Spare Change

taking a weekend trip to new england with carolyn. open roads, open skies, turning of summer, leaves, brooks, forestsbeacheslighthouses - hills and bridges and man it's going to be walden.. weee..

porn n' ice cream. don't need em. don't really want em'. they're kinda bad for you. but fun? eh.

"What would you do if you had all the money in the world?"
"I'd snap out of my reverie."
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There was an incident yesterday. On the N train, heading uptown. North to home, to dinner, to another normal night of whatevers and whatnots. Jun and Paul were making "stupid faces" and I was taking it all in with my Palm camera. Bugged eyes. Pouting lips. Gansta pose. We stood next to the door as blue streaks passed by on the outside and the train deposited and picked up passengers. "Step all the way in please. Step all the way in." Passengers packed together like matchsticks, sharing oxygen and frittering, ready for the end of the workday.

My arms flailed and banged against the metal railing as Jun crushed against my neck. The car lurched, shuddering for a couple of seconds, then slowly screeched to a stop. 23rd street station. Men started for the door, checking their watches. Women smoothed their skirts and rose from their seats. The door stayed shut. Crossed eyes. Paul smirked and I laughed as Jun giggled. The door didn't budge. I peered out the stained windows. Normal. Parents with toddlers, a smattering of chattering teenagers - men and women milled about, waiting for the train to open its doors. Our fellow passengers slowly sat down and waited patiently. Two minutes. Short minutes because we three were still within hazy conversation.

Long minutes in retrospect. A group of girls, not yet matured, were crying outside our window. Men with briefcases and women with purses begin to exit the station outside. Fingers pointed one way, then another. What was going on? Down. Look down. Below the tracks? Jun tapped the windows, motioning for another observer. What happened?

We filed out of the train. I stopped and looked back, wondering if I should get out since this wasn't my stop. Something was happening. Some people stayed in the train. Others exited quickly. Still, some were like me, standing haltingly on the platform. Oh my God. Jun clutched her mouth and gestured to the door that just spat us out. Crimson. Blood on our door. Shining and bright dripping - like paint or jam or wine. Not yet congealed. Much lighter than the stuff in the movies. Blood on the platform, red on yellow, ketchup on mustard. Blood on the side of our subway car, a lazy streak, eloquent, curving against the silver frame, like a Nike swoosh or a Nerf football. Paul said, "What happened?" I think we hit someone. Shit. "Everyone please exit the station. We have a passenger incident. Stations from Canal Street to 34th Street will be closed until further review. Please exit to 23rd or 28th Streets." The metallic voice spurred a dazed population to action. People streamed out of the station, turnstiles spinning and heavy swinging doors grunting at the effort.

Jun pulled Paul and I against the flow of traffic. "I wanta see. C'mon." You're so insane I thought, but she threaded her way down the platform. I followed with morbid curiosity and petulant indignation at my wasted minutes on the way home. Paul protested.

Dirty indigo jeans and a dirty green T-shirt. A clean white towel. A bloodied mangled arm. Right arm. The towel was draped over a cocked head. To the right side. Face down; it wasn't even a body anymore. Not human. To me, it was now just a mass of flesh, bloodied and still. It was a news item, a story invention - it was not real. It wasn't a man. There wasn't a story to him. He didn't really live, have a life. It was just parts, medical and biological parts. Bloodied lateral tricep brachii muscles. Twisted phalanges. Crumpled cranial cavity. Zygomaticus muscles pressed to the pavement.

I grabbed Jun and Paul and climbed up to the streets. He wasn't real. Faceless, kin-less, probably jobless. Who did he love? What did he do? How was he as a child? What were his dreams, his lusts, his failures? His life? People stopped to ask us, what happened? "Can't go there. Subway incident. Lines not working." They walked on. Cars blared their horns and people chattered on the way home from work. An elderly woman crossed the street as the light turned green. A couple of tourists snapped a few photos of buildings against a darkening blue afternoon sky. Normal night, with normal dinners and it's normal going home, except for the distant sound of sirens, as the ambulances and firetrucks made their way towards us, towards the incident.

i hate fucking fuck fuck. fuck. ARGH. fucking french guys. it's been a month on this fucking project and they still can't make up their minds about anything fuck. bossy whiny french fucks. fuck inconsequential work and what's so glamorous about $1,333/month? fuck. fuck me complaining about work. again.

i come home and check the mail and there's an invoice from the IRS demanding payment in full of $13,135.68. fuck! what the fuck? my federal deductions didn't go through so i owe the government 10 months worth of my salary. fuck them. and fuck the automated phone system that makes me wait 40 minutes before i get to talk to a government drone. "may i help you, mmmmmm?" yes you can help me you fuckers! how the hell do i owe that much money? fuck. fuck me for letting other people's stupidity get to me. fuck. just calm the fuck down and figure out what happen, for fuck's sake. fuck all this red bloody tape. fuck my phone service for giving me only 400 anytime minutes and now i've gone and used an hour of it up. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. fuck my broken phone.

