Bedbugs VIII

Bedbugs VIII



Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




She takes her time getting used to violet sunlight
but the jacks spread across the floor have the
consistency of the folds of roses and following
the attempt of the last insects shot in a fisheye lens
which don't matter venetian shafts of light that are bottled
in a manner that suggests grey brackets and triumphant
behaviors and wild rust, everywhere. Indeed.
Taking it somewhere better requires love I can't give.
The fifth floor walkup, the red hat from a period piece
must be May's, though I've never met her. Striking weather
inside somewhere, following up on emotions that
I enjoy. Animals resting on the mountain, blue sky
is easy to locate as snow and gravel and..put the
lights back on!






Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:






-deacon's parity fantasy veiled
-thirty eight warped steps
-opera seats whittled down
-pen ran out of
-slipping off groaning, grating brackets
-embracing what's necessary
-cold in the back of the room

-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.

Teddie DiKiekens' Sports Bonanza

Teddie is an explosive sports personality with a flair for the fantastic! He shoots from the leg and always gets the scoop on the beat of sporting. When he’s not “rejecting the free throw” or “robbing from where mama keeps the cookies on top of the cupboard”, he’s ALL OVER the sporting breaking news…

Here’s Teddie for the week of 11/26/07

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The Story Slice: "The Loan"

by Brian Hughes

“I’m grateful God. I am blessed to be alive and be in your service,” Iris whispered to herself kneeling at a pew inside The St. Joseph’s Baptist Church. Iris liked to wear carnations in her hair like Billie Holiday. “Watch over my Devon. He wants to change; I know he does. Please give him this bank loan so that he may start ovr a-fresh.” She then clasped her freshly lotioned hands together, closed her eyes and said a Glory-Be and an Our Father.

Like a bunny rabbit, she sped toward the doors, only to be stopped by Reverend Johnston.

“Dear Iris – good morning. How are you?”
“I’m fine Reverend.”
Reverend Johnston had a manicured moustache and the honest eyes of a Golden Retriever.
“How is Devon? Is he okay?”
“Yes Reverend. We’re trying to straighten out his credit situation.”
“Ah, yes … credit cards are the devil’s workshop.”
“We’re trying to get a loan so that he may be able to pay off his debts.”
“I’ll say a prayer.”
“Thank you Reverend Johnston. I have to go; I’m running late for work.”
“God bless you.”
“See you on Sunday!” tossed out Iris as she threw open the metal bar of the church doors, the Reverend smiling after her.

Iris carried a shopping list in her left hand and pushed a red cart with her right - eyes darting in and out of the aisles of the supermarket – rushing, stopping and starting – grabbing a peanut butter on this shelf, snatching toilet paper from that shelf. She looked down at her watch and then over her shoulder to see if the lines were swelling at the registers; they weren’t. Good, she thought. Stopping in the soup aisle, she noticed that they were out of Macaroni and Bean. Iris thrust her long arm behind the varieties of soup cans in hopes that there was one more left in the darkness of the inner shelf; but there was none. “Oh, well,” she thought as she grabbed a few cans of lentil.

Iris was paying at the registers when Josie, the head cashier, walked over to her.

“You’re needed at the returns desk.”
“I know … I know … don’t you think I heard my name called. My lunch break is not over yet.” Iris looked down at her watch and shook her head in frustration.
“Well don’t be getting up in my grill,” Josie said as she walked away in a huff.

After having stowed her groceries away in the store locker room, Iris set out into the madness of the super market. She put on her poly-cotton managers vest and wrapped her register keys around her upper arm. A stout woman wearing a hairnet was waiting to damn Iris to hell.

“This is not acceptable, you here! Not acceptable!”
“Let me see the receipt.”
“This is just not acceptable.”
Iris gave the receipt a quick once over and handed it back to the irate woman. “Go ahead and make an even exchange.”
“This is not acceptable!”
“I said you can make the exchange!”
“Oh … all right. Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
“Iris?” asked Josie.
“You hear this woman? They are trying to put me in the madhouse, but I’m not going without a fight. What do you need?”
“Karen needs you for a void.”
“Take care of this gentleman over here. He always returns canned goods to get money for his prescription. Just check the dates on the cans – if they are good, we’ll take them.”
Iris hurried over to Karen to take care of her void, meanwhile Mr. Burkson, the head store manager, opened up his office door and called out to Iris.
“Iris, could you come here for a moment.”
Her phone rang. It was her mom.
“What do you want mom, I’m busy.”
“Kayla is hungry – what am I supposed to feed her – dirt from the playground?”
“Mom please! There is plenty of oatmeal left. Feed her that till I come by.”
“Don’t forget the toilet paper.”
“I didn’t.”
“And the soup!”
“Goodbye mom.”

It was 4:03 in the afternoon. Iris could tell without looking down at her watch. Why? Because “Hella Good” by No Doubt was playing on the C-Town radio station. Everyday the same rotation of songs played at the same time. It bothered Iris that she noticed this. It almost drove her crazy.
Iris hurried into Mr. Burkson’s office. “I’m not looking forward to this,” Iris said to herself as she opened the door to find Darryl Walker leaning against the office wall, arms folded, eyes coldly staring back at her.

