SonOfWill

Roomies

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:20:00 -0400

Carter, Ben Mirov, Lauren, Sam Rockwell, one of Ben’s friends that I haven’t yet met, and myself moved into our six bedroom appartment this weekend. I’m quite excited, particularly for the nailpolish fountain in the living room. Apparently the building used to be an old spice factory.

Rockwell claimed ‘coolest roomie’, and demanded first pick of the rooms. He got the elevator, which is by far the coolest room. He’s already doing things with the furniture in there that I could never have thought of. (Kind of stinks of moon dust and bacon, though). I hope this doesn’t disrupt my sense of home.

Fan blowing

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 22:23:57 -0400

I am ready to change blankets; ready to change sheets. She still echos yet, and I have not the courage to venture into the hall to see if she is still there. so I will look at her drawings in paper. the pencil drawings of my parted hair.

The band is ready to leave NYC.

Tree Withers White

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 13:33:00 -0400

Or The Maiden Ferreira, Part II

As I was complaining to the picture of my wife (the one from two or three lives ago–it’s a private joke we have, because, you see, back then, we both swore we didn’t believe in the many lives thing.) that the darkness of my youth was turning into anxiety and fear, and then the usual thing happened, which was that as soon as I expressed the idea, it struck me as foolish, trifle, and frankly un-real, as I was doing this, the young Becky Ferriera walked by, perhaps with her third or forth cow of the day in tow.

“And how did you find your future husband?” I asked the lass Ferriera, who had met the parents of her betrothed the day previous.

She replied, “I don’t make to be married any longer. In this age, Blood moistens the dusty expanses of lands far from my eyes and heart. I am too mortal to feel the sorrow when it falls oceans and setting suns from here. Life no longer dies to ask for the joy of new life. It withers not black, but stale, to white.”

“Oh.”

In which we are too young and ignorant of this construction

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 11:25:07 -0400

Or The Maiden Ferreira, Part I

On my way down in the elevator this morning, the young Becky Ferreira got on with one of the great flock of her family’s cattle.

“Where are ya off to this morning, young Becky?” I asked.

“Poppa won’t want to wait for the cattle ramp to be built, so it’s one at a time for now. He makes to run the whole flock up the west side bike path by night, to avoid the suspicions of the authorities."

"I see.” I said, laughing, “well don’t go telling everyone your Poppa’s plans. Not everyone’ll be as understanding as me.”

“And then,” she said, wiping her nose, “when I’m done with the cows, I gotta go wash up, because I’m meeting the father and the mother of the prince I’m to marry.”

Then we hit the first floor, and she went off cow in tow. And I wondered if it was true what they’d been saying–that after the great animal run, it would never happen again.

Dumbledore's Cell Phone

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 20:25:00 -0400

Jeff Goldberg explained to me the significance of 559, though it was in a dream, and now the words and moments of Jeff’s speech are fast and eternally asleep.

–Dumbledore is real, said JK Rowling.

So I dialed 559–but forgot to clear my mind, or was it that I forgot to wait for him to die before I called. Sometime, in a past life, I called and he answered–this time, someone else answered, they had caught the line.

–Who are you calling for? asked the voice.

–Albus, I said.

–Who is calling?

–Son Of Will

That’s how they found me. They then set their cats and their flagellum and their excoriating creatures upon me.

–Some white cotton can sheild you, said R– who brushed the hair from my forehead.

Wrist Bones

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 22:13:17 -0400

Sophia pointed out the fresh red paint on her finger nails. She suggested I lay down blankets of soft, ancient cotton.

“Remember when they would sleep?” she asked.

“Remember how you knew their bones? Their wrist bones?”

I knew the answer, but couldn’t speak.

Turns

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 10:21:04 -0400

All had the dream again last night of the ruined iron-latice, and the billowing sheet of white, racing itself, particle by particle, 60 MPH up broadway.

The church goers from the north intoned, “Our Hams are so greasy. They taste less of the salt and sweet tenderness, more of the lard. Our Hams so are greasy." The Choir leader sang back, "Our Hams are not greasy." Church people shook their heads no.

The elephants held a cacaus in eastern Harlem, deciding resources were growing thin, and though a memorial stampead was appropriate and deserving, resources were thin, and it would be held off till the end of the month, where inevitably a summary memorial would be held.

The race of our leaders distilled back to a quiet question, Can a Liberal Be a Unifier? It felt like we were asking the right questions again. Back to basics. That, least of all, meant things were on the up.

Coffee not half bad today.

"I am a bearded one."

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 21:26:24 -0400

“I am a bearded one.”

- Margarett Jacobson

Arabs

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 21:17:38 -0400

Carter confessed he sleeps with Arab assasins. Ben Mirov, when hearing the confession, nodded sheepishly, conspicuously.

We spent the remander of our Sunday running over the slum building tops of Bed-Stuy, and Clinton Hill, shouting start-stops of converstation over the wind. Everytime a street came , we would launch, sometimes nearly making it to the building across, othertimes falling to our deaths. When those times came, we lamented the buildings got built circa horse drawn cabs and cars. Venice had the right idea we thought.

Coffee top notch today.

Bernanke

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:31:35 -0400

The dust collecting in this mornings sunlight smelled like a fininished-putrescent elephant hide.

