a reminder

i talked to willie tonight
michaels short term memory
is short
he is constantly reminded
of the date and year
i spoke to him on the phone
after willie
it wasn't easy


i gave hazel a bath tonight
actually she showered with me
sugar goes to the groomers in the morning
it was only fair
the apartment smells of dog
and still a hint of burnt beans
from four days ago
i'm not a cook

a storm

atop a mountain, Santa Fe, New Mexico

a pack of m&m's

the laundry mat
was hot tonight.
watching the rain
i ate two packets of cheese nips
and drank a pepsi.
a pack of plain m&m's
for dessert.
i am sticky
and tired
and missing willie.
sugar has to go
pee a lot
and the fridge
has nothing rightful
to keep cold.

a river

when we lived
by the east river

there were
floating
christmas trees

when we lived
by the east river

we were
floating.

a poem

i kept spelling BE NICE
even stole letters
from PENIS
and NIGGERZ
to do so
someone took my C
then my N
they spelled CUNT
i stole my letters back
and spelled
BE NICE

a container

her
RAPTURE
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beauty dust

a con artist

the brain is convex
concave and convoluted

let alone considerate

and to the contrary
contemptuous

and a con artist to boot.

remember me this.

a believer

At night, during the late hours when I can not sleep, I often think of things I can not change and those I can no longer touch. I think of my three cats at times, Mavis, Madeline, and Camille, which I took to a farm belonging to an ex-boyfriends parents, as he was allergic to them and we were moving to Chicago together. I visited them a week later only to find they had ran away. After searching on a long walk I found Camille on the side of the road. I picked her up and took her back to the farm and buried her in the woods. Mavis and Madeline were never seen again. I still cry over that, kick myself.

I think of my grandmother, Delma, as well, and often. She was a ceramist and lived in Indiana most of her life. She must have poured over a thousand or more molds and before firing, while the object was still cool, damp and impressionable, she would sign each one on the bottom, “by Del” along with the year. She passed away in 1990.

My memories of Billy Graham began in my childhood. We grew up without religion in our lives. We were sent to Sunday school a few times, I believe out of social pressure from my grandparents and neighbors, otherwise, my parents really did not favor "organized" religion. My mother said god was in trees and in nature.

During the years between 1968 through 1977 my sister and I ( we were never separated, that is until Mrs. Wagner borrowed Jacqueline for a day to "assist in hanging some blinds" in kindergarten, Jacqueline never returned to Mrs. Cook's class and I then had Mrs. Cook all to myself and a huge name tag was never hung around my neck again) anyway, my sister and I would spend many weekends at our grandmothers. Saturday mornings were met with the sound of classical music from the AM radio and the smell of eggs, toast, and coffee (lots of milk and sugar). Our days were spent in the cool basement with our hands in wet clay, evenings we were outside under the large Pine trees. At dusk we watched Lawrence Welk.
Sunday mornings were as welcoming as Saturdays, the only difference was, instead of heading to the basement after cleaning the breakfast dishes my grandmother would watch Billy Graham on television. I can still see her in her chair, hands folded in her lap with a handkerchief, listening attentively. I can see his young handsome face and hear his charismatic voice, right arm raised pointing to his savior.

While living in Chicago, in 1998, I was dining at a friend of a friends house. During the dinner party I noticed two ceramic candle holders with a beautiful white and blue marble glazing, on the table. While others conversed I slid one of the candle holders towards me and turned it over. The bottom read “by Del 1968”.

I am making the trek to Queens tomorrow, not because I seek salvation, but silly as it may seem to some, I am going to see him, listen to him, because of those memories of the sound of that classical music, the smell of those eggs, toast and that sweetly sweetened milkened coffee. For the smell of those Pine trees and in memory of my grandmother, Delma Orpha Geiger.

a fugitive

One of my favorite films is “The Little Fugitive”, 1953, photographed by Morris Engel, written and directed by Ray Ashley, Morris Engel, and Ruth Orkin. It is a story about a 7 year old boy who flees to Coney Island after a misunderstood mishap with his older brother. I think in the past year I have purchsed eight or nine copies and have given them as a gift to those who are new parents to a baby boy.

My husbands name is William. I call him Bill, as does his family. His friends call him Willie, and on some days, so do I. My name is Gwendolyn. Growing up I was called Wendi, I am not sure when I started spelling it with an “i” because there is evidence in some children's books where I signed my autograph “Wendy”. Later documents indicate that I tried to sophisticate it a bit by spelling it “Wendi”, and this is how I remember spelling it. After high school I switched to my full birth name “Gwendolyn”.