“You’re a liar and a bitch is what you are.”
“That’s enough of that Darryl,” yelled Mr. Burkson.
“I’m gonna get canned because of your lies. You never liked me Iris.”
“That’s not true Darryl. Your own actions put you in this position. I had no other choice.”
“You had no other choice … no other choice.” Darryl punched the wall with his fist. Iris didn’t budge. She held her ground.
“I’m calling the police Darryl,” said Mr. Burkson as he picked up his office phone.
“No need … no need. I’m outta here. It’s on the both of your head what happens to me and my little girl, who I won’t be able to feed, because I’m out a job.” Darryl looked her up and down. “I know where you live.”
“Don’t you dare fucking threaten me!”
Darryl smiled, looked at the both of them, and calmly walked out of the office. One side of Iris’ face had begun to twitch nervously. She collected herself and took in a deep breath but the twitch persisted.
Mr. Burkson just shook his head. “I’m sorry Iris.”
“Whatever …”

Iris was done with her shift. Before she collected her groceries, she pulled a few packs of cigarettes out of her work vest and placed them in her shopping bags – looking around to make sure no one was watching her. She then took out her cell phone and dialed a phone number.
“Hello, is Ray there? My name is Iris, I’m a friend. Okay … could you please tell him to meet me outside in ten minutes if you should see him? Thank you very much.” Iris closed up her phone and hurried to the front of the store. Once she was outside, she walked over to the freight door. Carl, the produce and bakery supervisor, was having a smoke.

“Any good left-over hard rolls tonight?”
“Have a bag right over here that Willie prepared for you.”
“Thanks Carl – and thank Willie for me. I have to run – I’m so late.”

Iris was glad to be outside in the fresh cool air. The cold air of the supermarket got into her bones after a while and made them ache. She was carrying three bags, but they weren’t all that heavy. Her phone had begun to vibrate. She just knew it was her mom, but had no intention of answering it.
The VFW hall was on Clark Street. Iris placed her groceries down and waiting for ten minutes in the cold for Ray to come out, but he never did. Refusing to wait any longer, Iris walked into the building, and in looking for Ray, found him sitting calmly in his AA meeting. Iris felt embarrassed as she gesticulated to him to step out into the hall. Ray was a gaunt figure with a beer belly. His hair was shoulder length and a bit on the greasy side. The work pants and flannel shirt seemed a size too big as he kept pulling up on his belt.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Ray – but I have your cigarettes and bread for you.”

“Not at all – I’m so grateful to you for bringing me this. How can I make it up to you?”
“Well, why don’t you come by the soup kitchen every now and then and help out. We can always use volunteers, and you’ll get some free food in the process.”
“Hmmm … yeah, I should do that, but I have lots of issues with kitchens and I’m allergic to soup.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But wait… I have a new poem I just wrote that I would like to give to you.”
Ray walked back into the meeting and discreetly removed a folded up yellow piece of paper from his coat pocket. He handed it to Iris who began to unfurl it.
“Wait – read it outside, please.”
“Oh – okay.”
“I should get back to the meeting. Thank you – this helps me out so much, I can’t even begin to tell you.”

Iris was glad to help Ray out. She thought of him as an intellectual and it hurt her to see him waste his talent in hard liquor and pain medication. He usually comes by the supermarket and picks up the bread himself, but she knew he had his meeting and wanted to reward him for attending by giving his some rolls and a couple of packs of smokes.
Iris made it to her bus stop with a few minutes to spare. Her phone vibrated. It was Devon:

“No word from the bank yet?”
“He’ll call either today or tomorrow, I’m sure of it. Stay positive,” said Iris.
“How’s Kayla?”
“I’m on my way over to my mom’s now.”
“Good.”
“How is work today?”
“Same shit – different day.”
“Why don’t you come by the soup kitchen tonight?”
“I don’t think I want to. It depresses me.”
“It’s Thanksgiving and we have a lot to be thankful for.”
“I know … I know … don’t give me the third degree.”
“Whatever … just remember – God gives to the giver and takes from the taker.”

The bus pulled to the curb and Iris got in. As soon as she sat down she read Ray’s poem. Something about his gentle words and hearing a couple of healthy, vibrant children playing in the seat behind her, made the tears just flow down her cheeks like rain from an umbrella.

“Where is my macaroni and bean soup?” Iris’ mother asked.
“We ran out – have the lentil.”
“I don’t want the lentil. I want the macaroni and bean! The least you can do, after all the work I do for Kayla, is get me the right soup.”
“I’m sorry if taking care of your only granddaughter is a chore, but she is not a well child.”
“Don’t give me no guilt trip. I just gave her the medicine.”
Iris’ mother wore a maroon wig and a flowery house dress. Her arthritic hand curled around the knob of her wooden cane as she hired the television set to a near ear busting volume.
Iris picked up Kayla and walked her around her mother’s apartment. The place was full of Christian iconography and paintings. “Devon will be by soon to pick Kayla up and you can watch your shows.”
“You’re ungrateful, you know that? It’s not easy at my age to take care of this child.”
“I’m going to bring you back a bunch of leftovers tonight – I’m sure that will make you happy and keep you from complaining.”
“I don’t like cranberry sauce. No cranberry sauce.”
“Yes mom.”

