Field Notes, #21 December

some stuff about a dog... pizza... and an image of home and... an old one.

Last week 
someone asked me 
To paint a portrait of their dog,
But it turned out
to be a money laundering scheme.
I already painted the dog,
A pomeranian,
He’s brown and white,
The background is a surreal garden,
A huge sun, beetle green grass,
Red flowers with red stems, 
And a purple sky.

I wondered if the real dog 
Would recognize its likeness,
I dreamed the dog became depressed
Wishing to be in the garden with its counterpart,
Staring all day unblinking at the 
green green grass,
And when the door was left open
I saw it start to walk into traffic.

I screamed,
Please  !!!
Don’t  !!!
It’s not real !!! 

And it began weeping,
Turned to me with immense eyes,
Not real?




 hm.

I never liked pomeranians much.

But I am not sure what to do with the painting.

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PIZZA PARLOR TRANSACTION

CUSTOMER #1:
Hi Can I get a plain slice- and do you have fountain coke?

THE WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER:
You know,
One night, washing my face, I noticed a tiny piece of me loose,
I twisted my eyeballs, trying to pull me back into place,
But everything was rapidly unspooling, 
There wasn’t much I could do-
I managed to carry my unfurling body back to bed,
Where I laid tangled for a few years.

No. Only Pepsi.


CUSTOMER #1:
Okay, that’s fine, I’ll just take pepsi.

THE WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER:
Holding a cup under the pepsi nozzle and throwing the slice in the oven
Walking back from 7-eleven Friday night
A piano fell on my head and replaced all my teeth with piano keys,
When people rushed to ask me what was wrong
I could only speak in off key notes, 
Everyone quickly got bored.
I limped my way down the sidewalk into the subway station,
I was able to slip through the turnstile since my body had been flattened by the piano,
(This saved me a few dollars but I’m not sure if it was worth the hassle)
I waited for the train, but when it came
My paper thin form was blown down the tunnel,
I passed a group of rats with their tails tangled, all pulling in separate directions,
Their knot tightening like a closed fist-
Even they didn’t bat an eye at me,
An updraft blew me through the teeth of a grate and back into open air,
It had started raining and I grew soggy, and heavy, and thinner, 
Pieces of me began sloughing off, first with my toes, then my left arm,
I saw the cashier from my local grocery store, the one I see every sunday,
They turned away, not even a “Have a good one!”-
I'm sure by then I looked too monstrous for anyone to want to help me,
And I grew tired of the whole endeavor myself.
I laid in a puddle, and pulled apart. 

Was that for here or to go?

9AM

You’re late again. The guy that is always out on the stoop sees you run out the door. You never talk to each other, you and stoop guy. There’s no reason to. But he does know a lot about you, you think this as you walk quickly to the station. He knows how you dress, he’s seen you in your uniform, he saw you with tears on your face one time. You know that he sits there, you know the jeans he wears the most. You don’t know his voice. He might know yours, he knows what you sound like yelling “BYE!” into the door as you shut it, and he’s probably heard you say “SHIT” when you close the door and then have to go back inside for something. You hear the train coming and upgrade the quick walk to a half jog, not a run. You know that you could run, and maybe you should, but there’s something that you find embarrassing about running down the street or in the station. What’s up with that? You don’t like people to know you’re frantic, or more than that, maybe you don’t like people to see when you don’t actually make it there in time anyway. You think this as you make eye contact with the conductor, there’s no way you’re going to get there in time, you both know this. He could wait for you, theoretically, but he won’t. This is understood. This is a dance you do often, the conductor glancing and disregarding, you downgrading the half jog back to a quick walk that doesn’t matter anymore. You go through the turnstile as the train pulls away. Sitting down on the edge of the bench you close your eyes and picture doing a slow, close dance, with the conductor. His head is pressed against your chest, he looks up at you and whispers, “I’ll wait for you next time, I just didn’t know you then.” Maybe you should start saying “good morning” to stoop guy.


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hi
Good to see you here at the bottom of this email. 
I missed you, maybe.
Some of you may have read 9am before, but it's relevant to me at this moment.

I had this long story about birds I was going to send out this week but then 
i changed my mind.

here is something interesting I saw while reading about germanic vs romance languages-
"When it comes to intonation patterns, research has found that the sound of a newborn’s first cries may be influenced by whether their parents speak a Germanic or Romance language." hm.


Some notes on recent dreams:

-santa impersonator 
-trying not to break the eggs
-butterfly knife 
-huge tree falling

Homework: take some notes on dreams if you can remember them. They may be detailed or undetailed. If you don't remember them you can make it up. 

thank you for reading 
China Rain

oh.
and I made something, it's a digital space. 
It's not done yet, but you can take a look at it if you want.
It will be taken down soon for renovations.
(works best on computer, you may not be able to walk around on mobile)
sparrow space