Random poem...
Avenue Gal
She walks around on avenues
where the sun can barely see her,
with dandelions on her dress
and grass that grows to reach her.
Hearts increase their rates a bit
when winds against her hair,
and wind that's blown beside her
prefers to stay right there.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Waiting for the Rain
On the afternoon of August 8th, I'm stuck in my apartment listening to Fats Waller on the radio. Outside, the temperature is hanging around ninety degrees and the humidity makes you feel like you're breathing through a wet towel. Trees do their best to breeze, but the air is stubborn and refuses to move. The slow hum of my air conditioner reminds me that things could be much worse.
I walk out onto my porch and see a dark range of clouds that look like blue mountains in the distance. They are miles away but I can already feel them thinning the air, relieving it of its moisture. The wind finally gusts and pulls the treetops in every direction. I return to the cool inside and pack a canvas backpack with notebooks, pens, "'Tis" by Frank McCourt, and a bottle of water.
I walk downstairs, unlock my yellow Schwinn and ride against the wind to the Spyhouse at 25th St. and Nicollet Ave, where my friend Sean and I went before seeing "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Guthrie Theater. We both dressed up to look the part and the barista said she liked my look. As we were leaving, I thanked her and we both looked back and smiled at each other. This is why I returned, hoping to see her in her black dress and buy coffee from her on a hot humid day and thank her as I left. So many beautiful women on these summer days in Minneapolis.
The sky begins to grow darker and I feel everything fall into place; cars parallel park, women unlock their apartment doors, and chairs are repositioned around the sidewalk cafe tables. I feel like something is about to happen, with all these actors and props so well-positioned, some significant event that will make me stop writing and simply stare into the street. Perhaps it will be a small accident on Nicollet Avenue, where driver after driver is undoubtedly texting and not minding the road. Or maybe raindrops will begin padding my notebook, making the wet ink expand and marble into different shapes that look like creatures from the deep sea. Or maybe now is when the beautiful barista will reappear, walking in and out of the shade, looking at the clouds like I am.
I wait, I listen, I watch, but nothing happens. I hear an older man a few tables down pass gas and his friend's hysterical laughter makes everything stop. I think about it and refuse to acknowledge that that was what everything fell into place for. Now too many people are around my table and I feel things falling apart. I move inside and find a small table beneath a painting of two white horses. The melodic sounds of "The Ethiopiques" plays on the cafe's speakers and track lighting reflects off framed artwork.
Too many of the same colors, I think.
A friend calls and she lives nearby. What are you doing, she asks.
Waiting for the rain, I say. Come over.
She finds me beneath my two horses and tells me to follow her outside, where she rolls a cigarette. I lean against the newsstand, study the clouds, and watch her ritual. She breathes and rolls and smokes and smiles at the towering clouds.
We should go to my house, she says, it looks like it's about to rain.
I agree, and I walk my bike alongside her tattoos until we reach her apartment. We finish my coffee and watch the cars and bikes pass along the street. A few friends pass and wave to us on their way, and everything seems to fall into place again.
Evening descends and the sounds of frogs and crickets begins to drone above the sounds of the city. My eyes trace the vines that climb the brick buildings across the street, where a woman begins calling up to her friend's apartment. No one answers, but she calls and calls and my friend and I look at each other and laugh.
We say goodnight and I return home to my porch, where the wind is still gusting and dark clouds cover the sky. I bring the radio outside and listen to more old jazz, like Jelly Roll Morton and other New Orleans cats. I lean back, rest my legs on the balcony and close my eyes, thinking about the barista, my friend's tattoos, and the rain that never came.
I walk out onto my porch and see a dark range of clouds that look like blue mountains in the distance. They are miles away but I can already feel them thinning the air, relieving it of its moisture. The wind finally gusts and pulls the treetops in every direction. I return to the cool inside and pack a canvas backpack with notebooks, pens, "'Tis" by Frank McCourt, and a bottle of water.
I walk downstairs, unlock my yellow Schwinn and ride against the wind to the Spyhouse at 25th St. and Nicollet Ave, where my friend Sean and I went before seeing "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Guthrie Theater. We both dressed up to look the part and the barista said she liked my look. As we were leaving, I thanked her and we both looked back and smiled at each other. This is why I returned, hoping to see her in her black dress and buy coffee from her on a hot humid day and thank her as I left. So many beautiful women on these summer days in Minneapolis.
The sky begins to grow darker and I feel everything fall into place; cars parallel park, women unlock their apartment doors, and chairs are repositioned around the sidewalk cafe tables. I feel like something is about to happen, with all these actors and props so well-positioned, some significant event that will make me stop writing and simply stare into the street. Perhaps it will be a small accident on Nicollet Avenue, where driver after driver is undoubtedly texting and not minding the road. Or maybe raindrops will begin padding my notebook, making the wet ink expand and marble into different shapes that look like creatures from the deep sea. Or maybe now is when the beautiful barista will reappear, walking in and out of the shade, looking at the clouds like I am.
I wait, I listen, I watch, but nothing happens. I hear an older man a few tables down pass gas and his friend's hysterical laughter makes everything stop. I think about it and refuse to acknowledge that that was what everything fell into place for. Now too many people are around my table and I feel things falling apart. I move inside and find a small table beneath a painting of two white horses. The melodic sounds of "The Ethiopiques" plays on the cafe's speakers and track lighting reflects off framed artwork.
Too many of the same colors, I think.
A friend calls and she lives nearby. What are you doing, she asks.
Waiting for the rain, I say. Come over.
She finds me beneath my two horses and tells me to follow her outside, where she rolls a cigarette. I lean against the newsstand, study the clouds, and watch her ritual. She breathes and rolls and smokes and smiles at the towering clouds.
We should go to my house, she says, it looks like it's about to rain.
I agree, and I walk my bike alongside her tattoos until we reach her apartment. We finish my coffee and watch the cars and bikes pass along the street. A few friends pass and wave to us on their way, and everything seems to fall into place again.
Evening descends and the sounds of frogs and crickets begins to drone above the sounds of the city. My eyes trace the vines that climb the brick buildings across the street, where a woman begins calling up to her friend's apartment. No one answers, but she calls and calls and my friend and I look at each other and laugh.
We say goodnight and I return home to my porch, where the wind is still gusting and dark clouds cover the sky. I bring the radio outside and listen to more old jazz, like Jelly Roll Morton and other New Orleans cats. I lean back, rest my legs on the balcony and close my eyes, thinking about the barista, my friend's tattoos, and the rain that never came.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Birthday Card
8 - 4 - 10
Mom,
Happy Happy Birthday to you. You are the best Mom in the world,
and here are just a few reasons why I think so:
Love,
Sam
Mom,
Happy Happy Birthday to you. You are the best Mom in the world,
and here are just a few reasons why I think so:
- Your unconditional love. No matter what the circumstances are, I know your love will continue, as strong as ever. Thank you.
- Your guidance. You are so good at guiding others (especially your own children) and making sure they realize their potential. Thank you.
- Your cooking skills. You are a GREAT cook... Well, you do come in second to Dad, but at least you have a great mentor around the house! :) Thanks for all the delicious food.
- Your Spirit. No one can match the zest you have for life; thankfully, your zest is contagious. Thank you.
Love,
Sam
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