The line of homeless people started at the long table of volunteers plopping turkey, stuffing and other Thanksgiving foods onto their styrofoam plates, out to the long corridor, into the foyer and out onto the cold dark street. Few of the unfortunates spoke to one another – instead they just inched forward, staring down at the torn shoes of the person in front of them – waiting anxiously to get their cavity ridden teeth into some dark salty meat.
It was Iris’ job to supervise the other volunteers and to replace the empty canisters of food with fresh heaping and hot canisters of food brought from the kitchen.

“Hand me the sweet potatoes. Here George, take this back and refill. Keep it moving. You’re all doing a fantastic job!”
After several minutes of non-stop flow, Iris noticed Devon making his way through the crowd, a grin on his face – trying to make contact with her eyes as he made his approach. When he got closer, she could see a bouquet of red roses in his hand.
“Here,” Devon said, as he handed Iris the roses across the long table of food.
“What’s this for?”
“I got the loan.”
“Yay! I’m so happy for you. Now we can rebuild your credit. Give me a kiss and a hug.” Devon reached across the table and they embraced.
“That right there is about the sweetest thing I have seen all week. I mean I am just struck with a robust kind of sentimentality,” a homeless man said, as he patted Devon on the back and carried on down the food chain. Devon and Iris smiled.
“Where can I get me an apron,” Devon asked with a grin.
“You are too cute. Why you can find a few on the table over there.”
“Great.” Devon kissed Iris once more and walked over to the aprons.
“Do you have any more stuffing available behind there?” asked another homeless person wearing a large moth eaten winter cap.
“Sure I do, here is a fresh batch.” Iris placed down a new container and gave the man a nice scoopful. As the man turned to his left to check on the mashed potatoes, Iris smiled, removed Ray’s poem from her pocket and placed it neatly on the man’s tray.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Iris said aloud to the hungry throng before her.


For more on these and other characters please visit earlier "Slices" Tudor City and Revival.

Acting Today (Episode Three)

Stevens Craig hosts this discussion program focusing on the fine art of acting. Special guests will share insights into the wonderful world of the stage and screen. Listen to Episode One and Two.

This week's special guest: Walden James

Note from Stevens Craig : This is a special episode of Acting Today in which I attempt, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, to stop my bitter feud with my former partner, and host of Acting Tomorrow, Walden James.

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The "My Word Is Final" Review: Lars and the Real Girl

by Brian Hughes

Once again, I preface this review with a warning: if you don’t want to know what the hell goes on with Lars and his plastic doll, go shit in your hat – because I tell it ALL! I tell it as I see it.

Okay – in length, this film directed by Craig Gillespie and written by Nancy Oliver (“Six Feet Under”), was an excellent character study and one heck of an allegory. Here’s the lowdown: Lars (Ryan Gosling), a timid and shy loner, is shacked up in his brother Gus (Paul Schneider) and sister-in-law Karin’s (Emily Mortimer) garage. Lars has been exceptionally standoffish as of late and this peaks Karin’s concern. After literally tackling her brother-in-law, Lars begrudgingly decides to sit in for dinner. Gus offers him an opportunity to move in, knowing full well his reclusive brother will reject him. At work one day, Lars is shown a web site where you can customize your own latex and atomically correct girlfriend. Lars buys one, introduces her to the utter shock and embarrassment of Gus and Karin, and all hell breaks loose. Gus and Karin immediately rush Lars and his new girlfriend “Bianca” off to the family doctor (Patricia Clarkson), and are told that in order to help Lars, they must go along with his delusion.

What is interesting is that you find yourself uncomfortably howling with laughter as he takes Bianca to a party and to Sunday mass. I say uncomfortable because what Lars is suffering from is serious and sad to watch once it unravels. But though Gillespie finds humor in the misfortunes of Lars, he never makes fun of him. He gives Lars dignity in illness, and instills in the viewer a compassion for him; this is helped to great effect and acting by the people (supporting cast) who populate the small town Lars grew up in. And that is part of the charm of this movie (though you have to severely suspend disbelief): that a town that has nurtured Lars since he was a little baby, decides to back and support Lars in his illness, rather than to scoff and reject him.

This is the first time I have seen Ryan Gossling act, and I’ll tell you, he impressed the holy fuck out of me. I did not watch Gossling act; I had the pleasure to watch Lars as a human being live his life on screen. Everything from Gosling’s choice of eye twitches, to his repressed anger, to his near panic attacks, to his weeping – knocked me for a loop. Schneider, as Gus, is a find. He played the repression game as well, holding in a lot of what he was feeling concerning his sick brother and the way he abandoned him when they were young. Though I would have liked if Gus had shown more frustration and impatience with Lars, this is probably more Gillespie’s fault than Schneider’s. Gus was played more as a “regular” guy to Lars’ eccentric, and this added to the dynamic of their relationship. Emily Mortimer was - as always - cute and loveable and hot when she gets angry. Though very good at playing nutty women, Emily did a fine job as the sympathetic sister-in-law. And didn’t ONCE remove her clothes – a miracle! Clarkson was okay – but there was not much to work with. Her character fell into that category of “wise omniscient-eyed” sensitive doctor, a role that, if it were given to a male actor, probably could have been played by Morgan Freeman.

