so long old friend

(the last post)

second to last is a blast

time to rearrange

donkey see donkey do (this is not athens)

i miss mom and korine
air kisses from athens

histories all around, stories abound

It is hot outside, and the man is sweating inside his clothes. He notices because the weather has only just shifted. It is better to sweat inside your clothes than shiver, he thinks. He sits on the same busy piece of pavement nearly every day, and today it is warm against his legs, heated by the sun. He is not idle as he sits, he watches peoples’ shoes. Sneakers, high heels, sandals, dress shoes. He spends each day watching the shoes of the city pass, and he enjoys this work. He feels that he is a particular guardian of the city, keeping watch over the whole of something very important and very overlooked. Footwear is what contains people. Shoes carry people. And who more than this man is so intimate with this part of the city?

As intently as the man watches the shoes pass, he does not notice the people wearing the shoes. He vaguely knows that they are attached to the individuals who wear them, just as he is attached to the clothes on his body, but he does not think about this. In any case, he does not feel particularly attached to his clothing. He looks past the rolled cuffs of trousers and curves of exposed ankles. He sees only the shoes. Yesterday a large pair of shiny blue high heels dropped him a 5-euro note. Today a pair of beat up running shoes kicked him as they shuffled past. He grunted in response to both of these pairs of shoes, but neither of them turned. They hardly even paused. That is fine. He doesn’t want to know about these people any more than they want to know about him. It is their shoes he is enjoys watching pass.

The man has a thick beard stained yellow from nicotine. His long hair is held back in a loose knot. He does not think often think about his face or body, much less his hair. It has been a long time since he has seen his reflection in a mirror, although there are several mirrors in the city. He has not bathed in sometime, and today, sweating, he realized this. Slouching on the pavement, he looks down at the grayness of his body and sees his cracked hands piled on his stomach. He hold them up as if they are not his own. Bringing them close to his face, he realizes that they are completely foreign to him. He does not know these bent fingers, or the creases on the palms of these hands. He begins to inspect, carefully turning each hand as if they would break if moved to quickly. Thick fingernails with crescents of dirt. Thick-skinned palms, hairy knuckles. Are they really his? He uses his fingertips of his right hand to touch the rough back of his left palm. He does not feel anything. He sees that he is touching himself, and he remarks that he can feel almost nothing. He wonders at this, and remembers the smooth slim fingers of his boyhood. Those trained fingers, which spent so much time plunking at the keys of his grandmother’s piano. Just think of those hours! And all of them spent not thinking of the music, but dreaming of the life of a musician. The fame, the glamour, the food, the women. He had been a dreamer. He smiles. He is still a dreamer. A brand new pair of men’s business shoes passes quickly, and distracts him from his memories. He wonders where they are going. He wonders where they are coming from.

this is not a love song