the life of richie


Posted in will be by Rich on August 1, 2011

At first one just sees one ant; but then another; and another.

It is the same with the zombies. There is no one else around, outside on the streets, which is how I know they have been taken. But how bad is it? Is it like the ants which, sometimes, when ignored, seem to just go away?

A zombie is on the back porch. I must change into sensible shoes before making my escape. I lock the bedroom door, which I am happy has a lock. It takes me quite a long time to decide on the right shoes. By now, the zombie is right outside the door.

I open up the window. I climb onto the roof.

Up here, one can see –– the entire red bloodred sky a mess of tornout viscera, hanging above the world: a patient eviscerated upon a table.

Eliot. Elllliott. Eliot-el-elliott.

I run across rooftops in the zombie playground. I take the high road. Everyone else is left low. So lifeless and low.

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Posted in is, was, will be by Rich on August 24, 2009

Rich’s sister was born on August 25th, when the summer is at its boiling point; erupted from Mommie like a Phoenix.

The Nanny-man named her Thelma, which Mommie worried would stick like the rice.

Richie terrorized sister as a baby; once threw her away in the trash; Mommie had to dumpster dive to retrieve Thelma. He was jealous: she had violated the golden mean of Daddie-Richie-Mommie. For then there was Thelma. But Richie got overed it.

Richie and Thelma used to build pillow forts together. Then they would stuff their pillow forts with stuffed animals. The stuffed animals were their friends and had dramatic lives and personalities –– intricate backstories. It was all very strange. They do not talk about it much anymore –– like trying to distance yourself from friends you are now ashamed of.

Thelma’s bedroom was always a mess. She would tell Mommie that a fat woman would come in off the street and mess it up. That was very strange, too. One day sister was too stuffed an animal for dinner, and she told Mommie it was because she had eaten all the spiderwebs in her messy room.

She went through a phase where she would sit around on the floor & watch Sleeping Beauty on Betamax & eat popsicles all day. Then she went through a phase where she would sit around in her beanbag chair & watch Debbie Gibson concerts on VHS all day.

Her best friend, when she was in primary school, was a girl named Jen Brown, who was black.

In late-middle school, after she had traded in Debbie Gibson for Jim Morrison, she put up a blacklight velvet Doors wall hanging in her room. She lit incense. She hung out with a “bad crowd”.

Then she went to high school and met her friend Erin. They took a road trip to Canada once. Just woke up one morning and thought, “What should we do today?” and decided, “Canada?” –– the way two other people might suggest, “Pancakes?”

Another time she and Erin wandered into a lesbian bar while the family was vacationing in Rehoboth. Not wanting to seem conspicuous, they held hands. Then Erin sang Melissa Etheridge. (At least I think that’s how it was.)

Then she moved to Boston to attend music school with hippies. Once she came to visit Rich in New York with her boyfriend Andy, who did not like Rich, but Thelma left Andy to go hang out with Rich at Lauren’s bar, Café Creole. Thelma had a Bahama Mama near the end of the night. Paula, the bartender, said to her, “This is gonna kick. your. ass.” They went to the Waverly Diner and ordered omelets after. After they’d ordered, Thelma said to Rich, as soon as the waiter left, “I have no idea what I just ordered!”


Then she moved back to South Jersey for awhile. Then she moved to Philly for awhile. Then she moved to L.A. for now.

Thelma came to visit her brother twice the year he was studying in London. The first time, at Christmas, they ate Christmas dinner at a Chinese restaurant on Gerrard Street with a family next to them cracking Christmas crackers and wearing those funny paper crowns. They spent most of that Christmas week just walking around London. They would get up and walk for hours and hours, and stop at Starbuckses when they were tired and cold, have lattes, and then keep walking. It was all very copacetic & all so peripatetic.

The second time she came to London, they went to Venice. They shared a small room at the Locanda Antico Fiore, where breakfast was served in a cramped common room on the other side of their bedroom door. They would roll out of bed & into the breakfast and drink strong morning coffee and spend the day walking, stopping for spritzes at outdoor cafés, attending art galleries. Thelma lit a candle in many churches for their mom; the candles were for, not the churches.

Then she moved to Venice [California]. Mom thinks that sister is still a mess; that that fat woman really messed her up good, and not just her room.

Rich wonders if sister is full of spiders from all the webs she ate as a child; or whether the spiders are plotting revenge on sister for eating their silken doilies; have already taken it. Maybe sister has become a spider herself, and that is why so many flies seem to stick to her; the flies being the ex-boyfriends, like Andy, see. There are other strange things caught in her web, not just the boyflies. Sometimes she plucks the silk strands like guitar strings.

Her guitar strings sing like a dulcet lesbian.