I was born in 1963.

Bill returned home after spending a long weekend in Santa Fe, New Mexico visiting his brother. While he was there he went to a used bookstore, as he is a collector of rare photography books. He usually has a book in mind but during this visit he did not and was just there to browse. He came across a book with black and white images that reminded him of the film “The Little Fugitive”. He purchased the book and waited to thoroughly engage himself in it for his flight home. It was then that he noticed who the author/photographer had dedicated the book to.

I sat in our chase lounge chair with Bill at my side and looked at the cover and read the title “WILLIE”. I was instructed to start in the front and look at every single page. I had to be instructed to do this because I always look at books and magazines back to front, and Bill finds this a bit odd, and sometimes a little frustrating if we are looking at something together. I opened the book and read the following words on the inside of the dust jacket:

In the upper left corner is price sticker which reads: $14.50, out of print, 1963

“The book of WILLIE celebrates the exuberant spark of life in a city child for whom the world is four years old and one block long. Photographer Ken Heyman observes with a clear and compassionate eye. Writer Michael Mason’s counterpoint is vigorous and perceptive. The result is a beautiful and moving image of the universals of boyhood.”


I then proceeded to turn the page to read the following words:

WILLIE
photographs by Ken Heyman
words by Michael Mason
A Bridge Press Book/ Atheneum

I then turned to the next page and as I reached a quarter of my turn I saw the name for whom the book was dedicated to, by either the photographer or the writer, or perhaps both, in the upper right hand corner. I read the following words:

For Wendy

I looked up at Willie and he said to me “I purchased the book for my collection, but, it looks like it is meant for you”.

So, there you have it.............a book called WILLIE dedicated to Wendy in 1963

a story

In 1995 I, along with my boyfriend at the time, moved from Indianapolis to Chicago into an 8000 sq. ft raw warehouse space, top floor of two stories. And this is where the following stories begin.

I’ll start with Mufasa, a Rottweiler mix that my sister offered me for protection due to the location of my new humble abode, and she was moving into an apartment that did not allow dogs. Mu was about three at the time and very reluctant to stay with me. The first day I had to leave him he persistently followed me to the door, which was a huge rolling ton of wood and the counter weight was broken so I was only able to roll it open wide enough for me to go through before it proved my lack of strength. So as not to open an opportunity for Mufasa to get smashed while he tried to follow me out I put him in our bathroom, a 600 square ft. space with huge windows that swung outward, hinged on the sides. I left the door ajar just enough so he could nudge it open when I am gone. As I get into my car I do not feel good about what I have done. But at the time there were many things in my life that could have been feeding this uneasiness. I shook it off, I was late for work. In route to work I had a vision, a bad thought. I saw the opened bathroom window. I realized the height of the window was low. Low enough for Mufasa to watch me leave in my car. I had about a twenty five minute commute. The warehouse was on the south side of Chicago, 35th and California. Don’t bother to look it up, it no longer exist. That’s another story. So, I arrive to work in Lincoln Park, a frame shop I managed, and would later became my home. The first thing I did was check the message machine. There was one message. It was my boyfriend calling to tell me that Mufasa had fallen out of the bathroom window (about a 40 ft. drop). The guys at the tire rehab down stairs had seen it happen and had carried him to the dock. He was still alive. I do not remember the drive home, or the drive to the animal hospital, but I do remember the call I had to make to my sister. Miraculously Mufasa escaped with only one broken leg and my sister relocated to a “dog friendly” house and Mu made a complete recovery with no limp, and lived happily ever after back home in Indiana to the ripe old age of twelve. Shortly thereafter my boyfriend, at the time, moved out, and I had 8000 square feet to myself.