On the way to subway with a cup of coffee that was resplendant in its flavor profile, thank you very much, (notes of apple and green grape, and coffee), I spotted Bernanke sitting in his lotus with the parking brake on. “Here,” he wispered, “take it." He handed me a paper birthday hat.

"Should I wear it?” I asked Jeff.

“I would if I were you,” he countered.

I put it on.

Collective

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 15:08:33 -0400

Minju told me Brendon Calhoun–whom no one knows, not even Minju–sends his regards. He was the one who prematurely burried his left arm, so he could, “warm up to the idea.”

break.

We have two computers.

We have cute pictures of our kids.

We have morning breath.

break.

Mini-kitties are stealing the sage from my jars and replacing it with vanilla. I have suspects.

Coffee grew on me.

on being

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 23:07:00 -0400

Ontological got me like a motherfuck today.

I was sitting in the corporate park, of a corporation I did not work for, drinking some lemonaide. Lemon. Sugar. Water.

My neighbor, the Old Polish Lady, worked there. I was explaining the nature of HTML, trying to explain the nature–but all she wanted was phenomonologicals. She wanted the crumbly facts, the salt-grain pieces. What did the

do? How to make it bold? What was a meta-tag for?

Then, Ontological the word jumped up and said, “BOO.” She really scared me too, sent the lemonaide right up my nose to do the inside nose burn. Sugar in the membrane.

The problem is I don’t get what Ontological means. Ontological knows it. Knows I use it in a sentence to get a free hot-dog.

Worst was, when I was all down, sopping the nose blood, Ontological moved in close and wispered, “you’re edge is in your genes boy. The writing is in you. Your briar is defiance. The arms that grab you in the night are you. You fight you.”

blues

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 15:42:04 -0400

Hoodie: What's your value?
Skinny Jeans: Style.
Hoodie: Yeah, but how?
Skinny Jeans: We are springy, sleek. We don't get in the way.
Hoodie: Couldn't you say that about tailored pants?
Skinny Jeans: Yeah, but, also. We don't freaking care. We don't care, we'll be so skinny you can see the bulge, and the unflattering ass-jowl-hang.
Hoodie: I can't compete with that.

Blue dots

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 15:30:16 -0400

Amy Braunschweiger and I were lunching at Cafe Pakiderm, where our glasses featured water that was unfortunately luke warm. We asked the waiter for ice, which he promptly brought.

“There are blue dots in the cubes,” said Amy. And she was right. There were blue specs in the ice cubes. When we looked around the cafe, all other cubes had blue specs.

The water and cubes tasted fine though.

For the rest of the day, I saw blue in ice. On the frozen streets, in the Cocacola glasses on the Times Square billboards, in the sip-cups the mothers where handing to their infants, in my frozen breath moments after an exhalation.

Amy thinks it’s bad, more doom to come. I suspect she’s right; or, absolutely nothing will happen.

"I am the assassin of six days."

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 15:05:57 -0400

“I am the assassin of six days.”

- Lorenzo Dio

The Kinks

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 15:03:00 -0400

At tex-mex brunch this weekend The Kinks, sipping unlimited mimosas, said, “times have changed. No longer do we have the hours to lay with our women in love.”

“This time tomorrow, I don’t, in fact, know where I’ll be,” I said, and sighed the sigh.

“Good comeback,” quipped Jeff Goldberg.

“How do you feel by what they say,” I retorted. “Will you leave the sun behind you? Or shall it stay?”

“I need to call Erica, and ask her if it’s okay if I answer,” he snapped back.

When he got off the phone, he announced to the table, “I can answer, so long as I call her Helen, and not Erica.”

We were running low on chips, though the salsa was holding up.

Donald Bartheleme and George Saunders replied, “Yes, Helen is a good alternative.”

“Then yes,” he conceded, “though the hours have been coaxed to minutes, with pockets of years, Helen and I lay. We have sailed, though not across, that endless sea.”

“You sail it?” I implored.

“We sail it.”

George Suanders teared up.

Snowburgs

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 23:37:12 -0500

Zach Galifianakis hooked a snow machine up to the Williamsburg bridge, saying “I am Zach Galifianakis”. The snow machine sprayed the white ice over the east river.

To get home Saad and I rented ice ships from Murry Glass at Murry Glass and Son’s Ice Vessels. Scout sat in the crows nest, weezing, keeping lookout for snowburgs. She found no snowburgs She managed to pounce on my feet.

Spring lurks.

Coffee was quite mild.

We are on to Lucinda.

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 10:15:00 -0500

We are on to Lucinda.

Father figure

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 10:15:00 -0500

In a walk down sixth avenue, Kate asked for little horns. Last night Nate worked her hair into braids–two little horns to tuck behind the ears. I ajudicated try after try, and only after they integrated shards of burnt fingernail (perhaps it was the smell of melting keratin that did it) and dusted the finsihed product with Hookah ash did it look convincing.

We heard Jon Roche practice thundering in the night. Kate suspected the thunder was secretly happy. The bearded stranger in the night agreed. We knew he was from Texas, and would watch over us. He drank scotch and went asleep.

Elliot and Micheal felled the thundering with a shot to the crotch with a large wooden spoon.

While securing the windows at the texan-stranger’s insistance, at half-night, we caught a glimpe of Lucinda’s smile, marching down Bedford Avenue in the Viking.

Taken by Chanchesca.

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 17:52:24 -0500

Taken by Chanchesca.