Wordless Wednesday: Fry Me To the Moon

A love poem, by Pune
written early last week at the Vegas Diner in Bensonhurst

"My, my, my!" said the spider to the fry...





Ketchup and mustard may be quite condiment-al...

Wordless Wednesday: Put A Chain Around My Neck...

...and lead me anywhere? Now, I'm not a literal-speakin' person--my own conversational speech being a ridiculous mix of metaphor, illogic and senser-feeler mental gymnastics--but no, no, no, that lyric just doesn't make sense! Have little girls (or big girls, for that matter) ever put chains on teddy bears? I'm not gonna blame Elvis, since he didn't write "(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear," but I'm sorry, I just can't play that one here.

And technically you can't run your fingers through a bear's hair, since bears don't have hair. But I might, if I really try hard, be able to imagine these guys with pompadours. And the kitty with, uh, some sideburns.

Photo taken in front of flower shop on 37th street.

Can We Talk?

I gots me two kitties. One’s a blabbermouth, punctuating his daily activities with a running commentary, from howl to chirp to mmmm and mumble and back again. The other’s a cat of few words, unless you happen to say, “Bing, wannaeat?” in just the right cadence. Should he say anything else at any other time, I know he really means business. Derrick, on the other hand, is extremely sensitive to certain things he hears on TV, avoiding the immediate area or even slinking away when, say, Judge Judy calls someone as dumb as a bucket of rocks.

Me, I’m like Bing. Growing up in a “children should be seen and not heard” sort of environment, I didn’t say much at home, preferring to express myself through manic dancing (musical accompaniment optional) and short stories about a family of mallard ducks that had to stockpile food for the winter (must have been the “Little House on the Prairie” effect). I did often go outside and lie in the grass and talk to the clouds and Queen Anne’s lace, but try telling a person what you’d say to a woodpile—it doesn’t really translate.

Anyway, after years of becoming pretty good at capturing the gymnastics of my thoughts via the written word, I still find verbal communications, particularly in a professional environment, a bit of a challenge. I was reminded of this again at the yoga, astrology and chakras workshop I went to a couple weeks ago. The instructors said, based on my natal chart, that I should talk more because I am too reserved. Harumph! But what I write is simply so much more accurate… why talk in black-and-white when you can write in zebra stripes?

Because, well, we don’t walk around with a set of flashcards or a pad and paper and jot stuff down and pass notes to each other. We verbalize. We bullshit. We speak. We talk, and someone else talks back. It makes perfect sense! It’s not like you get a wordcount for the day, and you automatically run out if you go over the limit.

On the flipside…why couldn’t we get a little less conversation from the narcissistic cellphone talkers, or the parents who yell obscenities at their kids on the street, or the lady who stands in the middle of the subway car and says over and over we need to repent NOW (hey, Jesus is just alright with me, but don’t shove your little girl so hard when you move to the next car) or we’re goin’ to hell..

Ooof. Writing about talking is almost as bad as talking about writing. Or talking about talking. Can we please just listen to some music now?

Hey, Good Lookin'

A couple of weekends ago I took a 5Rhythms workshop held at the Merce Cunningham Studio. The space was nuts—I swear it must be situated right smack at the crossroads of some cosmic ley lines; it was like the studio was a divine drug addict shooting up an endless supply of shakti. I’ve not been to many places in New York City that felt so infinite and ego-less, bigger than all the baggage its visitors might be able to carry in…including my own freakin’ wheely cart-full.

During a break I perched myself in one of the giant windowsills, where I found an important note that someone had left, oh, just about 5 years and 6 months earlier. See above—It says (sorry if my photo sucks), “I just don’t know what I’m looking for./LB 5/12/05”

Dang, LB! That is, like, a real big one. Can anyone answer that for sure?

Well, maybe if you were the person who dropped these purple drawers on West 12th street:


I passed these at least 10 times over the course of the 3-day workshop, and kept thinking I should take a picture of them (why, Pune, why?!), but I kept forgetting to bring my camera. Imagine how happy I was to find they were still there on the last day, when I finally remembered it. I’m glad I did, because this photo serves as a visual reminder that sometimes it doesn’t do much good to find what you’ve lost. I mean, if these were your underwear, would you retrieve them after they’d been lying on the sidewalk for a minimum of 3 days? Would you even trust that they were yours? (P.S. Read my friend Brenna's blog for an excellent post on underwear.)

Anyway, LB, I actually went back to my journal from May 12, 2005, to see if I was looking for something then, too. No, not really. I was happy because I got new shoes. I was writing while on the bus, and overheard a lady who “couldn’t stand the smell of tuna and said so.” It’s not like I was complacent or especially satisfied, though. “I need to get my ass in gear,” I wrote. “Which gear would that be?”

Music and video for those who hide and seek

Don’t think you’ve got the time to stop, look and listen? Just do it anyway. As Elvis says, “It’s alright with me,” and it’d probably be OK with Mary Tyler Moore, too:



Was LB looking for love, be it spiritual or carnal? Here’s what a fellow seeker sez about that:



And by the way, LB, if you still haven’t found it, maybe this little clip will help. If a mouse can dance, so can you. Me, too.