Where Is Dusty Foots New Blog

SUNDAY

I buried you yesterday.  I’d the saddest dream a few nights prior.  Became the caretaker to a little girl w/ progeria. 
Limpid translucent skin, shrill voice, the whole deal.  And was
very bothered at first when she plopped down across from me at the cafeteria table.  Didn’t want it.  None of the heaviness of what was
behind her.  But ended up somehow or another taking to her very deeply. For some months, I took care.  At one point carried her across a
pond in the spring time, it still frozen over but thinning, so careful w/ her.  So careful always.  And she so good.  Very blatantly
Good, and hopeful and sad.  I hysterically cried to my sister like I did when mollie left me, only truly this time, out of its own
accord, w/o indulgence, telling her how incredible the child is.  How she’ll have to leave me and how I’ll have to keep on loving her.
The whole dream revolved around the girl imminently dying, but it was lively.  I only really remember the frozen pond.  Deep blue all
around and she so short, below my kneecaps, me slouched over, holding her hands in their mittens very gently, her arms raised up, her tiny
steps across the ice.  And yellow green and red bulbs of light flowing all around us, each w/ a dim trailing of itself petering off
like ribbon.  It was about you.  And I want to tie this up w/ ribbon and be done w/ it.  This writing.    B/c it’s pretty lame
and deathly.
The last few days, walking and taking my trains, I’ve been saying progeria, over and over again in my head to remind myself of
what I should do, what I can do, until
I start mispronouncing it, then forgetting how to pronounce it altogether, plogeria, plergie.  I wasn’t smothering.  But I managed
to smother us.  I’m not supposed to be sorry.  I mostly am. 

Everything’s gravy, I love ya
always, Ra Ra

THURSDAY

Writing on the train. Awhile since I wrote on the train. I wrote alot of yr letters on the train. The back of the ladys head before me has yr hair. Wooly rough curly, not quite dark. I remember you whipping yr head sideways and away from me on the pillow, and quickly whipping it back, lashing me in the face w/ yr hair, me groaning out in pain.

                 AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHH

And, remember this.

And, remember that.

La Di Da.

When she turns to look out the window I see she has a bit of yr profile too. Eyes deepset and huddled, nose wide, etc. The reflection in the window shows her hands holding a magazine you probably wouldn’t read. She doesn’t have yr hands at all. Not close.  Nothing’s so close.  How can I possibly not love you like I did? Ye can’t! Ye fuckin can’t! answers ma self

back.  She just turned around to see me. Her eyes are brown, and she’s not you at all. She’s drawn out and tired. Not you. Going to Forest Hills for a second interview at an apothecary. Delivering medical supplies, and a cross training and eventual position in medical billing and claims! Hot shit. I’ve made it, baby. Had great day w/ Steph yesterday. Driving around, aimless into Halifax, trying to not too intently get lost, walking thru a graveyard. We went to meet Ally when it got dark but she didn’t show. She’s finished a novel. I’d like to see what she’s gotten into. I never knew her at all really, but it’s been six years since I’ve been reminded of that in person, and I know Steph can pick up on the fact that I’m a little bit interested. It’s a very mild thing, it makes me feel like Steph may’ve planted the urge to meet in my mind anyways, which’s very… I dunno what the word is … I wanna say great, but it’s just good. Such a small and passing and small thing. It’s extremely good of her, even if it really is just the lighter side of my narcissism that tells me she helps me so gently, persistently and just so subtly, but why so, really, and why not?  As I see and feel it it is her doing either way, tho I know I will keep on checking myself here and there.

Next time we hang out we going into the Bridgewater Triangle, ghosthunting. Chatting in her car outside my place and then saying goodbye I said O.K. Steph, I’ll let you go, so I make you a mix cd, top priority, and for next adventure we get out our ghost gear. And she got really excited.  I put my hand down to high five farewell like usual and her hand met mine, but stayed in place, and w/ her fingers wrapped around my hand a bit. And I did the same, not a single thought in my head and squeezed a bit, which was very immediately worrisome for both of us, and just as quick our hands retreated.

