Musings

It would have all gone to differently if I decided to ask for help,

but of course I wanted to haul things around the city and travel

through rush hour twice, to and from New jersey on the first

Friday after daylight’s saving time, in the year of our Lord, 2010.

One hour of extra light, a panicked inferno inside.

I wish I were worried about the show, about the hard work and

the viewer. I wish I were in the mental space to indulge in that

sort of thinking but I am not. I am elsewhere. With rum punch

in hand, two buses, one taxi, ferry and a subway ride, New Jersey

merged into Long Island City seamlessly.

March 19th, 4:30p.m frantic phone call to Scotty’s Taxi, 4:34p.m

another frantic phone call to Scotty’s, crossing green light, slipper

falls off. 4:50p.m Port Imperial ferry, 10 dollar tip to taxi man. Running

with slippers, board ferry, climb to the upper deck. I watch the brown

water turn blue once I forget I am on the Hudson.

Taxi to the subway, 50th street is a better option at 5:10p.m. E train

is on time. An Indian lady sits across from me, her eyes are like sand.

I stare at her unabashedly. Gallery space 5:25p.m, mac mini has fell.

Hands shaking, I find velco, tape and make it happen before eyes

descend on the work. Howard helps me lug ice up from Sage, I like

Howard.

Filled buckets, unwrapped platters, beer, ice, the island concoction,

grater, nutmeg, large knife, lime slices. I am elsewhere. People start to

trickle in slow at first then a deluge. What seems like a deluge, luckily

I have checked out. I try to answer questions and be polite. I guess people

are aware of the type of manners that must be exuded in times like these.

I see the work, it looks strong, I wish I felt like it looked. Familiar

faces start to spread before my eyes and I am happy to see everyone.

Genuinely, it is a big deal, but I am not here. I am with that man in

the plane moving south from home. I am praying for him.

I wish people would learn to not lean against artwork. I pry a

lanky fellow off of my text block and he looks at me with a hint of

disgust in his eyes.

Audacious.

The sun is sinking, Michael turns the music on. My i-pod is a

hodgepodge of eclectic noise; a Bob Marley will scrape off against

an Isis. I am hoping for it, at least then I could laugh. The background

is clear to me no noise, I pick up silence between the conversations.

The woodwork opens up and the intimate beings start colliding, there

is no shame present.

Jesse’s locks are tangled up in his red beanie, his carpals and metacarpals

fingering the pages I wrote for my father, it breaks my heart. Janyne and

Lorenzo dangling around the fire escape, Dagus and “our punkin patch

speak”. The countless others that would have been so proud of me, we

are separated by so much more than sea.

And tonight even in this presence-

I am absent.