fuck pumpkin. fuck the cat. lying there, eyes slitted cause she's annoyed i woke her up. fuck. lying on my sheets. no, fuck me. my brother's sheets. now i have to clean it. oh, and she ate half the fern. fuck! and her food is all over the place. fuck! fuck fuckity fuck fuck. no, i don't mean that. let's make up.

oh, and fuck bofa. "unfortunately, the position has been filled but we'll keep your records on file.." no, fuck that. fuck you guys. fuck me. fuck me for scheduling another interview so that i can't make this interview. no fuck that. fuck the fucker who told me the interview was going to be 2 hours long when it turned into 6.5 hours. and now i won't get either job. fuck me for caring about a fucking stupid retarded job that i can do with my eyes closed. fuck me for wanting acceptance from people who don't matter. except they might. fuck that.

fuck my interview tomorrow. fuck job searches. fuck dumbass questions that don't tell anyone anything except to make your dumbass small penises feel important because your fucking grunt work is changing the world. oh yeah, cause it's so mind blowing and grand and deep, that job of yours. fuck my future my ambitions cause i don't really want to do anything. i want to sit. i want to be entertained. fuck this "man is made to work" shit. who the fuck made that up? cause some girl can't keep her hands off an apple and some guy can't keep his dick off a girl cause he can't live alone? what kind of bullshit is that? fuck.

and what the fuck? i rent a movie and the fucking smiling bastard forgot to unlock the dvd case so now i have to walk my ass back to blockbuster and get him to do his job. how the fuck can you fuck up something as simple as unlocking the case? scan the fucking dvd, get the money, give me my receipt and unlock the case! what the fuck? i just wanted to watch a fucking movie! and fuck the building cause the elevators aren't working again. fuck this. so i have to walk down and walk up ten flights of stairs because someone didn't do their job. fuck me for complaining about free rent.

josef haydn is not making me feel better. fuck this. fuck me trying to plan this vacation with a girl... oh fuck her. fuck that shit. crap. i wish i can still play the violin. fuck.

fuck me cause i can't think about how great carolyn is, how she's understanding and spontaneous and caring and funny cause all i can think about is crap. fuck me. fuck her walk. why the hell does she have to walk so slow?and stop agreeing with me. stop saying you'll support whatever i do. stop saying you understand cause you don't. give me an opinion - you don't have to agree with me. fuck. say something instead of sighing. argh. dammit. fuck this. and why the hell does she smile all the time? and ask those dumb questions? what the hell. yes, you can spend time with me. yes, i'm annoyed. what the fuck? argh. what the fuck fuck fuck? fuck me. what the fuck is wrong with me? leave me alone. no don't do that. fuck? why the fuck do i have a better time with other people sometimes than her? fuck. can you just go home and let me think? shit. i'm going to hell and i'm going to be forever alone. cause i can't appreciate what i have. fuck. fuck me for not being interested. interest? nothing is interesting anymore. fuck this vacation we're planning. fuck me for thinking she's going to get on my nerves. fuck. why the fuck are you wearing that? what the fuck. yes. i remember.

fuck my parents for doing this guilt trip again. yes. i didn't return your calls. can it be that i may busy for one day? yes, i went out. yes. fuck. fuck, yes, i'm a fucking inconsiderate son. fuck that. no i don't fucking think about you guys at all. fuck. you're worried about me? who the fuck cares? i don't worry about me. stop worrying about me. fuck.

fuck me for not having anything together. what the fuck. fuck you guys who know what you want. how the hell do you know what you want? what makes you so sure? fuck your sneering confidence and your lust of things that are all meaningless. meaningless. fuck this. we all are chasing fucking nothing. fuck your money and fuck my money cause it only buys stuff. fuck this need to buy. fuck relationships cause they fill voids you can't fill yourself. fuck finding yourself. what the fuck are you so worked up about? don't fucking think about so much and just live your crappy ass life, not knowing is better than knowing, and die, fade to dust, worms eating your insides out cause it's all fuck. yeah, all. not all? sure? everything. you're happy now? you lead a happy life? what the fuck does happiness matter when you're fucking six feet under and you can't even feel the blackness? fuck religion for stirring up everything and givng you hope when you need truth. fuck freedom. free to what? to see the good inside of you? cause the only way to do that is to see the despicable murky grotesque you. that's right. that fucker is staring right back. slobbering. fuck your dreams cause they all amount to fuck. fuck this. nothing lasts cause money is spent and people grow up and love is shallow. the girl becomes fat and you become decrepit. fuck growing old. fuck you mom and dad for dying one day. fuck girls and their whiny gossips and fuck guys for their dumbass hard exteriors. fuck your need for security and your insufficient egos.

