There Is Nothing to See Here

Yesterday I was at a local café that I generally strenuously avoid. (Strenuously: read: Its couches might be vermin-infested. No, I have no evidence of this.) And I was writing. I was one of those people with my iMac or iBook or whatever the crap it’s called these days on my lap. I even drank a fucking cappuccino. (I only drink espresso normally. The place coopted my brain.)

And after I’d finished working on a story, I realized that in this warm light on a cozy-if-disgusting couch it would be a decent time to write an actual blog entry. That’s when my neighborhood friend with a tremendous amount of hair came in and sat down. I find it hard to focus on what he says because of all the hair on his head—cascades of dark curls—and on his face, actual long scruff. While we were talking I peered beyond his massive dark head and snapped a photo of this, below, with my camera phone. I thought it would provide a backdrop to the blog entry I might write. I sent it to my e-mail, said goodnight to the hairy man and went home.

This morning I opened the photo. And, much to my usually irritatingly analytical sense of preemptive surprise, I realized I had taken a picture of a transom. An actual transom. When I took the photo, I was admiring the woodwork on the door and the strange insertion of it in the middle of a wall in the café, the fact that it was old-school Brooklyn, not that there was an actual fucking open-your-eyes transom.


Sometimes it seems you can eye things without really seeing them.

(And I slink into the day to regain my sense of subtlety...the rest is silence.)

Hiatusoidal

No, I don’t know when McBickle died either. She might just be sleeping. Or resting. Or working desperately to finish her new online networking project titled “Fuckbook.” Or “Fuckster.”* She’s not sure which. She also, in her reclining semi-state hopes she will figure out how to write in the first person again or at least not talk in the third person about herself. She thinks either or both would be a grand improvement over this shit she’s writing here, now.


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*Fine. Credit, because it must, goes to my friend who came up with this concept, a friend I have no suitable pseudonym for, unless you count that I’ve always just called him “Herpes.” Sounds vaguely Greco-Roman. And dirty. He’s one of those things, so it’s okay.