FireVaney

Trees don’t want the grass to eat peas when it rains. As to exactly why, the most recent findings are inconclusive. There are many theories. And there are times when the smudges on my glasses (my eyeglasses and my wine glasses) don’t trouble me at all. At such times, I wonder if I am not going batshit crazy. And then, I think, to myself, I think, sometimes aloud, I think, if one can think aloud, I think, what does it mean to go batshit crazy? How, exactly, is “batshit” maddening? My guess is that somebody, long ago, ate some batshit, and somebody else was witness to this; and whoever it was who had eaten the batshit, apparently lost his (or her) marbles. But then one, such as yourself, might wonder: Was the eater of the batshit not crazy before he ate it? What would move a clinically sane somebody to eat batshit? A dare? Blackmail? I suppose a batshit muncher could be starving, but that might be indicative of other issues. You can be mad and starving, and then, you can just be pl...

…in Chicago? Is an empty lot. * Ma takes a photo of it anyway. Then she takes several. She aims her camera at the overgrown grass, zooms in on the empty beer bottles, focuses on the heap of bald tires, too. She snaps at all the fenced in trash. Maybe she’ll paint a picture of it.  There’s also a faded sign facing the sidewalk. It says: “NO DUMPING.” That’s the picture I take. Eighty-odd years ago, the bungalow that stood here housed Pop, his five siblings, and his parents. This is near Humboldt Park, where yuppie gentrification has yet to push out the natives. Pop wanted to go. Return. See what’s left. But of the old neighborhood, he only recognizes Humboldt Park’s park.  We get there, and he walks right past the lot—ignores it entirely—and points to the three story building at 9*6 N. Mozart. It’s clearly less that eighty or even fifty years old. He turns around and hustles over to the much older bungalow at 9*2 Mozart. Pop scratches his head and paces back and forth between...

The notion of pissing into a sink never—swear to God—ever occurred to me; not until one night, when said notion was proposed by nearly all of my college housemates. They refused to believe I’d never done it. And then, after assuring them that I hadn’t, they peer-pressured me into immediately departing the living room for the nearest bathroom for the explicit purpose of pissing into the sink. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have to go.  This reminds me of the few too-many times the other red-headed housemate, very proud of his accomplishment(s), would barge into my room and shout, “Come take a look at this shit I just took!” Once, says Ma, I led her to a thicket of bushes bordering a preschool playground, pointed to a small clearing, and said, proudly, “Look what I made!” My “work” consisted of several stinky brown logs. Anyway, excepting that one time, I’ve never again pissed into any sink. * Frankly, I don’t get it. Give me an inch more of height, and, maybe, I would.  26 May 20...

FireVaney’s gonna write. He’s gonna write and write and write. And write. He’s gonna write until all the money runs out. He’s gonna write until he goes blind. He’s gonna write until his fingers give out. Write, until he has to take Pop somewhere. Or feed him. Or administer medication. FireVaney, he’s gonna write until they pull the plug. Write, until he blacks out. Write, until the carpal tunnel says, “Enough.” To be clear, he’s not TOTALLY bonkers. No, he’s still gonna shower. He’s still gonna eat his Wheaties. He’s still gonna run his daily mile (and then some). He’s still gonna catch a summer blockbuster or two. Or three. And he’s still got a list of authors to read before the year is through. So, there’s all that. So, no, he won’t be writing every second of every day. He’s still gotta vacuum and mop the floor and do the laundry and water the lawn. So, sure, you betcha, he’s gonna meet his obligations. And he ain’t gonna neglect his few good friends, neither. But the rest of it? All...