Bike

Biking up Southard towards Duval,
Cyclists slowly climbing the incline,
All assuming similar rhythms
With the others,
The sky,
The silence of 4 p.m.

I passed two boys on bikes.
"You know how to get to yer house from here?"
"Shuh."
"Yer goin’ the wrong way."

When I stayed in Bahama Village, I’d bike home at night, through the burnt smell of freebase clouds that lingered,
Past the crackcrackcrack dealers
Who chanted at me without end,
Until they figured out I lived there.
Then I became invisible to them as their eyes scanned the street.

When he and I had.. problems, I would ride the island.
I remember passing Smathers Beach so many times,
Wondering what was happening..
Why were we dying, drifting, cooler..silent..
How would anything ever be right again?
The sun’s heat never distracted, rather, the pressure compounded.

I’d get on my bike and she’d get on her moped
At 3 a.m. after dancing and drinking for hours,
Her French glamour overwhelming,
The way she sways,
The loose familiarity, her knowledge of rhythm,
As the bass bomb drops,
And she dances beautifully,
With her silver backpack purse over her shoulder,
Her friendship, my singular comfort.

Smiling, we bid the other goodnight, and in a moment,
She speeds off towards home.

I go in the opposite direction,
Very slowly,
Accepting the calm that Night and my bike offer,
My eyes sweeping the streets in time with my pedaling.

December in 1994, approx. 6:45 in the evening

"I know what you’re doin’, yeah…"
-Dionne Farris, "I Know"

Just another 10 minutes or so… Then he will be here, and at least I’ll know where he is for the time being…shhhh!

Sitting on the back deck, sitting staring at the leaves and branches and flowers, touched by intermittent gusts of wind, wondering. I must not be giving him what he needs, so he goes elsewhere. All the time—he’s never home now. I’m failing. He’s failing me and I’m the one failing. And falling.

Shhh! You’re fine. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong. Nothing.

It’s a beautiful early winter’s day as I wait. 75, 76 degrees, close to that outside. Sitting there, staring, failing, falling, in denial, waiting for him.
He thinks I’m unaware. I don’t know what else he thinks. He is very hidden. But I know what I know. And I know something’s wrong. I know he still cheats—I know it. He keeps it well hidden from the self he shows me, and he tries with me; but I know.

He’s coming up the steps. Shh!! Put on your face. Everything is fine. Accept nothing. Deny it all. Hang on. Keep trying. Now smile; the doorknob is turning.

You still want him, don’t you? You know he’ll change, don’t you?

December 1994

For the fourth time since I’ve been in Key West, I am, again, unemployed. I don’t get it. I had a great job and now it’s gone. My boss couldn’t afford to pay me and let me go after I’d quit yet another job to work there full time.

I’m confused as to why this employment instability surrounds me, but I am still determined. For the time being, I am all right. I have a plane ticket home and will find something when I get back. This too, shall pass. I can’t forget that.
I have heard others say something to the effect of: "If the island doesn’t want you, it’ll chew you up and spit you out." Does the island not want me? Is this what is happening?

Another damn Christmas Eve in Key West, 1994

I got a black rose from a homeless guy on Christmas Eve. Totally flipped me out. He offered the rose for money, and when I declined, swiftly put it in my hand and let go, never breaking eye contact. "It’s yours. Merry Christmas." He said, his face expressionless. This homeless guy with a cold, blank stare, surrounded by a karmic dust cloud thicker than Pig Pen of the Peanuts comic strip, hands me a black fuckin’ rose on Christmas Eve, won’t take it back, and bids me a Merry Christmas in a tone used more for issuing warnings or omens than holiday cheer. So, consequently, I had a bad feeling about the rest of the night.

1994, or maybe 1995

Thoughts seem to slosh around like water around my head. I could write pages and pages from these bursts, but the ideas are time-lapse photography flowers that seem to sprout, bloom, and die before I can write even one sentence.
These thoughts are beautiful, profound, and delicate. Everything is happening so fast.


This is the best I can do right now.


Goodnight. I’ll be right here; thinking.

key west

January 1995

"Oh I’m, never gonna be the same again…I’ve seen the way it’s got to end…sweet dream; sweet dream…"
-Electric Light Orchestra, "Strange Magic."

As bad as the last sixteen months have been, the worst, I feel, is over. Conflicts are becoming scarce, resolutions easier to find. I’m working the front desk at the Casa Marina now, a so called "luxury resort" on the island, and the daily routine is comforting and stabilizing, and I can write sometimes. I haven’t completed a logical sequence of thoughts on paper in awhile, and I might not finish this entry, but that’s all right. It’s coming. Slowly, but it’s coming.