I cried in two or three instances in this film. That’s right, I fucking cried – okay – so what! It made me cry AND laugh, as cliqued as that sounds. My word, as always, is final. Go see this film, support the actors, most importantly – support Gossling, and support the filmmakers - for giving us a portrait of small town life, for teaching us some lessons, and for getting to know one-of-a-kind Lars.

Weakly Installed

“Do not throw away a mastery that you never embraced”

I am capable of personal mastery in many things/in something.
I will no longer hide behind the fear that I might throw it away later.
One tiny talent may develop in that (hypothetically) discarded mastery that is integral in accomplishing what I am inspired to master next- not the least of which is the ability and capacity to master anything at all.

Mary Wyatt Matters

Scooter Marion's Story Times

Scooter was born in 1970 in Russia to a Portuguese family. Upon learning at an early age that his family was slightly poverty stricken, in a heavy way, and that he had a soft learning disability, he knew he had to travel the lands and share his uplifting tragic stories of growing up as an Israeli farm boy and shark hunter in the big city of Montana. Join him on his journey through time, and times.

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The Reek of Mustard

Written on Friday; posted on Saturday.

When I woke up this morning, my fingers smelled bad. I rubbed them together under my nose, trying to remember what I'd done.

Last night I celebrated Thanksgiving in New York for the first time in years. This year I've got a big role in a small play, and the producers scheduled a rehearsal for this evening, and better still, I have a Someone here to cook with. So I gave up my fond tradition of spending the holiday in Tampa.

I was in charge of the turkey. It was a ten pound fresh organic bird from Maple Crest, and I slid a mixture of fresh sage, ground black pepper, garlic, and brown spicy mustard--Gulden's, actually--under its skin, set it in a cheap aluminum roasting pan with two cups of chicken stock, and threw it, unstuffed, into the oven for a couple of hours. You're supposed to baste frequently, but we spent the first hour walking around the perimeter of the Pratt Institute, in glorious mild weather that seemed more Rincon than Brooklyn, so the skin caramelized a bit more than it should.

(While everyone insists that turkey should be removed from the oven when the center of the thigh reaches 165F, I never wait so long. By 145F, the breast was already dry and firm, and it had already cooked for two and a half hours, plenty long for a ten-pound bird without stuffing.)

I also made some unexceptional mashed potatoes, acceptable dressing and a serviceable gravy. Other cooks contributed pumpkin pie (impressively pumpkin-y despite the pulp coming from a can), roasted parsnips, a fresh cranberry salsa, and my two new favorites: Brussels sprouts roasted with olive oil, salt, and pepper; and sweet potatoes simmered with coconut milk, garlic, and red chillies and dressed with cilantro.

The recipe for the sweet potatoes came from Cook's Illustrated. When I first discovered Cook's, it thrilled me. I was living on a noisy street in a particularly soulless section of the Upper East Side, nerves still jangling from a bad choice of acting schools, and the careful, empirical approach of "America's Test Kitchen" soothed me. After a while, I discovered that the "Recipes That Work" didn't work any better than anyone else's, and that I could find better technique--and more poetry--in the pages of Julia Child.

The one thing I did learn from Cook's was that sea salt is a finishing salt, and belongs on top of food, where you can taste it. Whether it comes in fat, challenging boulders, or wispy flakes, the high surface area of sea salt hits the tongue differently than the uniform grains of Morton or Red Cross salt, and it tastes "saltier." Dissolve the salt in water, and the difference disappears. Here, the magazine really came through: there's so much babble and nonsense about how wonderful sea salt is, dispelled with a common-sense fact you can verify with your tongue.

The sweet potatoes went great with the roast turkey. A second success for "America's Test Kitchen."

In case you hadn't guessed by now, the awful smell on my fingers came from the garlic, sage, and mustard that I slid under the turkey's skin. It's one of the hazards of cooking, and, for that matter, eating certain foods. On a trip to France ten years ago, a good friend ordered and happily consumed lapin à la moutarde in a small restaurant in Lyon; his girlfriend wouldn't sleep with him for three days.

Sometimes I put myself on a purifying diet of brown rice and almonds, steamed greens and grilled chicken, and I feel (and smell) great. But it doesn't take too long to get sick of it.

The classic lapin à la moutarde, lovingly described.
A modified lapin à la moutarde.
Red meat makes you smell bad.
Rincon.

Michael is an actor, filmmaker, and occasional writer. He lives in Brooklyn.

Technorati Tags: cooking, mustard, memory, turkey, thanksgiving, acting

Bedbugs VII

Bedbugs VII




Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.





"Iatrogenics" is written on the wall of the classroom.
Nothing else, one tone rings out and continues. I get
nervous as to who will hear it and quickly depart.
Old leaves of color and grace and weathered dignity
dance in the air and I try to avoid any
worse times; he's crying like he saw on TV, programmed
reaction decided by an outside force. The next day
it's sunnier out and covert tricksters celebrate,
she wasn't there to hear it. Twice already they've
deceived us, but she wants to remain outdoors
in body and spirit, neuroleptic's delight. Twice
in this past hour, the joy searched for surfaced; we
are cheated by stripes and black and white
patterns that, while ordered, are hiding
something. It could be something beautiful,
scattered and directed like thoughts being
operated on. Pinwheels look like they reflect
just like they did when we were kids. Animal instinct
takes over once more, hopefully meant to coincide
with moral joy, emotion printed over.
Someone is singing in the basement.
I will concern myself with that in the future.
Red buttons, run a thumb over them and
see if they work. The pile of metal
parts is growing. Kaleidoscopic emotions
are in the tube that's turned and
I realize, taking the seat meant for me,
that everything will improve. Burn out every chamber.






Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:




-insects shot in a fisheye lens
-venetian shafts of light that are bottled
-wild rust, everywhere
-taking it somewhere better
-red hat from a period piece
-animals resting on the mountain
-put the lights back on!


-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.

Weakly Installed

"Bring suspenders back, girls,

bring suspenders back.

Bring suspenders back, girls,

bring suspenders back.

Bring suspenders back, girls,

bring suspenders back.

-Need help wearin' the pants, girls?

Bring suspenders back."

Mary Wyatt Matters

Acting Today (Episode Two)

Listen to Previous episode HERE

Stevens Craig hosts this discussion program focusing on the fine art of acting. Special guests will share insights into the wonderful world of the stage and screen.
This week's special guest: Alistair Harris

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The G.F.Y. FILES

January 13, 1997

Mr. Peter Bart
Daily Variety
5700 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 120
Los Angeles, CA 90036

Dear Peter:

I just wanted to write you a note to tell you how deeply disturbed
I was with your comments in the Sunday edition of The NY Times
about my picture, THE WAR AT HOME. Clearly, your opinion
of my work is not shared by the majority of the public and critics
who have seen the picture. Both The New York Times and
The Los Angeles Times as well as both trade papers gave favorable reviews.

However, what is most confusing to me is that you seem to
actually think your opinion matters. Since when did
the editor of The Daily Variety qualify himself to
be a film critic? You call my picture "intellectually dwarfed,"
but I suggest, Peter, that you personally suffer from
the afflictions of this "handicap."

In you, I see a failed movie producer, hiding behind
the protective veil of your post, shooting blanks at
an industry which you are merely vicariously involved in.
It is sad and pathetic. Peter, you may or may not have
the ability to recognize talent, I don't know. But, you clearly
possess none of your own, which is why, I suppose you
have arrived at your station in life.

To dismiss THE WAR AT HOME as simply a "terrible film"
is in fact your opinion. It is your "review," however meaningless.
But, to go on to say that the picture is "the personification
of what is wrong about actors directing" is completely
unfounded. This movie was never a vanity project.
The "actors doing their shtick," as you called it, include
Academy Award winner Kathy Bates and Martin Sheen in
what many critics pronounced as career defining roles.

This was truly a labor of love and a very painful and personal
journey for myself and the other artists involved.
On many levels, the work was sacramental. The cast
and crew expressed to me that doing films like THE WAR AT HOME
gave them not only an opportunity to be a part of
a worthwhile project, but also hope. Hope that they were part
of an industry that would support producing more quality movies
like this.

Peter, I can't possibly expect you to be able to grasp any of this,
but I thought it was important for you to know,
however much it pains you, that I will continue to
make movies, both as a director and actor, because it's what I do.
And it's what I do well. If this offends you, I have a few suggesstions.
You could:

1. Simply not see my films.
2. Drop dead sometime soon.
3. Go fuck yourself.

Enjoy life from your bully pulpit, little man,

Emilio Estevez

Bedbugs VI

Bedbugs VI



Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




Winded matters don't tell me that dogmatic astigmatism
sounds pretentious. Nearly everything we say does,
uttered a violet intention. Twelve round black
dots on the wall proudly display its water
damage, which "K" thinks will float no
matter how bad the storm gets. There's
little need to fight; please ask her to stop
looking at me. Flying East, I observe from
the swamp. It feels empty, I feel empty, until
"Perry" decides that none of us are. Unfiltered
athsmatic joy is taken in with each breath.
Calm as the Hindu cows can be, I manage to
rattle them when I make my way out of the barn
wandering around the empty train station somehow, on the
fifth floor of my abandoned mind brings joy!
Stairwell lights flicker from my intention.
Can't lose this rusty feeling even if those
three figures in the hallway are waiting
for me to give up. Child's toys,
they claim. What do they know, they're
not even in focus. Drive down the parkway
with Getty's diopters open. The texture of
the ground in a dulled brain is like a decrepit
70's bathroom. Am I wasting my time,
I ask her? She doesn't respond slaughter in
the name of anyone is still walking in the
fog with my keys trying to find my car.
Tittered at the sight of it. It's a new year
as of today. Wind my watch for me.





Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-one tone rings out and continues
-he's crying like he saw on TV
-neuroleptic's delight
-scattered and directed
-animal instinct
-red buttons, run a thumb over them
-burn out every chamber



-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.

The Story Slice: "Revival" (companion piece to "Tudor City")

by Brian Hughes

“Where were you last night? Answer me damnit!”

“Just drop it, Iris – drop it! You’re gonna wake up Kayla.”

Iris was preparing chamomile tea. The tin foil on the burners were charcoal black and hadn’t been changed for months. Caked gravy stains were splattered on the walls behind the stove.

“Where were you Devon? We can’t keep secrets. Not now. Everything’s too fragile, ya know. We can’t. We have to be open – now more than ever.”

