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Sep
2005
American Canons
Dispatches from the Political Environment
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| american
canons, anonymous, matt briggs, mark flanigan, lindsay caron,
nico vassilakis, william levy and max skeans broadside, cybil
weigel, constitution of the united states of america, poetry,
broadsides posters, essay, short story |
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| Lindsay
Caron: Red |
“ Hi. I’m your new nudist neighbor.”
He stood in my doorway in a tattered, worn-thin
terry cloth robe, red hair ablaze in the light that filtered through the rainbow
and shattered-glass-adorned corridor between our two doors. His grin betrayed
an innocence that most humans forego at an all too tender age. He flipped his
long red mane like a practiced drag queen, and produced a hand to shake, then
waltzed decadently into my new apartment, squinting at trinkets and fixtures,
oohing and aahing at the plum faux-paint job and Asian lamp fixtures.
I’m motionless, still holding the door open, my head cocked inquisitively
to one side.
“ Yay.” I surmise.
I like this new neighbor.
Moments later – he’s fixed his robe
a bit more securely now – he assists me in holding up some wall hooks as
I arm myself with a hammer and aim at his plump and hairy hands.
“Be careful with that. You don’t want
my blood on your walls. Or anywhere near you, in fact.”
I’ve never – to my knowledge – actually
known anyone who is HIV positive. In contemplating writing of my new friend and
choosing a pseudonym, I momentarily toyed with the idea of calling him Positive.
Sick. Sick the way we choose to identify people
with labels “Dready Boy or Plug Chick or Black Conservative in a Suit Guy”.
And of all the many fascinating characteristics inherit in this fabulous man,
a nanosecond of a moment flashed through my story-weaving brain waves that instinctively
called him 'Positive.'
I’ve settled on Red. Far more fitting. If
not for his amazing mane and the constant dramatic usage of it, then simply for
the undeniable similarities between him and the other “Reds” in my
life. There’s been two. One was a cartoonist who accurately depicted himself
in his toons; the other a puppeteer who relied on a similar tactic. All three:
characters. The sort of person you expect to find in a movie like Priscilla Queen
of the Desert or The Royal Tennanbaums, but to have as a constant in your own
reality makes you continuously pinch yourself…and smile.
The rarity of a dull day is completely diminished
by the eternal flow of fascinating characters passing through my space.
So there’s a new Red in my life. One for
each city in which I’ve taken up a lengthy residence. Amazing how everyone
has a twin, or at least a close cut-out, somewhere in the world. So many of my
relationships, friends and characters repeat themselves in each new life I create.
Perhaps that is why I’m eternally single: I never want to recreate the
hell that was my first! ;)
So many carbon copies – so many unique individuals.
The juxtaposition of that truth resonates through
my veins.
We all came from the same blood: Black or Jew,
Mohammed, too, all initiated from the same creator, or from a fucking fish, if
that’s your view.
When did we deviate?
A Positive took precedence over O Negative’s
weak disposition. HIV, Gee when did that infection
first offend?
And O y oh y did hatred ever infect the
bloodstream of a select few who ruin the progress of this much blessed city?
These thoughts flow through my veins as news spreads
of another neighbor mugged last night. Boy stopped to give a brother a cigarette,
walked away and a brick smashed down upon the back of his skull. He was less
than a hundred feet from the gate of safety that is our front door. He stood
underneath Red’s window. The mugger – mother fucker – is lucky
he didn’t bash in Red.
Another Day in the Life… 4-1-05
As I enter an apparently sex-less and seriousness-laden
phase of life, Red and our other neighbor, DJ Green Thumb - prove to be my ties
to raves of old and 3AM cartoon network. DJ GT’s alias is derived from
the fact that he spins some bad ass music – both at home and in the club – and
grows some even badder weed, plus some other lovely household foliage. And I
made out with another guy who kind of “lives” in the building.
Oops.
Everyone in the building is freaking nuts (except
me, of course). But I feel it’s necessary to point out that one of them
is a pimp. Yes, there is a pimp in my building. Apparently, he’s a high
classy pimp (not that I’ve known any others to make an accurate comparison…).
He has several pretty ladies and a high tech security system. And quite the temper.
We don’t like him so much.
And so life rages on. February too depressed to
write, March – too busy.
Happy April Fools Day.
I sit buried under a mess of papers, clothing and
knick knacks, already askew from haphazard, whirlwind visits to the apartment
between gigs but made exponentially more chaotic by the wind swirling past my
burgundy curtains.
Upon discovering (via stumbling over) a broken
artifact - some relic from of one of my past lives - I exhale an amused “humpf”.
Moments later through the door I hear “what cha doin?”
I pull the door open and look down, bewildered.
Red is sitting in a chair placed directly in front of my studio. He’s wearing
his torn, tattered and worn too thin terry cloth robe, long red hair piled up
into a messy bun. He peers at me over his wire frame glasses, perfectly plucked
brows arched into a question mark of curiosity, before shrugging, sipping daintily
from his tea cup and returning to his book.
Please take a moment to envision such a man parked
in the hallway as you unsuspectingly throw open your front door.