The emptiness of Key West is becoming more apparent. During the last year or so, the swirl of shitty situations and circumstances seemed to be a trial by fire to what end I’m still not sure. Many conflicts happening all at once. I think I was crazy for a little bit, and considered going home. But all of that has ended. Not much to worry about these days. Nosir. Instead, it’s been replaced by something a bit more…numb.

It’s kindofa faint, windy, whistly, ringing in my ears. A mild discontent with a point of origin undefined in my bones. It grows daily and situational-ly. I feel all jumbled up while appearing well adjusted. When my mind wanders, it veers into a barren plain that represents my options here. Not necessarily an ugly place, in fact, very striking in its uniqueness. A dry, empty, panoramic expanse radiating nothing but the dull glow of the status quo: terrifyingly, punishing-ly…beautiful.

My mind’s fish-eye lens sees the sun beating down on this hulking, desolate land mass representing the veldt of my future here in Key West, the wind whipping down on the dead grass, dust swirling in the air around me. Wherever I turn, the same. But I have a stable paycheck and a stable boyfriend. So everything is ok.

Sure it is.

Two homeless people on Duval

"Say a prayer for me, in a world of human wreckage…"
-Sponge, "loaded"


They congregate at different street corners, on sidewalks, in alleys, at the beach, in boxes. They have no where else to go.

1. The man stood at the corner of Duval and Angela, with his long gray beard and his military-issue clothes and his back-pack and some kind of conic yarn hat on his head, eating from a can, never speaking. Every once in a while, he would do a goose-step type march in place to stretch out his legs, but usually one could find him there, standing and watching. At night, he would sleep on the bench where the trolleys loaded, just off the street from the corner and in the light for protection from the drunks who might get their kicks by fucking with him. He would sleep on his back with his arms folded, looking quite dead. And, for the most part, the drunks, along with everyone else, left him alone.

Some of the shopkeepers would give him food and canned goods. He was never bothersome, and even the police kept an eye out for him. He would disappear for a couple of days, sometimes appearing on the other side of the island, maybe eating from a can, then later re-appearing on his corner picking up where he’d left off.

Rumor had it he’d jumped from a Russian freighter and somehow ended up in Key West, not knowing the language, not knowing anyone. He must have left people behind, a wife, family, or friends. It was hard to look him in the eyes. He would meet curious, sympathetic, or taunting gazes with the same defiant glare.

2. For awhile, the Bearded Lady was a fixture on Duval Street, also. About 5’5" in red spike heels, maybe 90 pounds, sandy blond hair, and always in the same red dress. She reminded me of one of my junior high school teachers, which amused me, but bothered me more. Her behavior seemed to point to schizophrenia. She walked a fine line at all times. She had some serious, threatening, irrational impulses. She moved continually, walking alone through crowds of people, muttering and grimacing.

She would sometimes stop oncoming people and shouting incoherently and aggressively at them, and then move on. She always skipped me, though, as someone to attack. One time, she accosted everyone that passed, but left me alone, even looking away as we crossed. I never understood why she spared me, but I was thankful, nonetheless.

I saw her for the first time on the 800 block of Duval, in front of a restaurant claiming to be "The Best in Key West" (Along with every other damn business on the island…), but never had any patrons, nor did I meet anyone who’d actually eaten there. I had just smoked a joint and was heading into Bahama Village to pick up some friends for a game of pool. Looking down stoned at the sidewalk, I almost ran into her. She was facing the restaurant, furiously turning the pages of a Gideon Bible from right to left, looking for something.

She became aware of my presence. She whipped her head around, staring at me with a look of pure madness. I had interrupted something very, very heavy. So, after that length of a pause, I kept going, trying to remain calm, not wanting to spook her any more. It must have worked, as she resumed turning. The sounds of rustling pages were heard until I rounded the corner. Her search was incomplete; the key passage still not found.

She would show up on the Gulf side of town, wandering around, babbling and screaming, accosting and fighting, and getting thrown out of shops. She went after one cashier with a knife. Some acquaintances dubbed her the "Bearded Lady" ("Freaky as a Bearded Lady!"), and the name stuck. She was all over the place, for a while anyway. Her freaky, menacing behavior standing out as strange, even by Key West’s standards. Then she was gone.