Devon leaned up against the fridge and slid down it in a crouch, knocking down a magnet from their accountant. He stared down at the kitchen linoleum floor.

“I robbed a man in Tudor City last night.”
Iris covered her mouth with her hand. “You … what …?”

Devon locked eyes with Iris.

“I … said … I … robbed …a man … in Tudor City … last night.”
“What in the Lord’s name are you telling me, Devon?”
“I don’t know why I did it.”
“Jesus, Devon!” Iris began pacing – tears welling up in her eyes. She banged her fists on the counter top. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Lower your voice Iris.”
“Fuck you Devon. What happened, talk to me.”
“He didn’t even have his wallet on him.”
“What were you doing there? Where the hell is Tudor City?”
“It’s in Mid-Town; I had to make a pickup.”

Iris tore a piece of paper towel from the dispenser. She dabbed at her eyes – tears began to swell there.

“What are we coming too, Devon? What good would you be to me and Kayla if you ended up in jail or dead? Huh?”
Devon stood up and opened the fridge. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even know why he was looking in there. He was growing fidgety, that much he knew. He shut the fridge door.

“It was like it wasn’t me, you know – it wasn’t. I waited in the shadows for someone, for anyone to come along and I took my gun out and … that was it.”
“Please, please oh Lord; tell me you didn’t hurt anyone.”

Devon shook his head no.

“Oh, thank the Lord God.”

Iris took a seat. She blew her nose into the napkin. Something had to change in their lives. Devon was going off the deep end. There was still time for she and Kayla to pack up and stay with her folks in Virginia. Devon turned the kitchen chair around, put it close to Iris and sat backwards on it. He was trying to look at her, but he was growing too ashamed.

“I love you Iris. I love you and Kayla. I’m worried that we won’t be able to afford the operation. I’m desperate. I walk around and look at people and you know, I think, why can’t we have that? Why can’t I give my family a good life? I get so mixed up, baby – so mixed up. And I get scared, because it seems that I do things like a robot – ya know? I just get something in my mind and I can’t get off that course.”
“We can’t have this. I don’t want this no more for me and Kayla. I mean it this time. I’m going to go to Virginia.”
“No, please don’t baby – please. I’m going to change. I think last night happened for a reason.”
“You need to go have a talk with Reverend Johnston, that’s what you need. Maybe you and I should both go.”
“Maybe, yes, maybe … but listen, I think last night happened for a reason, because I had the gun out, but the guy … you know, he wasn’t afraid. Not one bit. He said he was at peace and was ready to die. And I looked at him, and I felt so small, baby. I felt like I had so much more to do; that I have so much more to give. He told me that we was both young and that we could still change if we wanted to.”

Iris nodded her head. This was why she could never leave him, she thought to herself. She always held out hope for him. Deep down he was a loving father – she knew that. But was he serious this time? Had he finally hit bottom?

“I felt like, that if I hurt this man, I would be hurting Christ himself," Devon said. "He told me he loved me. I was blown away by this. He showed no fear, baby – no fear. And I felt small, small in the eyes of the Lord.”

The tea kettle whistled. It startled Devon. He stood up and kissed Iris on top of her head and shut off the boiling water. He looked out from his kitchen window into the uncertain night. There was the playground he and his friends use to play B-ball in. Imagine a state of mind free of all of this, he thought to himself.

“What would your mother think if she were alive?”
Devon nodded his head. “I will make her proud yet, Iris. I will.”


The sun was just making its presence known as Devon walked into the hall to use the john. Hanging on the wall was a framed poster of the St. Joseph’s Baptist Church of Harlem. A happy congregation of two hundred plus people are lined up on the steps of the church – many of them smiling and happy to be alive. “Come join the revival: guest Soprano vocalist – Jolene Bridges.” Devon, with tears in his eyes, ran his hand across the large, bold name.
Devon flushed and quietly opened up the door to his daughter’s bedroom. He is at once alarmed by the presence of his daughter standing up in her crib – her pudgy right hand on her heart. She was smiling and glowing. Devon felt a blanket of warmth envelope him.
Devon placed the iPod and watch he stole into a C-Town plastic shopping bag. Kayla and Iris were still asleep as he walked out into the cool morning air. The garbage and daily newspaper trucks were plowing through the neighborhood, as teamsters and day laborers sipped coffee and made some noise - waiting for the next bus to pull up.

Weeds sprouted through the pavement under his feet as Devon made his way up the steps of the rectory for The St. Joseph’s Baptist Church. His hand shook from nerves as he pressed the doorbell. In a few moments, Reverend Johnston appeared and opened the door.

“Devon Bridges - what brings you here at this ungodly hour?” The Reverend then noticed tears coming down Devon’s face. “What’s the matter Devon?”
“I, uh, have a watch and iPod I would like to donate to the kids if that would be all right?”
“Sure son, come on in.”

There was warmth again, and the smell of incense, and a peace pervading throughout the entire building and through him: A peace of which he had scarcely known.

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Weakly Installed - "The Protector"

It's strange that she should linger at the tree-

but so defiant was that girl to bring

back it's owl's nest--I was shocked to see

Ace left alive inside a living thing

And now he won't stop howling at the place

where last she left an imprint on the eye.