She has taken to spinning the silk into something, into something new now. Maybe you are sleeping & this is all just a dream.

Maybe you will wake up in the pillowfort.

Or Canada.

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Posted in will be by Rich on August 23, 2009

They have released him, and he thinks, Yes, we must be better than this. We will be.



Posted in will be by Rich on July 2, 2009

After it was over, he said, “I’m going to blog about this.”

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Posted in will be by Rich on April 26, 2009

To live; to love; to write; what more than this?

To live –– issuing forth from the heart rather than the head ––

To love –– and not in any singular, selfish sense.

To write –– of epic mundane matters.

The world (alive) lush with possibilities, which give breath to the soul. Trascendental; paradisal; Richard will nourish the inner (transparent eyeball) life with drops of divinity.

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Posted in will be by Rich on April 13, 2009

Who was he? What did the world have in store for him?

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Posted in will be by Rich on March 29, 2009

In the future, there might not be books still: not as Richard knows books now (he knows this).

Like Farenheit 451, we might incinerate them all: paper can only be recycled so many times, he imagines, after all, before it is all pulped out. How can there be books if there might not even be trees still? Children might laugh at him, when he speaks of such things as trees. Children will ask, “These creatures with branches that changed color, you say they would guard the roadsides?” and he will smile, wearily, and say aye; once they were everywhere –– here and there. Like flocks of phoenixes, they would burst into flames once a year, and expire, and then be reborn in the springtime. We would make books of them: take them into our homes, place them on shelves to gather dust and might. The children will think him a mad old man to speak of such things as trees turning to phoenixes and these baa-ooo-ckks.

The tactile sensation of musty tomes will be memory, randomly accessed. In the future, we could just have books burned onto our brains –– no need to digest; like Ethiopian food, words will come pre-digested, bred to be digitized; uploaded into our mushy brain-boxes; purged before the next meal.

Then, everything will be RAM, then. The oral tradition that precipitated print might concede to electronic form. Richard has long not wanted to permit this, but sees that this sea change might be unstoppable. Alexandria rises from the ashes, sparkling, crackling. Books will kindle the coming Kindle and then be discarded. Already he longs for the days of the card catalogue: already the library’s former system is extinct. He remembers as a child, his fingers searching through the card catalogue, the wonderful touch of digits on fondled, parched, dirty-typed cardstock. Gives him chills. Pressed into the open stacks of books. A frisson of sentiment. But sentiment must be scanned; discarded. Here is progress. Here is the future of “print”. It is a ooh-ooh wikiworld, ever-editing itself into some new half-truth. Those who long for tradition will not be long for this new whirled. One must move forward or be left behind. Nostalgia smacks of rebellion; rebellion comes to resemble senenescence/senility. Tradition is treachery to the future; cannot be tolerated. Just go with the flow. And so we beat on, choked in the current thrashing forward, into the future.

In the future, when all’s well that ends, well –– !

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Posted in will be by Rich on February 23, 2009

Someday, when we are gone ––– when we are dead and maybe buried –– when there are all of us pushing up daisies and none of us putting up cities, will the world again be covered in daffodils? Will it matter, if there are none to write of them? The world will return to Being when we are nothingness and daffodils. We will be clouds on high and what will be our words worth then?

Can you not see the world in daffodils? –– a world gone to the daffodils. To primitive primroses. To transient tulips. Gothic geraniums. Richard would like to see such a world, but to see such a world would make that world impossible. We will be not even a voice-over in flashback. There will be silence –– punctuated by wind, exclaimed in thunder, lit by lightning, edited by earthquakes. Daffodils will reign supreme, and were we able, we would call this the Age of Daffodils after Man. But to name would be to maim and kill. The host of daffodils will consume the patient-planet. Their roots will find strength from our fertile bodies. They will suckle us –– and, if they could, chuckle.



Posted in will be by Rich on February 12, 2009

Will it be that where civilization once upon a time began, so many thousands of years ago, so too will it end? Must we all inexorably return to our beginning? Where there was darkness once –– then a brief drama of light and noise –– so darkness and Quiet reprise?

Richard will watch the news and ponder this. His ancestors tried to escape the world’s navel –– scurrying across the sea, setting up settlements; setting up schools to teach religion; setting up smoky, cottony commerce and burgesses –– breaking free, free at last of the Father, now alone at last in our adolescent land. Why, then, this insistent thrall: Go back! Perhaps we had to return and so do and so will return to be present at the end just as we were in absentia present at the beginning, when commerce and settlement started. We will send a vast proxy force. They will be merciless in their diplomacy.

Richard hopes not to be there: hopes and expects this will be thousands of years after him.

He will send his regrets.