I’d imagine she’s dead. Too many negatives on South Florida’s streets for a disoriented schizophrenic to overcome. Too much mean and evil. Maybe not, though. Maybe she’s out there, in a horrifying universe, using the wrong parts of her brain to survive, tortured by the multitudes of demons she encounters daily. Or maybe she got help and is better. I don’t know.

Maybe before… She was someone’s friend. She was a success. She was married. She was happily single. Red has always been her favorite color.

Before she lost… Maybe she could feel it coming. "Something is wrong with the way that I’m thinking" is something she might have thought, before. Now "before" is maybe not even a memory anymore. Her family has accepted the loss and moved on. Or maybe, they long for her return. Her mother still looks at her picture every single day.

She walked quickly, out of step with the others, looking back periodically to make sure "they" weren’t following. Her red heels clicked rhythmically on the hot pavement. The vibration of agitation and confusion trailed in her wake. I watched her pass, her head bouncing along, the sound of her clicking heels, her physical body eventually dissolving among the other bodies passing on Duval, and thought of the inevitability of her demise.

Late February 1995, Key West

..The difference between this and my other dreams was the intensity and clarity and documentary like detachment of the format in which the dream was presented. Startling, shockingly close visuals of genocidal carnage paired with live news coverage by all the major channels, along with blow-by-blow coverage and analysis. In one section of the dream, anyway. There were three distinct phases, and the first two combined within the second.

The first section dealt with a war, where the refugees, casualties, and children were mostly of Asian descent, but not all. The place was a complex of buildings made of concrete that looked to be official, or a place of trade, somewhere people assembled. The overall structure was gray and massive, and was cut in half by a concrete, tiered canal as large as the length of the two largest buildings. These two buildings architecturally mirrored the other in style and placement.

Refugees were arriving and attempting to leave simultaneously, a widespread panic in bloom. The attacking army faced no resistance and seemed to enjoy the slaughter slightly more than the announcer describing the atrocities. Dead bodies were everywhere, and the attackers were systematic in their twofold offensive: Immobilization through the destruction of the physical infrastructure, and a unilateral genocide of the opposition. Simple.

Helicopters and Jets scream around shooting. People are running aimlessly. Bridges are blowing up. And slowly, a sense that a herding to the center of the complex has begun.

The bridges that crossed the canal in many places are now destroyed, and the groups of people lining each side are getting bigger and more frenzied because there is no where to go and the attackers are moving in and the only option left is to jump into the canal and become an easier target and this happens as the cries rise up and the shots and explosions and anguish become one sound and the next thing I know, I’m someone else, it’s some other time, but it’s the same place. Wow… The geography is the same, but now it’s a resort. I’m a waiter there. I have this person’s memories and their motivation. I must have come on vacation to check out the scene and ran out of money.

Whatever this was now, it was a hot destination, tourists and palms lining the immaculately landscaped canal. The mood was heady, with money, liquor, and tips changing hands frequently. Waiting tables was easy, and my persona seemed to enjoy it, but I was also observing, from a distance. I watched ghosts of the fallen children tipping the drinks, tripping the persona, my waiter unaware of anything but clumsiness on my own behalf.

The dead carry such longing with them. Theirs is the remorse of memory from the violent end of their physical lives, melancholy from the meaninglessness of their deaths, and anger from the irony of locality. None of these wrongs will right themselves anytime soon. The living mock the dead by dancing on blood soaked concrete, oblivious to the events of the not too distant past. The low moans of discontent from the dead are drowned out by the music, and otherwise ignored by the living. Their thoughts are dominated by concerns of fun and revelry above all else. The dead take their comfort knowing, though,
that this too, shall pass.

There exists a segment unclear and therefore lost, so there is no context for what was present when I became lucid within the selfsame dream. The questions and conversation of the British couple in whose car I am the backseat passenger interrupt the ringing silence in my ears only occasionally. The man has commissioned me to conduct interviews with and write a book about his wife. They have picked me up from somewhere and I am thoroughly immersed in the quiet and assured negotiation of the hills and curves, and of the acoustic insulation of the car, which was luxury and had leather seats, which, when I moved, also broke the silence.

Here it comes.

"…Listen; it’s getting closer…"
-Hope, "Tree Frog"

"The only way out is down…the only way out is down…"
-Everything But the Girl, "Five fathoms (SNK)"

The bill collectors keep calling, and writing. I’ve had no money to send them. It’s too hard here. It’s too hot. I can barely make rent.

____ is disappearing, gradually. We rarely talk and make no attempt to sleep in the same bed. I am beyond the situation. I think on it now as a third party. What’s to be done? How can I help me? Well, how?