It's getting dark so fast--keep quiet, Ace.

Let's shut the door and find a towel to dry

that wet fur.--Keep still.--Still gone.--Now what could keep

that girl from coming back here right away?

There's not a thing to do in slashing sleet!--

It started up so fast--Shut up, Ace.--Stay.

The radio will surely calm him down

or help me to at least drown out the sound.

-Mary Wyatt Matters

Bereavement

Adam

"Acting Today" (Episode One)

Stevens Craig hosts this discussion program focusing on the fine art of acting. Special guests will share insights into the wonderful world of the stage and screen.

This week's special guest: Eddie Malonetti

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The Story Slice: "Tudor City"

By Brian Hughes

Tudor City had become my evening sanctuary. Several times a week I’d grab my iPod, a good cigar and begin my walk east to the charming eleven building enclave resting above East 42nd street. The quiet peacefulness was the perfect balance to the Buddhist dharma talks I’d listen to downloaded from an iTunes podcast. My walking pace was deliberately slow and meditative, looking up at the buildings and sometimes out toward the East River, left hand in my pocket, right regular grabbing at my stogie.

As I turned East on 43rd street I noticed a young black man walking out from behind a construction wall. He walked quickly to catch up to me, and then walked deliberately slow. I noticed he was wearing a “Brooklyn B” knit cap with baggie pants and pristine sneakers. I didn’t want to hurry my walk, because I didn’t want to think I was stereotyping. Then I thought I heard the young man behind me say, “Hey” – a little louder than a whisper. I paid no mind to it and kept walking toward the north end park.

“Yo motherfucker!”

I turned and saw the black shine of a gun. I threw my hands up in the air and turned back around, figuring he wouldn’t want me to see him.

“Put your fucking hands down and keep walking.”

I immediately thought of my older brother out West; how often he had gotten me out of some major fixes. There was nothing neither he nor the lady walking her dog could do for me now. I tried to make eye contact with her, but she was busy on her cell phone. Would I ever see my girlfriend again? I told myself this was not the time to get sentimental. I wasn’t sure if he still had his gun drawn on me as we walked toward the staircase leading down to UN Plaza and First Avenue. I slowly powered down my iPod.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I’m just shutting off my iPod so I can hear you.”

“Keep moving toward the stairs and do not turn around.”

A rat scurried over a black mountain range of garbage. He was freer than I. And all the lives in the brightly yellow colored windows were carrying on their nightly routines as I thought of making a fast break down the stairs. I doubted very highly that he was a good shot. Would he kill me? Should I call his bluff? My mind was moving too quickly to decipher anything.

By the lightness of my right pocket, I realized I had left my wallet at home. I was in for trouble for sure. I never left my apartment without my wallet, but as I walked toward Tudor City, I thought it useless to turn back for it. I had no need for it. I wasn’t about to buy anything. How would he react when he knew I didn’t have my wallet with me. I had begun to think the worst. What if he wounds me, or leaves me for dead, and I have no identification on me? These thoughts soon turned to self pity as I approached the stairway. Tears welled in my eyes for a second as I decided to rely on my faith as I descended the stairs. I counted each step down and took deep breaths. I was trying to forget that a man with a gun was following me. Staying locked in the moment was crucial, I thought; no need to panic or have my mind drift. This was where my spiritual practice could really come in handy if I only trusted my intuition.

My ego had begun to war with my spirituality. Racist thoughts of blacks and crime began to spring up in my head. This was all so typical I thought. This was the stereotype lived out in full. But then, my better half grabbed me by the arm, shook me and asked me how many young black men wearing baggy pants I had passed that day. I had to admit it was many, and not a one was a threat to my safety. This situation had nothing to do with black or white, but it had everything to do with desperation. Desperation and violence has no face or color. It just is. I had to tell myself that this person was an individual who was suffering, not a color. He was suffering like so many people around the world. I was amazed that with all the spiritual practice I had thought I had, my first thought was to be racist. I no longer wanted to run away. Maybe this is what I had deserved after years of thinking I wasn’t prejudice. Soon my apathy turned to compassion for the both of us as we walked to the park just across the street from the UN building. Here were two young men with enormous potential – both wasting it.

“Stop right there,” he said. I still hadn’t turned around. “Gimme your wallet.”

I dug into my pockets and turned them inside out. I can still see the lint hitting the wet pavement. “I’m sorry, but of all nights, I didn’t take my wallet with me. I don’t have anything on me.”

“You are shitting with me. Tell me you are shitting with me.”

“I am sorry, but I am not. I can give you my iPod, if you’d like. It’s an eighty-gig.”

“I should fucking blow your head off for wasting my time.” There was an unbearable silence. It was probably only twenty seconds, but it was the longest twenty seconds of my life. I needed to go to the bathroom terribly. “Get on your knees boy.”

I remember reading about three teens in Newark being shot execution style. The time was now to say something. I felt it was the only weapon I had. I had actually thought about this scenario before: what I would do if I were held at gunpoint and what would I say? I had devised a rather heroic mental script in my head in case the moment ever arose, but I never thought I’d have the courage to say it.
“I think you have enormous potential to do good things. Your wonderful heart is a fine jewel underneath the crust of your anger and desperation.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“We both have potential. We are young men with all of this greatness before us. Think of Christ or the Buddha. Think of what they were able to accomplish. We are all created in the mirror image of the Christ and the Buddha. Why piss all over that?”

