Thoughts on September Costs of Living
Suffering and the price of oil inflate together
And I wake to the cerulean skies that signify September is here
Bright blue days that beg to be filled
With visions of four dollar gallons of gasoline dancing in my head, I oil the chain on my bicycle, and gather:
my emo notepad (the “m” being blacked out)
a pen,
and camera.
Before I leave the house I change the Jewish calendar hanging in the kitchen to September – Teshuvah – the time when people ask for forgiveness.
I push off, reveling in the syncopated stretch of lungs and legs, oh glory.
September, from Middle English, for 7th month, though in the switch from Julian calendar to Gregorian calendar, the seven became a nine.
Last year was the first year in a long time that I didn’t associate this month with disaster.
But this year, the media once again broadcasts cries for help.
The only thing that made me smile during the ninth month of 2001 was watching the gourmet chefs of NYC prepare meals for rescue and recovery workers.
Their golden hands lay idle, food growing rancid in silent, streamlined kitchens.
They made meatloaf from filet mignon and the joy on their faces as they did so was palpabale, transcendental.
Food and nourishment being the work of the living.
In the hours following the attacks I, too, retreated to the kitchen and, with less refined hands, prepared soup and toasted cheese sandwiches for the cable-less masses assembled in my living room.
Pedaling on, I make a circuit of the Square, coasting down Palisades and then à droite on Royal Ave. Sunshine dappling the red cobblestone beneath my tires, passing small European automobiles tucked in quiet alcoves. Past minivans with stickers proclaiming “Go Vegan!”, past Le Chateau du Jolie Laide and on down into the valley of (Mt.) Peace.
The cemetery is divided by ancient ethnicities, from far-flung lands but with all souls arriving at the same destination.
I pronounce their names, the words migrating over different parts of my tongue. I pay my respects to the familiar markers and wonder if I'm a more frequent visitor than kith and kin.
Graveyard real estate:
The Garden of Prayer
The Garden of Angels
Babyland
And which is more desirable?
I catch myself thinking particular gravestone scripts would make handsome fonts, then do a quick mental calculation to see how many Hell Points I’ve tallied.
Assembled in Babyland I see:
A child’s sandpail
A stuffed elephant
An empty urn
But really, who am I to judge the fetishes of grief?
And I wake to the cerulean skies that signify September is here
Bright blue days that beg to be filled
With visions of four dollar gallons of gasoline dancing in my head, I oil the chain on my bicycle, and gather:
my emo notepad (the “m” being blacked out)
a pen,
and camera.
Before I leave the house I change the Jewish calendar hanging in the kitchen to September – Teshuvah – the time when people ask for forgiveness.
I push off, reveling in the syncopated stretch of lungs and legs, oh glory.
September, from Middle English, for 7th month, though in the switch from Julian calendar to Gregorian calendar, the seven became a nine.
Last year was the first year in a long time that I didn’t associate this month with disaster.
But this year, the media once again broadcasts cries for help.
The only thing that made me smile during the ninth month of 2001 was watching the gourmet chefs of NYC prepare meals for rescue and recovery workers.
Their golden hands lay idle, food growing rancid in silent, streamlined kitchens.
They made meatloaf from filet mignon and the joy on their faces as they did so was palpabale, transcendental.
Food and nourishment being the work of the living.
In the hours following the attacks I, too, retreated to the kitchen and, with less refined hands, prepared soup and toasted cheese sandwiches for the cable-less masses assembled in my living room.
Pedaling on, I make a circuit of the Square, coasting down Palisades and then à droite on Royal Ave. Sunshine dappling the red cobblestone beneath my tires, passing small European automobiles tucked in quiet alcoves. Past minivans with stickers proclaiming “Go Vegan!”, past Le Chateau du Jolie Laide and on down into the valley of (Mt.) Peace.
The cemetery is divided by ancient ethnicities, from far-flung lands but with all souls arriving at the same destination.
I pronounce their names, the words migrating over different parts of my tongue. I pay my respects to the familiar markers and wonder if I'm a more frequent visitor than kith and kin.
Graveyard real estate:
The Garden of Prayer
The Garden of Angels
Babyland
And which is more desirable?
I catch myself thinking particular gravestone scripts would make handsome fonts, then do a quick mental calculation to see how many Hell Points I’ve tallied.
Assembled in Babyland I see:
A child’s sandpail
A stuffed elephant
An empty urn
But really, who am I to judge the fetishes of grief?
posted by locus sigilli at 2:16 PM
3 Comments:
a breakfast consisting of coffee and copious amounts of endorphins is not necessarily a good thing.
thank you.
-the mgmt
the "fetishes of grief" is quite possibly one of the most haunting and beautiful phrases i have ever read.
thanks.
thank you, miss k.
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