious high school in Queens. They are far more ‘New York’ in everyway that I am not. The black girl is clad in purple, including a purple Yankee baseball cap. The Chinese girl is clad in a black hoodie. They don’t acknowledge me as I pretend to shuffle and busy myself with my New School folder (given to us earlier) while everyone talks. Speak up lonely child, for that is me at the table of talk.

The two ladies sit down and begin pleasantries. Ah, yes. They remind me of two kooky aunts but they are far smarter than any aunt I’ve ever had. The one is named Margo Jefferson, and she is odd but quirky, and so her is best friend, who sadly, her name I forget but for now, we’ll call her Linda. They play so well off each other and are happy to meet us. Writing professors, okay, least I got people who enjoy something I like to do even though my writing is lacking at times. More students file in. We all say hello, a pretty little girl who says she’s from Brazil and attends the ‘School of the Future’ in Brooklyn (academia is so much more unique in New York) winks and says ‘cool name.’ upon hearing ‘Blayze.’

Blayze, how does one ever really live up to such a name? Only the heavens know.

We talk about the school and how classes work, and then we dissect a poem. The poem is called Blacksmith Shop by Czeslaw Milosz. And here it is.

“I liked the bellows operated by rope.
A hand or foot pedal – I don’t remember which.
But that blowing, and the blazing of the fire! And a piece of iron in the fire, held there by tongs, Red, softened for the anvil,
Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe,
Thrown into a bucket of water, sizzle, steam.

“And horses hitched to be shod,
Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river
Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair

“At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor,
Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds.
I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this:
To glorify things just because they are.”

It is a beautiful poem but nothing really came to my hallow mind after reading it. I liked the visual imagery but Margo and Linda started peppering us with questions to get things going. The cute Brazilian girl was the first to make opening remarks and she was right on the money for the whole game. We continued to analyze and I put my two cents in, saying stupidly that the main character in the poem is facing away from the blacksmith shop and out into the skies, and making some hum drum argument about how we glorify the mediocre things in life. Poor thought and reasoning. But that little Brazilian kid got me beat, she made me realize what it was about. Glorifying the simple, the rich little details. Isn’t that truly the stuff of life? The things I love to do, to pick out any intricate and small detail but stupidly I misread it in all my fussy-natured nonsense. Ah well, at least we had fun, I think I learned something. No, I did. In all my pseudo-intellectual babble, I actually grasped the meaning of this poem without getting too hung out on some fabricated ideal that only my bizarre brain could formulate from such a simple and beautiful poem. Keep it simple for humans are simple. Complexity killed the ape and built the man, civilization came and it was humanity’s best scam.

Too bad I forgot what alchemy was when Margo asked what it was. I’m usually the first to raise my hand on those kinds of abstract trivial knowledge questions. The process of making gold, and here I am, in all my Doc Faustus logic thinking it was making magic and potions. I need to lay off the Harry Potter and get back to history, my forte.

So we all thanked each other for the time and departed. I took the next elevator down, the two girls I mentioned before rode with me but they kept to themselves as they did before. I found Pa again and we left the school, cheers New School. Perhaps I will apply and you can suck my wallet dry. No, how can I say that and be so cruel? The school was nice and they are scholarly and perhaps the most progressive college in the country. I just don’t know though.

So me and pops hurried to midtown again, by now the streets were packed with people of all walks of life. Taxis were barreling down streets and the crisp chill of late October nipped at us. I love New York in the fall. It gives me a reason to bundle up and to enjoy the brisk cold air in my lungs and not the dead heat of the brick baked summer city sweat. We hopped the next train from Penn Station and dozed off on the way home to sad old New Jersey. I flipped through some papers detailing the curriculum of the school. Art of the Subway, “well doesn’t that sound like a unique class.” I say to myself as I munch on some pre-packaged cookies. Good thing Pa kept them, I was hungry.

The football games were still on when we got home. Least it gives Pa something to take pride in.