Earlier she’d mentioned an old cemetary in Forest Hills where each gravestone has the face of the deceased engraved. Graveyard of etched portraits. Think I’ll find it today.

SUNDAY

So goes 1 35 in the morning.
It goes in some way.
It oughta.

Some french poet warned against investing too much faith in the night.
About always ending up yr own best friend, yr own one and only, unfragmented
 and prim, never breaking thru. 

And I think about that alot lately.
I think about john weiners
less and less.

I’ve been making this really good mix cd for the reply to the
farewell and/or explanation letter you won’t send.
It’s true.  You know it.

And it’s not bad.  It’s not rigged in any way.  It doesn’t say
any one thing.  It’s fluid.  It doesn’t say much of anything. 
There’s just alot of eyes in it.  Blue ones.  Pale blue.
And it’s very short.  Which is nice.

I hope I’ll get to send it.  Seeing steph this week.  That’s exciting.
And woke up from a terrible dream just now.  Driving a car somewhere
south, South.  Can’t remember where.  At night.  And the tall strange
buildings of Boston loom up before me, all cut out and wavering as if
in a pop up book, swaying, looking underwater.  Very bright.  And I
knew I’d screwed up, gone north.  Tire pops, I rumble into a little
buildingless lot off of the road, go to trunk for the essentials.  Blue
car pulls in to parking lot, I pay a bit of attention, not wanting to be
expecting trouble so as to better not have any trouble, and I see the
sillhouette of a pregnant lady get out, start walking to me.  She says
what’s the problem partner.  I mumble real bad, I think I got a flat
tire.  She says so you do or you don’t have a flat tire?  I say very
clear, I have a flat tire.  And she’s no help at all really.  She
just hangs out.  But it’s very nice.  She’s very drunk.  Prattling
my ass off.  She’s going to be in the new yorker, she got her picture
taken in some club next to some beautiful guy who looked just like
jim carrey.  And it’s getting into the new yorker.  And just keeps
talking, wandering around my car.  Eventually she makes
some side mouthed comment about being a shit mother, I say no, and she
says fuck you man, look at me, driving around shit faced and pregnant, and
I say but I
can tell you’re going thru something, you’re not just doing it for
the sake of doing it.
And her nerve gets hit by this, she goes into this very deep silence,
and tho it lasts for just maybe 3 seconds, she’s very changed when she
speaks again, tho she speaks of the same passing things.

Some minutes pass, I fiddling w/ the crank, not really knowing how to
change a tire.  And she notices this campfire across the street, nestled
in a circle of pines, just the faint cinder of light in the dark and
thin line of smoke rising, and I look, and say you know it sucks how
being drunk fucks w/ yr depth perception b/c it doesn’t do so w/ any
kind of effect or beauty, it’s just kind of all pasted to, everything
dead flat, you just notice things, and forget them just as quick, you
don’t really see anything.  Like if you have a destination and you can
see it in the distance you don’t walk there, you just eventually find
that you’ve suddenly arrived
there … but I guess if you don’t have a destination then there’s the

repeating suprise of always suddenly arriving at where you are.  And that’s

nice.