killing is bad. love is good. what the fuck?

pumpkin just came over and held out her paws. she wants me to hold her paws and shake. she licks my hand. i love this cat. she rolls over, plops down next to me, and sleeps. she's not going to wake up. i love this cat.

if only girls knew what went on inside the testosterone-addled malfunctioning male brain. if only girls knew that half the things they think guys think about don't ever really occur because that space in the brain is filled up with such thoughts as:

"wow. look at that butt wiggle."
"i think i see pantylines"
"wow. she's fat. she could be a decent lineman."
"can't believe those raiders choked."
"that was a good superbowl party, with them chicken wings."
"i'm hungry."
"man, look at that butt wiggle, like two buns. mmm. buns."

i wish i knew what girls were talking about half the time.

"happiness is like peeing in your pants. everyone can see it and you can sure feel it."

"josh. call your girlfriend. you're her gatekeeper."
"'scuse me?"
"creak. open. close. gatekeeper."
"you big perv."

"asians have a good way of relieving stress. tai chi. meditation. inner awareness."
"what are you talking about? i'm all substance abuse. smoking. drinking. if i can't release stress on someone else, i release it on myself."

i punched my hands in my jeans pockets today riding down the elevator to another monday morning and out came a wrinkly crumpled receipt; it musta been important cause it was in my left pocket (that's where i keep important stuff), but there was nothing on it. just a blank white void staring back at me. it musta been through the wash a couple of times, cause the edges were frayed and the fabric brittle but oh-never-mind, it had nothing on it. like me. worn out by another cycle, another time through the wash. rehashed. nothing to say really anymore because it's all the same shit. same same same like so.

you hear people who chase their dreams and succeed all the time (never give up or give in! you can do it, too, just take the risk!) but when do you ever hear about those poor losers who chase their dreams and fail? those dumb blokes who are blinded by the sugary misleading (evil) dreams of being happy! who's really happy? for every single person who've made it, who are at the top of their games, there are thousands who fall by the wayside, dropping through the cracks, who become jaded and resentful at the lives they gave up for their dreams. burnt-out musician sitting on the a cardboard box playing to a testy audience waiting for the subway. snarling waitress with her plastic boobs, sagging now, waiting on pimple faced boys snorting ketchup through straws. balding writer writing copies for a radio jingle about lugnuts and a "new season for home improvement, clearance prices!" - all have chased their dreams. but at least they did it, huh? they tried, they know, they failed. no regrets, i'm sure.

there are 8 million people in new york city, all trying to make it, to make something out of their measly gray lives. doormen, mistresses, students, bouncers, waiters, prostitutes, hairdressers. so what? cooks, valets, performers, writers, musicians, artists, models, bankers, accountants, tailors, butchers, delivery boys, pimps, politicians, thieves, oh and on and on. and how many, out of the 8 million, will realize their dreams? it's a cruel vicious world with only so much happiness - so much success - to go around. it's a zero sum game and not everyone is playing fair.

who are you to say that you're any different than the defeated souls hovering on the crooked sidewalks? you're smart? thousands, millions of smart brains ready to shoot up your neurons up. sexy? models struggle to get by each day, hungry for a chance to show their breasts and their hips and their talents to producers for two-bit exercise infomercials. ambitious? humorous? there are thousands just like you, better possibly. it's all a game of luck. you're dealt the cards, and the it's all about ante up. it's about the risk of losing the house, of cutting yourself to the marrow, take what's given to you and shove it back at all the fuckers who have better hands, of throwing your chips on the table, of bluffing your way to another round, another day to play the game - it's about random acts of mercy by an ironic God who looks down at his folorn creation, wondering how the heck things are so fucked up, it's about the unexplainable, unidentifiable voice inside that tells you to keep on going and not look back or around even when everything is meaningless and pointless. or, it's about folding and taking that nice cubicle with an option for a office in five years, then perhaps that mortgage in seven years and so on.

life is a big itch that i can't scratch.

Why do girls alienate other girls as a [sub]conscious social tactic? What is it about group mentality/belonging that drives them so?
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I miss it. I miss the quiet unpredictability of each morning. The lucid sun clamoring to break free from the horizon, hazy sometimes, pallid and hidden by indignant rain clouds at times. The randomness of a strange bed and stranger views outside the window; the newness of carefreedom, of people milling about, getting ready to go places and do things and see everything. The pale clear nights with the universe opened, shining down twinkling revelations onto shimmering cool sand, waters lapping in a hidden bay, fireflies fluttering carelessly. The sizzling of sausages on a makeshift gas stove next to the silhouette of the tent next to gnarled trees, interrupted by the herky-jerky flash lights bumping into grass and leaves and logs at night.