An impromptu roof top barbecue with the neighbors
at sunset prohibits me from being sufficiently productive on my one day off.
The sunset and ethereal moonrise proved more than worth it. But most notable,
was the love. Nuzzling between blankets, baring the chill simply to enjoy each
other as the city we all love changed its old jeans rapidly to evening wear before
our eyes. Laughter ensued as we danced off the week prior, yielding to a more
tender moment, as life hit some hard, and we lament the vacant atrocities of
the neighborhood, conjure schemes of what it could and should be.
And we sat in silence.
Comfortable contentment. All agreeing – this
is exactly what I needed.
Nervous Breakdowns and Build-Ups 7-15-05
This morning, in my under wear on the roof eating
cereal, when Red pokes his head up out of his leaf-shrouded roof trap.
"Hi. Um...I trying to run...do you mind moving?"
Puzzled, I respond.
"Honey, you run in circles inside your apartment,
on a track of interlacing platforms that weave throughout your humongous tropical
plants. I am on the roof. How does that affect you?"
Noted that Red has lived here ten years, as have
his plants. He essentially has a tropical forest in his upstairs art studio -
where he jogs almost daily.
" You're loud."
"No I'm not. A - I virtually tip-toe up here,
and besides - I'm currently sitting still enjoying the view, eating my cereal."
" I know, but it's an energy thing. You're
blocking it."
" Of course."
It's a good thing that he gives me ample reason
to love him.
Last week sucked. My car impounded, my bicycle
stolen, my e-mail service croaked and phone will no longer hold a charge. Yes,
I am cursed.
In the midst of my third screaming fit followed
by nervous break down, he dragged me out of my bedroom and forced me to go upstairs.
After wailing “I don’t have time for this shit!!! I can’t!
I…I…” I finally complied with his request.
The initial hint of a smile crept upon my face
as I entered the hallway. Last week he painted and decorated the half in front
of my door A La Moi - and nailed it perfectly.
Half the hallway screams “Red” and
the other half.... It's amazing that an individual can breech their own artistic
style and so closely create something that embodies the style of another!
Then I went to the large and cluttered storage
space upstairs, to find a beautiful, clean and welcoming practice space and office.
He organized my greatest clutter. Saved me hours
of stress and energy and...
There is no greater gift.
I cried.
I love that fucking lunatic.
His kitty litter stench just might kill me, though.
Red’s Red 8-4-05
Woh. Red just knocked on my door. “You got
any bandages?”
“ Yeah.” I wish I also had rubber gloves.
He fell while on a ladder attempting to open his
skylight, grabbing onto glass before he tumbled onto some plants.
I tend to be more than mildly repulsed by the sight
of others’ bloody wounds – odd considering the ease and frequency
with which I confront my own –but this, of course, was different. Petrifying.
I knew the day would come. Red is a ridiculously
talented artist; his living room mimics “Where the Wild Things Are” and
his bedroom “Starry Night” with brilliantly represented planets.
But his forte is the creation of gorgeous pieces comprised of window frames dressed
in broken glass and mirror.
I peeled open band aid packages, and passed the
bandages to his non-bloody fingers, still never coming in contact with his skin.
I opened the triple antibiotic, squirting some on those same two non-contaminating
fingers. I yelped a bit when a drop of blood oozed from the chunk of skin dangling
from his heel. My breath was slow and heavy.
”This is scary” I uttered, looking
him in the eye with a faint smile. I never came in contact with his skin, let
alone blood. I washed my extremities with anti-bacterial soap afterwards.
I contemplated the bizarre peacefulness of being
alive in this skin.
Moments later I opened the doorway to find Red
spraying & wiping down the hallway.
“The virus lives a very short while outside
the body, but this is bleach water anyway….”
Time to go see what damage I did upstairs. Landed
on some plants….” He hobbled off.
I wanted to help him upstairs, too. But couldn’t. Instead I bent down
and sprayed the bleach water on my hands and feet, stuck between filling
like I actually just risked something and I’m being silly and unnecessarily
scared and didn’t do enough.
“ By the way” he stuck his head around
the corner. “You were a great nurse.”
“ Yeah, right! I opened packages.”
“No really. You stayed very calm, and that’s
all you could do.”
There are a few times in my life when death has
breathed heavy on my neck. This was not one of them. At the forefront of my memory
is when I fell - head-first – down a mine shaft. I was alone in a side
canyon off of Havasupai, had no flashlight, and new there was just enough light
see all the walls of this shaft straight through to the final back wall. I just
didn’t count on not seeing the floor. How I ended up falling head first
still seems a mystery against physics. But how I managed to stop myself, cling
to the pitch black vertical rock walls surrounding me, and climb out while still
up-side is an even greater mystery – and miracle. I laid on the dirt floor
of the shaft panting for a few brief moments, then allowed my feet to take my
dazed mind back to my friends and our campgournd, where I proceeded to wash my
wounds in the river and cry and thank God for my life.
Obviously, far more extreme than today’s
scenario. But some similar senses wash over me now. Completely drained, with
a new illumination gleaning over this strange journey of life.
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