Though my rent was only $600 dollars I decided I should place an ad in the paper for a roommate. I was not keen on roommates, this now ex was the first, I had hoped it would be the last but 8000 sq. ft I could divide, and charge $600. I knew it would be difficult to find someone as the place was “out of the way”, and um....not zoned residential and not heated, except for the once-a-bigassfreightelevator turned closet with lofted bed equipped with space heater . Did I mention the 16 ft. high ceilings? Yeah, the place was a friggin’ castle. I immediately received two responses from the ad. The first possibility was a sculptor. He called and we arranged to meet outside, down by the loading dock. He pulls up in a Volvo and I see in the passenger side a lovely young woman. He gets out of the car first, we shake hands and introduce ourselves. I sense his apprehension towards the surroundings and find it humorous, being that I have lived there a while, and alone at that. His passenger then exits the car and he introduces us and we smile and I tell her I like her dress, a cute little sleeveless mini, complimented with heels. I look at him, and I get the feeling he knows what I am thinking........”this so isn't going to work out”. I should add that at this time in my life I was a bit “butch”. My hair was about a half inch short, I showered when necessary (paint your own picture), and could not care any less what I had thrown together to call an “outfit”. So, we walk onto the dock, open a door that leads into a cold empty dark space about 5000 square feet, follow the light coming through a door, open that door and walk up four flights of stairs, open another door into another dark empty cold space of about another 5000 square feet and walk towards the huge rolling door that I did not want Mufasa to get smashed with. I pull the door open and use the weight of my body as a stop and allow the two to pass before I slide away and let the door slam. “Here it is” I proclaim, I see the disbelief in their eyes. Disbelief that I am living there, disbelief that it can actually, possibly be the 8000 sq. ft. that the ad said it was, with the 16 ft. high ceilings, and enclosed room on the roof, along with a two commode bathroom complete with shower. I don’t remember much about their visit, I do, however, remember the girlfriend asking “Where would we put the washer and dryer?” I recall her being a cellist, he a train dispatcher by night, artist by day. And I do remember walking back down to their car and knowing that I would not see them again.

The second possibility, an artist/painter at a pretty reputable gallery, actually got as far as agreeing to pay $600 (not knowing what my rent actually was), paying the first months rent including a deposit, and purchasing lumber and drywall to build out his space. Then, decided to move to New York. I found this funny because that’s where the landlord lived. I only met him once, shortly after we rented the place. Anyway, possibility number 2 returned his lumber and drywall to Home Depot and told me to keep the deposit. I canceled the ad and proceeded to live in the castle alone, well, actually, not quite alone. You see, almost every night someone was trying to break into either the tire shop downstairs, or my place upstairs, which there was no way they could get to me. When my boyfriend, at the time, lived there, he made every door solid. Complete with anchors to hold a 2 x 4 wider than the door jam. Every night we had lock down. I continued that ritual when he left. I retreat to that warehouse, in a corner of my mind, when I need space. And I see him, and I see me. I see the nights illuminated by every bulb I replaced with an old wooden ladder so long I could barely carry the damn thing let alone stand it upright. I see the bed I made of scaffolding and placed in the middle of the 2000 sq. ft. studio so the mice would not care for the journey. I recall a whole bunch of other what-the-hell-was-I-doing-moments as well. Another eager time to come forward in my memory bank is the time I was driving home one evening. About a mile from the warehouse I could see a thick black cloud in the clear blue summer evening sky. Traffic began to bunch up. I noticed the traffic on the interstate overpass ahead was at a stand still. I began to remap my route home. But I could not get within a half a mile. The cloud began to spread and I soon began to smell the burning air. I parked my car and began walking home. Began the walk to the source of that black cloud and burning rubber, burning tires. It was a five alarm fire. Every news station and fire engine in the city was at my homestead, my now, heated castle. I was allowed one trip in. They had contained the fire thus far with a "water wall", between the space that divided my place and the fire. I was accompanied by two fireman while I retrieved my cameras, my negatives, my slides, and my parakeet. I packed a small suitcase, which later became a chair when I called Jacqueline in Baltimore from the gas station pay phone. I later found out that she was working on a painting titled Red Delicious Black Beauty at the time she received my call. I put very little effort in recollecting those hours, those moments. Those memories are too heavy to drag out. I have the news paper article in the Chicago Tribune if I need a reminder. It was speculated to be arson, arranged by the owner. I placed what little was not pillaged, smoked damaged or useful into storage, and I moved into the frame shop. Where the fitting table became a bed at night, and a large sink became a sit down into tub/shower. And what was intended to be temporary ended up being a year stay, and one of the best years of my life. I made great use of living in Lincoln Park. A great bar across the street, a great movie theater, great food. I lived in the city. I lived where I worked. I worked where I lived. The shop I designed (ok, I did not design it alone. My ex and I designed it together when we were together) and managed was written up in the Tribune (ok, small article in the home section) and I was having a ball.