And she’s not talking, just sort of staring down at my car.  I’ve
been rambling, it’s really all I’ve
said, so to break the silence I ask her so what month will you be in the new
yorker?  And she turns to me and gives me this really funny face, and I
give it back, and we chuckle.  Then I see two men from the campfire across
the street approaching, entering the lot.  And I can feel that they are
nothing but evil, and she sees them, and I take her arm, say let’s walk.
The men clearly see that we’re clearing out, avoiding them, but there’s
not a single change to their disposition or approach, they follow, they’ve
expected no less, and I
can feel them, feel what they want, and it’s all so suddenly so fucking
horrific, and I tug at her arm, say let’s run.  And we do, but she can’t
run well.  Their constant walking is a little faster as we reach the
sidewalk, come to an intersection, begin crossing the road to a
house w/ just the porch light on.  And the house looks so heartless.
It’s only when you’re stranded or in trouble that you really notice
how heartless the houses of this country look at night, and are, and
I tell her run up there, don’t look back, and I turn and belt one of
the men in the face, get my arm wrapped around the neck of the other,
which just seems to continually wrap as if made of putty, and I
get trapped on it, panic, and wake up, and stay in bed awhile, desperately
conjuring all possible contingents that might lead to both of us ending
up o.k.  

FRIDAY

It’s chilly fall and it’s good to be walking at night.  Light’s do different things to the world when it’s cold.
They’re sharper but the ground below them’s more muted, amber.  And I’m reading the collected correspondence
of andrea salome and rilke again, and I’m again hoping the whiny little fink just shapes the fuck up, gets the
hell on w/ it.  For all her brevity and subsequently vast and sweeping breadth, for all of it, all the mania, move
on, park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me.  Megan asked harrison to marry her on the
bus to the farm, and he said no.  So she’s been awfully bummed out, and doing things she hadn’t.  She wants me
to marry you.  I tell her I think you’re gone.  She asks why.  I say I dunno, maybe she’s bored or sick of me.
She’s worried about me not wanting to get married.  She said she’d marry me.  I said I’d marry her too.  But she
said it would be weird.  And I agreed.  Because she’s five, and I’m 26, and we’re related.  Yeah, she said, that
would be weird.

MONDAY

I took a nap today.  And before falling asleep I said I want to have lovely dreams.  And gave a long stupid talk to myself about it.

And obviously had them … lovely dreams.

I was a very successful pirate.  Since the age of 12, when I’d deserted the royal navy.  The sea was inky, made of actual ink, and
100s upon 100s of my crew plashed like mad not able to swim in it as I weaved thru them and thru the split hull of my sinking ship
onto the shore, all while on my butt.  Or just, something, I was magically propelled, and the narrator of the dream was all deviant sounding and
going on about all the great changes and things that were coming my way, and my butt faced directly into the passing water plowing like
a ship.  And all the water rushing at my bum hole felt great.  So that’s that.

Then I was in my house.  And Jesse Li was there, talking so smooth and big about the mysterious room she’d found off of mine.  A secret
room!  And I immediately knew.  I told her where it was.  How I’d dreamt about it since I was a kid, how the carpet was a luminescent red
sometimes, and how there were gummy bears the size of actual bears, toys, everything.  How in my waking hours I swear I
remember placing my ear down to the linoleum floor and seeing a crack before me along the bottom of the wall, as if the wall were just one long
door, and beyond this crack the thin sliver of what seemed an expanse of green plywood stretching imperceptibly into the dark.  A secret
room.