The young man felt around my person for whatever he could take. He pulled my watch off my wrist and snatched my iPod. “I should fucking kill you right now.”

“I only feel love right now. I’m not afraid to die. My body may die, but my spirit will be alive forever. If you kill me, I will die with thoughts of love and I will be reborn again. If you kill me, you will go to jail and you will suffer and be very unhappy.”

The young man leaned in real close to my face. I smiled gently.

“Throw your phone away,” he said. I removed it from my pocket and flung it into the ivy. He slowly backed up – still pointing the gun at me. He kept his eyes and his gun on me for some very long and tense moments. I can tell you that the whole business of your life flashing before you actually happens. He had begun ascending the long flight of stairs back up to Tudor City. When he reached the top – he sped off. There was a shake inside me that I have never felt again. My whole being was trembling with fright. I sat on the wet floor for a few moments unable to move.

A black man in a business suit walked by me and asked if I was all right. I told him I was. He had an accent I couldn’t decipher, but I imagined he was a diplomat or something.

The lines that I told the robber came from script, they didn’t come from within, I knew that – but maybe they did, but I don’t think so. I knew that if I had been a member of a proper Sangha, or had been practicing properly my spiritual practice all along, then maybe those words would have come from some type of wisdom. I knew I had to get serious with my spirituality. I let my slickness and smarts get me out of that one. If I had been truly free of my ego, I might not have been shaking as much. I remember wanting desperately to live, to run to a spiritual retreat and meditate for days. I had realized that night what I needed in my life most, and for that, I am very thankful to that young man. I not only found a Sangha, but I found a monastery in Alberta near the majestic Canadian Rocky Mountains where I live and teach today. I have hope my friend found his peace as well.

Bedbugs V

Bedbugs V


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.



Shocks, dialed on black rubber cords, won't get through
to anyone who settled in the plains. I ended up there, or woke there,
or slept there. I won't bow down with kids understanding the best way
to remain hearing the wind in my ear is to count how
many we can withstand. She still wants to
live alone. My path has a color only I can see; it doesn't
exist here yet, but you can picture it. Wheat fields,
plains untapped with weather patterns conservatives
won't dare to comprehend. Nauseous from your hangover,
we stumble around and wish we could reattach everything
that fell off. How else do you expect to retrace your steps?

Metal shavings in Spring, that kind of strength is easily
overthought- but who thinks these days.. I'm overthinking
right now, it's the good hurt I strive for.
Texture and shape and smoke and atmosphere are all elements
I'll keep back at the house. We can talk about it outside.

Sickening thoughts pry off the first layer under its skull.
Suprisingly, it came off without a hitch, buttoned
through the chilly air fashioned to make us
all dull, repetitive, underdone. One tree left.
I will go visit it. There aren't many ways I
can use "I" without the doctors thinking this intelligence
is a disease. But things like this and depression
never show up in autopsies. Coordinate a game
on the beach even if nobody attends.
Tickling it might help! Does it matter if everyone
in the classroom has their eyes and mouth sewn
shut? I watch them at the door for several
unkempt minutes. Hair is growing on my chin
just from the atmosphere of this place.
Smooth moves show up well at the bottom of the old
operating theatre. Hopefully when I'm
brave enough, I will discover where that music is coming
from. It's in the lower levels. Must be strong..knowing
all of them could wake up at any time. Jagged moods
won't help in this town.




Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-dogmatic astigmatism sounds pretentious
-please ask her to stop looking at me
-unfiltered athsmatic joy
-drive down the parkway
-slaughter in the name of
-tittered at the sight of it
-wind my watch for me



-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.

Bedbugs IV

Bedbugs IV


click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

click here for last week's Bedbugs.



Happening upon a tin rattle with a chance neither you nor I
will make it past November. Who ever finds us adipocere-
soaked will have plenty of stories to tell anyone crazy or
enlightened enough to do what we, at the time, deemed
a good idea. I miss soft, smooth; I miss grins and bright
eyes. We can’t just assume or theorize that your
red patch will fix itself. If I’d known first
names are sewn together maybe she’d be easier
to understand. Twilight violet fractured with light pouring
in through wherever it gains or grasps a foothold. Nameless
on the paper I found at the end of the hall. I wouldn’t go back
there for all the wealth in the world. It’s empty. Planning
to die, or write, in ten year’s time. She’s never going
to smile at me again but I keep mental pictures tacked
to the paint-peeling wall in the back room. This theater
is abandoned. Rust-proof, until you get it home. Making
a crimson example of traffic of thoughts and secretions
into the machine which tastes like emotion, but a
true analysis by this doctor would reveal
who’s truly fractured. Don’t tell me it’s worth saving
first kiss last week when all I want to do is forget it.
The floors, checkerboard tiles cracked and bathed
in peeling paint, no intention of where to go.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-dialed on black rubber cords
-hearing the wind in my ear
-nauseous from your hangover
-talk about it outside
-one tree left
-tickling it
-jagged moods won't help in this town



-Adam
click here for next week's Bedbugs.