One day, a year after super dog leaped from the window, months after the fire and many many months after the two possible roommates, I come back from lunch and my coworker tells me that some guy called and he is going to stop by later. I said “who is it”, and he said “ It’s some guy who has a friend in Ohio who knows a guy here in Chicago that lives in a warehouse that might have space available. The guy said that his friend in Ohio gave him the frame shops number to contact the guy with warehouse space. Well, this guy with the warehouse space happens to be my ex, who no longer works at the frame shop and no longer lives in the warehouse, and no longer lives in Chicago. So my coworker tells this to the caller and also tells him that Gwendolyn USE to live in the warehouse space but the warehouse no longer exist, yadda yadda yadda. So the caller said "Gwendolyn? Did you say Gwendolyn?” and my coworker said “Yes, Gwendolyn”. The caller then said “Tell Gwendolyn I’m stopping by later this evening." So that evening a gentleman comes into the shop and ask for me and my coworker comes to the back room and tells me that the guy that called earlier was there to see me. I walk out to the showroom and the guy looks at me as if I was suppose to recognize him. I did not. He said “Do you know who I am? and I replied, “Not really.” He said “ I’m Chris, I came to look at that warehouse space with my girlfriend a few months back”. And I said “What?" and he said “Yeah, me and my girlfriend came to look at..” and I cut him off and said “Yeah, I heard that part, and I remember that part, but how did you find me here?” He said “ I was not looking for you, I was talking with my friend in Ohio and he said he had a friend here in Chicago that might have studio space available in some warehouse and he gave me the number to this frame shop. I was trying to reach your boyfriend I guess. It seems he and I have a mutual friend in Ohio, and it seems the warehouse he was referring to, I had already seen and did not know it.” So, there stood the guy, with the cellist girlfriend concerned about the location of the washer and dryer who I thought I would never see again. Well, I never did see her again, but Chris, the sculptor is one of my dearest friends now. He is a great artist, an amazing photographer and film maker. Chris, if you are reading this, and I know you will because I am going to e-mail you and ask you to edit it for any inaccuracies, I want you to know that the dvd you sent me is absolutely the f*cking bomb. You rock. I want to go on and on about the Purple Steer diner, and how you use to talk my ear off when you got home from the graveyard shift and drank a six pack as I struggled to stay awake. How I use to get high and you could not because you were randomly drug tested, even though you told me all the ways you could “clean” quickly. Though Whiting still stinks Bill wants to move there because the houses are big and cheap. I’d remove that limestone flame from Indianapolis Avenue to my back yard. How would ya like that?

So there you have it, a few Chicago stories. Oh, and by the way, I did run into possible roommate number 2, actually, here in New York, while having brunch with JKH at St. Helen's about a year ago. He's no longer a painter, he's living in Williamsburg and makes music. Funny stuff.

a letter

a letter to Jacqueline from 12.9.98 sent from Chicago to Baltimore

Dearest J,

I apologize for the delay of this birthday missive. Long hours at the mill and demands from my four legged roommate leave me dreary and therefore reluctant to gather my thoughts and send them your way. Currently I have engaged myself into a positive and energetic mode. I am enjoying my commute to and from work, as the experience has been different each day. Each bus has carried a different and unfamiliar load, and the drivers disposition is still a mystery to me as nine times out of ten....they have their head up their ass.

Today:
While on the bus......
A man and boy sit in front of me. The man, 50ish, with snow white hair and beard, the boy looked to be about 7. The boy talked freely at the window as he folded a one dollar bill into an airplane. The man gazed at him in admiration, allowing the boy to be a child. It seemed to me as though he was absorbing the child's "being". There was some physical distance between them. As the window was slightly opened, the boy was catching the breeze on his face as he talked about his dollar bill. The man began to caress the boys hair very gently, still looking steadily at the boys profile. The boy became silent and continued to play with his dollar bill, as if to allow himself to feel the mans hand on his head and then his neck and to his cheek the fingers lightly brushed. The boy distanced himself from the window...nestled into the mans side as the arm of the man wrapped around him. A smile was on the face of the man the entire duration within that space in time. As they depart the bus they appear anxious for one another and what was ahead.

On the same bus......
A man and a young girl sit to the left of me. The man, late 30's, the girl looked to be 7, and lonely. She sucked on her fingers until the man pulled them from her mouth. They exchanged this gesture several times with no giving of words. When they departed from the bus, the man walked ahead of the girl as if he wanted to lose her, and she stayed behind....as if she wanted to be lost.

Contrast
   on a bus ride


I love you,
g

a path

still motion