I miss the clear mountain air, the debate of ideals and the murmurs of ideas on a lonely trail; the burn in my calves climbing over boulders and streams, the vistas of glacial valleys and distant seas and craggy teenage peaks, the soft flowing yolky grassland set against azure skies and cotton clouds, and the dense mossy forests with silent springs and forgotten ponds. The religious sunsets burning purple and pink into the afternoon, the impatient waterfalls rushing somewhere, running over bedrocks and valleys and cliff faces; the warm sleeping bag thwarting the cold cold night.

The weight of backpack and camera and dreams in a lively city; random cobblestone alleys and the ubiquitous botanical – the curved bridges - and the everdayness of people chugging along their paths, their lives set in the particular pattern of the city, waiting, wanting to be observed and so normal. The old cathedrals with its dusty memories, the lazy cafes and foodstands with strange delectable foodstuffs, the clamoring plazas and town squares and marketplaces – I miss the eyes of traveling, the ancient wizened eyes of grandmothers who’ve lived through weddings and funerals and events of their town, the exuberant eyes of teenagers wanting to get away, to start something new, to be like Amerika and MTV and New York, and the tired eyes of dads and moms coming home from work in their sad briefcases and sad meshed bags and lovely shoes.

I miss the vividness of my dreams, of thoughts and ideas; on long bus rides and longer waits for a willing car – by the silent sea and the whirring train station, in meadows and valleys, on unbelievable hilltops and random uncaring girls – I miss the sights and sounds, smells and tastes and randomness of it all. I miss how each day is different and new, living isn’t confined to schedules, purposeless is forgiven, and purpose is in your hands and feet and the landscape before you. I guess I miss traveling.

Lemme just say I love my Palm Zire 71. I get to work cause the meeting is on my datebook. I call up the photographers cause their names are in my address book. I take down numbers and random sayings on my notepad. I snap pictures of random street performers on the way to work with the built-in camera. I hum to the playlist on my mp3 player. And I check off to-do lists for the day and write emails to long lost high school friends while I'm sitting between to fat people on the subway. And soon, I'll have fandango and books and and the whole office suite on this thing... wooowooo. Who needs women? If only this thing can give massages and connect to the net wirelessly, I'm set!

Oh Palm, how I love thee Thy metallic blue case So shiny and functional Thy gifts are bountiful Thy clean lines beautfiul How I love thee...

I work with a lovely cute creative director. She amuses me because she reminds me of my friend Mary. She has one of those peculiar toonlike Korean names that I like to say whenever I'm speaking to her. Yoosoon is, I think, forty years old but she still has an adorable way of speaking softly and sometimes with a gasp of exclamation at the most usual of things. I always check with her to see if I'm doing the correct thing and she always respond with upraised eyes and a quirky "Ok? Ok." or "I dunno... dun really know.." I suppose it's funny how certain traits never change in some people. I suppose I imagine what Yoosoon must have been like when she was a little girl, saying "Ohmagawde... ok? ok." I suppose I like working with her.

Christen made dinner yesterday.

Then, to rid me of the inevitable sluggish post-dinner coma, she suggested a walk. Cross Broadway and down to 79th and across to the West End. We dropped down a sloping driveway, passed a lighted cafe and went out to the riverside, under a misty shower of rain. Rain on our faces our fingers and our darkened forms. Drip drop plop. We walked across small tugboats with peeling paint, cracked and comforting in the silent waters, and onto the shining white yachts; past the drenched lawns and towards the outstretched canopy of a stooped elm. I wondered where all those ships have been to.

Shabby. I said that as we sat on the bench facing the gleaming lights of Jersey. But not in a bad way. I'm in my 24th year, my year of shabbiness. Unpolished, roughed somewhat, and grandiosely uncaring and purposeless. For the past eight years or more, I've always seen a goal ahead, something that I should aim for, presumably to make myself and others happy. But now in this contented stage of shabbiness, I don't have a clear goal, and until recently, I haven't come to terms with the uncertainties, with the inevitable smudgeness and grime that accompany living without defined paths. The irony of this is that in the past days I have come close to a career decision, but at the same time, because of the months of shabbiness, I am ok with leaving frayed ends (incomplete and untidied) - train of thoughts - about my decision to go with this life or that. I've made the leap across the yawning ditch of faith. Mid-air and I'm contented. Because I know that I have to land somewhere, and that there are things in my control and things out of my control. Like the rain.

It comes down happily now, not caring about the people milling about below. It comes through the silvery leaves and soaks the gnarled branches and makes a puddle about our shoes. There's a music to the rain, uncomplicated and random. Splosh splish drip - plunk. It glistens on her face and blurs my vision.

I see myself fade out and a newer, shabbier, and more assured kid fade in.