So it begins..

Well, I’ve decided to take action to Mo Rocca the only way I can, via stupid pictures edited with clever and or immature captions, and ruthlessly post them on his blog. Hopefully, in time, he will submit to the overall greatness that is my comic wit and will conduct an actual Mo Rocca 180 interview with me in Central Park. Until then, I will bite at the hand that gives me free stuff and amusing blog videos.

Wish me the best of luck as I attempt to tackle the Kamikaze Gadfly once and for all.

Update: Mo has declined… rats.

Young Frankenstein

I mananged to catch a preview of the new Mel Brooks musical, ‘Young Frankenstein’. All for the mere price of (yikes!) 121 dollars. Orchestra seats but worth it nonetheless. Young Frankenstein is housed in the beautifully redone Hilton Theatre on 42nd street.

Now it would seem difficult to recreate a musical based on the movie of the same name, well, not for Mel Brooks. Almost all of the major jokes from the film somehow sneak into the musical, and very well at that. Anyway, the musical starts off in Translyvania Heights where the local townsfolk are celebrating the death of Dr. Frankenstein. And it pretty much just gets crazy from there.

The musical is perhaps, the best I’ve seen on Broadway to date. Visually, it is comparable to Wicked’s sets and effects. Dr. Frank’s lab is simply one of the most amazing sights on any Broadway stage. Complete with all the gears, clanky steelwork, and sudden electrical sparks bursting from every inch of it. Not to mention the other numerous and detailed sets such as Translyvania, Castle Frankenstein’s interiors, and zeeee hay ride scene. Oh, and a boat with a working smokestack.

Now for the meat and potatoes, the actors. Surely, this is one of the best casts ever assembled. Musically, it’s nothing that special but it is impressive and keeps the show moving. The songs are hilarious. With numbers like ‘The Brain’ and ‘Deep Love’, you know you’re getting quality. Roger Bart is perfect as Frederick Frankenstein. A real trooper, and although he tends to screech alittle too much with his voice, he makes the part his own. Comedic and charming. Schuler Hensley plays the monster, and you wouldn’t know the difference between Peter Boyle’s monster, and this one. Plus, Schuler is pretty darn athletic in his dance scenes, especially with all that heavy makeup.

The supporting parts, Igor.. ahem.. I-Gor is wonderfully played by Chris Fitzgerald. He reminds me a bit of ‘Patsy’ from Spamalot but he’s hilarious in his own right. All the Igor jokes are intact as well, including all the ‘hump’ jokes. If anything, he’s a far more friendly and happier Igor at that. Frou (NEIGGHHH) Bloucher returns as well, played by Andre Martin. You won’t find a perfect pseudo-Eastern European accent than her, especially in her number, “He Vas My Boyfriend” as she recounts her lost lover, Dr. Frankenstein. Inga, played by Broadway favorite, Sutton Foster is adorable and charming. Beautiful voice and stunning to the touch. And her counterpart, Megan Mullaly is the annoyingly funny Elizabeth. “Please Don’t Touch Me” she sings before Frederick ships off to Europe. And let us not forget Inspector Kemp, performed by Fred Applegate. This man is a real treasure, and has some of the most hilarious parts in the show. He doubles as the Blind Hermit who befriends the monster. Again, another part, and another great song.

The main cast is supported by a very large ensemble, many of which perform smaller bit parts such as the ghost of Victor Frankenstein, Dracula, a werewolf who wants some stagetime, Elizabeth’s entourage of butlers and service-people, and the Translyvania Town Idiot. And they sure can dance.
My only gripe, the dance numbers tended to drag a little. Not to say they weren’t just as visually amazing and well coordinated, I just felt some of them were a bit too long. However, for something as grand as putting on the ritz, you mind’s well milk it for all it’s worth.

Here’s to many months, and yes, years for this new musical. A new Broadway staple.

And look, half of the cast signed my playbill. How sweet of them.