working the scene
*
Yesterday I was all giddy because I got to stick my gun in somebody's ear, which is becoming a rare thing. Then when I got home there was a journal with two of my poems in it.
It was nice. I liked it.
*
Later that night I got a call. A guy I know was in a shooting. He did good, his partner did good. But it made me feel like such an asshole, the earlier feeling I had about gunning this guy hiding in his bathtub. How too often I think it's all a kind of game. I don't know. It's complicated. I suppose it's natural to have conflicted feelings.
I shouldn't say anything about it.
*
This afternoon I was looking at this gun this guy used to blow his brains out. There was a feather stuck in the blood on the barrel. The guy had put a pillow over his face.
I don't know. It just seemed incongruous.
A little white feather stuck there.
*
posted by tearful dishwasher at 10:11 PM
7 Comments:
i was browsing through some older stuff last night, and stumbled onto a piece that goes back awhile, but i thought immediately of you, and i put it up on the blog, not so much for comments, but because i wanted you to have it.
we know so little about your work, and there's obviously so much you cannot begin to communicate. but you are an extraordinary artist, scott, and the glimpses you've given us go a long way in helping to shore up our own frail humanity.
i keep thinking about that white feather. there comes a point where all things seem to converge, and every aspect of one's life takes on significance.
I dreamed your bath tub last night. I couldn't figure out where it came from, now I know.
xor
nothing to say except i'm listening
& how
Jim-
I can't barely say anything except thanks. I'll trust you know how I feel about it.
Rebecca-
I am all the time having these dreams I'm convinced were intended for other people, dreams that are completely foreign to me.
It's about time somebody is picking up the dreams that were meant for me.
Glad we're sharing some bandwidth, whatever it is.
D-
I know. I'm glad of it, too.
I keep rereading this and wondering.
Too many what ifs to articulate.
Too many what ifs to collate.
I like the way this begins with the contradiction -- gun to poems -- then ends with the feather.
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