For the most part, I’m numb constantly. I go out; he goes out. Sometimes we see each other. Sometimes not. I don’t want to feel anything.
But if I don’t feel numb, it’s real easy to get that way. Hell, I live in Key West. I can stay numb all I want.

I’ve got friends. Friends to go out with. Friends to dance with. To drink with. To slide with. Yeah, I’ve got plenty of friends.

My friends are good people. The really are. They just handle their problems with drugs more often than the average (or above average in consumption) individual. Good people can have bad drug problems. Sad, but true. It seems obvious to me now, but there was a time when I did not realize that contradictions like this exist with great frequency.

And we all slide together. Night after night of late nights, drunken and ultimately forgotten come-ons, cigarettes smoked one after the other, joints and alcohol, cocaine (for them), sexual encounters here and there, the awful cycle of repetition…sometimes beautiful or hot or tragic…it’s all worthless, really. The truths you seek could dance right by, you could look right at them, and still you’d never see.

I am with a friend at the Copa, two or three weeks before I left, before I even know I’m leaving. We are smoking and drinking, stoned from earlier, he’s also tweaking, as we talk rather distractedly at the other. Is this all there is? Boredom and thoughts of "how long can this life last?" run opposite to the beat and the drunken European cadences of my friend. My life here must end. If I stay, I will die. I look into his eyes, the beautiful friend on a faster track to self-destruction than myself, and a decision forms. A vague finality really, that I will leave the island soon. When is soon? Soon will be long enough, I suppose.

A month, six months (maybe six would be too long)…the end here will come. I know this will happen. His eyes resonate sadness and desperation and questioning and realization. I’m filled with my own sadness about our nonverbal exchange, our self-destruction, our ways, knowing I’ll die, knowing he’ll die, if we stay here. I hope he figured it out.

Nothing works here anymore. I hope the end comes soon. I can’t keep trying. Sometimes I can’t get out of bed. It becomes more than I can bear. My friend says something I don’t quite hear and tries to smile. I try to smile back.
I get another beer, light a cigarette, excuse myself, and walk around the perimeter of the bar, still looking for an answer, any answer, in the faces of strangers, looking at the scenery in the darkness for how many more times.

Standby; while thinking revs and guns…

…Maybe I’m grasping, but it doesn’t feel that way. This wonderful shroud of semi-manic euphoria that’s wrapped itself around me, unfettered of self loathing, full of gonzo thought and behavior, feels good; feels right. I feel like I’m going to explode with good feelings, creativity, love and success. Every good day is new and thrilling, and bad days (as, of course, there are still "bad days") are much easier to tolerate.

For the first time in a long time, my impatience for knowledge of long-term future events is tempered with innate assurances that the immediate days will be some that I’ll savor for many years to come.

Uh-huh.

I feel great and powerful! I am great and powerful!

Planes

"Dear, I fear, we’re facing a problem…"
-The Cardigans, "Lovefool."


The plane takes off, as all planes do. It is rising and rising and then circles around to assume its correct flight pattern. We are above the city, the houses and the freeways and the cars becoming smaller, the rough edges of the city smoothing themselves out in perfect correlation with the increasing altitude. Headline News is on the monitor. Most of the people are watching Chuck Roberts deliver the news about Bosnia rather than listening to what the pilot is babbling about, because you can never understand what they’re saying anyway. The really cute Steward is wearing a perfect smile exposing flawless bleached teeth and is passing out cola and nuts when the engine falls off and we plummet towards earth.

The feeling is similar to a roller coaster; climbing and climbing to the top of that first drop, the assured forward motion to the crest, and then thump! The brakes are released. And then thump! We lose the engine. The plane crests, suspended, time stretching to a point of delicious insanity. What will happen next?

Everything erupts simultaneously. As the plane noses downward, shaking and shuddering, the doomed occupants scream helplessly. Then the plane crests again, then again, replaying that horrible moment when forward motion is replaced with downward descent. I am rigid in my seat, trying to imagine I’m watching this catastrophe from the ground. Can’t. Let’s see…an object already falling at 32 feet per second, times a couple thousand feet, times, um, 200(?), 900(?) miles an hour, equals horribly dead, really soon.

Nothing works. The crest, that moment, overrides any other thought. We are hurtling towards the ground, towards the city, towards the freeway, and objects are coming back into proportion and we hit the ground, and objects are coming back into proportion and we hit the ground and I wake up, sweating. The apartment is quiet.

It’s 4 a.m., ____ still hasn’t come home, and I can’t go back to sleep. For two weeks straight, I’ve dreamt of planes.