dear media diary
my best friend called me to tell me
that the whale watching had been canceled,
so i should meet her and her brother and his wife
downtown for a matinee of pan's ladybrinth,
which is like fantasy for adults, which is supposed
to be good. on the way out the door i picked
up the mail, and sorted through it,
throwing the bills back in the box.
i got a note on thick italian stationary
in a matching envelope from my friend
who is training to be a doctor, a rare gift.
i finished it at the bus stop, then pulled
the rolled up new yorker out of my
coat pocket. on the trip downtown i read
a piece about a man with a small life.
in the meantime, both of them,
the son and his mother,
lived in the murky, antiquated
house, in peace and in silence.
each morning, a cleaning woman
came, bringing with her
the groceries he'd requested.
it ended up as such a new yorker
piece of fiction though, nothing happens
nothing happens nothing happens
then something happens
that doesn't make any sense.
i was nostalic for the heart of the matter
which i had just finished reading.
it didn't dissapoint me at all.
in fact, it surpised me, and surprise
is the opposite of dissapointment.
i hopped off the bus.
on the street for a moment,
i heard some kind of marching band
street musicians. it was loud and cold.
the spring in my step suddenly
said "dammit, i love this city!" even
if i couldn't allow my actual mind
to think anything so simple and corny
as those words. it wasn't this city,
anyway, it was any street in any city,
these particular people walking by
and also any people walking by in any city.
the bustling crowds! and just before
i pushed triumphantly through
the doors to the westfield center
i thought it was any people in any place.
as the temperature changed in a few steps
i looked up in front of me.
i'd been to this new mall once before,
to see a movie with my best friend's brother
and his wife, and starting now i had never left.
i thought how crowded it was, and dazzling,
how full of all these hateful shopping drones.
what a long and irritating walk
i knew it would be to the cineplex.
photos can't seem capture the scale of this place
it so fully stuns you into submission, that at the door
i had the sensation of "steeling myself," usually
reserved for the aftermath of a disaster.
i charged, head down, toward the first
escalator. i must never waver.
i must find the people i know.
we are going to see a movie together.
i didn't like it when thing caught my eye,
especially scoop-necked shirts or kiosks full of jewelry.
when i finally reached the theater area
i couldn't seem to make out individual faces.
people's scuffy san francisco outfits looked
dirty against the pristine carpet, and too studied.
as i scanned the lobby i remembered
how last time i'd been here i'd bought
a huge cookies 'n' cream milkshake,
overdrafting my account, and making me queasy,
so i couldn't enjoy the roast beef sandwich my best friend
brought me to eat for dinner. i didn't see her
or her brother or his wife anywhere so i asked
where the bathrooms were. the ticket-taker
said they were downstairs, between the bloomies
and the borders, so i took the elevator
down one floor into a gleaming white tunnel
that kept turning at right angles and never
seemed to end until i came to a door.
the sign on the door had the image
of the mall's rotunda etched into it,
on frosted glass, behind the "lady."
i went through the door of the stall and used the toilet,
which flushed automatically, and put my hands under
the automatic tap and thought i guess i have to go
back upstairs, when my best friend came banging
through the bathroom door and stopped short
and said "there you are." we both looked puzzled.
she said "i saw you get into the elevator
and you didn't see me so i followed
you down into these white halls. weird. where
were you going?" i told her i couldn't make out
individual faces so i decided to go
to the bathroom. we took the elevator upstairs
and i hugged her brother and his wife .
we went in to see pan's labyrinth.
the forrest in it looked the same as the forrest
in children of men, which is the only other movie
i'd seen at the that theater. they were equally
powerful and unrelenting, torturous, epic
creative, and honest. we walked out
through the mall and rode the bus
home and my best friend sat
on my yellow armchair and read to me
about dido in the from the fagles
translation of the aeneid. i asked her
if "the heart of the matter"
could be considered a tradgedy.
it couldn't really,
but i wanted to bring it up,
because it was so good
and i cried at the end of it.
then we drove to taco bell
to get strawberry soda
and we talked on the way
about classic tragedies, mostly
about pity and fear.
posted by self_invasion | 8:30 PM
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