She said yes, that’s it, and I could see what it looked like, could taste it, smell it, and she ran upstairs.  I ran after, and when I reached
my room she was gone.  I could hear her giggling thru the walls, I could hear Eric Greene doing the same, and I played it cool.  Sauntered around my
room and eventually piped up, casual as I could right into the wall, ‘So hey how do you get into this secret room you told me about?’  She said thru the closet, there’s
a green flap in the wall you open, so I did.  I got in.  And it was so strange.  We were at the end of this hallway that stretched a few
feet, w/ two elaborate and intermitten oaken doors on both sides of it, which then split into a wide alcove at a T, left, or right.  It was all
so dimly lit.  A few candles.  And the strange thing now that I think about it, at the end of the hallway where I entered, there was a huge
loft window looking out into the night, which was still stormy and raining and inky as it was when I’d quit my pirate life.  And Eric Greene
and some skinny blonde lady were taking turns running down the hallway and smack dab into this window.  Really bizzarely not doing any harm
to themselves, or the window.  And all the while Jessi Li is asking me all these severe questions about the place, what is it, who lives here.
And as to that, at first glance I knew full well that the blonde lady was a tenant.  In the secret room, that suddenly felt so sacred and
well, lived in.  I felt as if trespassing, in my own house, insatiable.  And I
couldn’t understand Eric Greene being such a fink in a place that was so far from his own,
running full force into unbreakable windows.  But then I couldn’t understand the thin blonde lady doing that either, and she lived there.
The next bit is shoddy, as to how I woke up.  I ended up in some anterior wing, a kind of large study, crackling fireplace, walls lined
w/ roving stepladders and brimming bookshelves, interviewing the wrens.  The wrens were in my dream.  While Jessi Li and Eric Greene poked
shit at me for being a critic.  I then remember being awake.  And having this profound assurance and happiness and excitement, that I’d
found the secret room, that after all these years I finally find that it actually does exist.  That it won’t fizzle out, and be one of those
lousy dreams you have, like when a kid and dreaming it’s christmas morning, and waking up in July, and having to go to summer camp, and it’s
‘Wacky Day,’ which means you have to wear different shoes on each foot, and everything inside out, even underwear, and being the only kid in
the whole place to go thru w/ it.  Even after listening to yr little gay and only friend talk about all of the wacky stitching embroidering
and patch making and jeweling he was going to do for his costume the day prior.  Not one of them.  And it was so sobering to know, and so
exciting.  Not exciting enough to get out of bed.  Because it would always be there from now on.  But then I started thinking about the fact
that I’d discovered such a beautiful thing, but wasn’t getting out of bed for it.  What kind of state was I really in?  This isn’t apathy or
laziness or anything, this is just matter of factly the truth.  I have found a secret room.  I am just going to lay in bed and think about
this, instead of run directly to it and scream like an ecstatic banshee, as one would do on an actual christmas morning.  Wait, as one would
do on an actual christmas morning.

And it fizzled the fuck out.  Real quick.  I’d deceived myself.  Felt like the manchild you came so close to making me, and was a bit pissed
about it.  And went back to sleep.  And arrived back in my house.  And walked upstairs, found this really strange and sad note from Jesse Li
which explained why she’d hurt me, I didn’t know I’d been hurt.  It also explained that she really did have a dick, not just a vagina, as if that were some sort of news. 
Something to make or break a deal.  The letter concluded a deal.  Of which I’d not had or wanted any part, but w/ my end of the bargain came
instructions for re entering the secret room.  I turned the letter over for more word from her, something, anything more, but I only found
that it’d been written on the back of a google results page that had been printed out.  She’d been looking into and researching bones.  But
I tore down the plaster wall w/ a sledgehammer as instructed, and lifted the green brick door, and entered.  From this entryway there was
a demented staircase, its steps few and far between, some overlapping like the keys of a villans harpsichord in a sunday morning cartoon, and
the banisters long smooth and ridiculously lubricated.  So, I was suddenly naked.  And scaling the stairs by the banister, my hands grabbing
each notch along the way, sliding my way up.  And the narrator’s getting all fatalistic, talking about what a way to die, what a way to
die after everything I’d been thru, was still to do.  And I realized it really would be an extremely stupid way to die.  Naked, all lubed
up, down a demented flight of fucking stairs.  But I made it, got clothed, and started running frenetically thru the place, knowing full
well that it was just a dream.  And everyone was in there.  One or two to each room.  Everyone I’ve known.  And I’m running into each room as
fast as I can, enjoying the dream while I can, saying hello!  goodbye!  how been!  i love ya!  In one room there was even a blonde man and his
little blonde baby, and the yellow telletubby doing a subtle little jig.  Everyone, I mean everyone was there.  Everyone except Jesse Li, everyone except you.

FRIDAY

Yesterday was really Thursday.  And the day just before that, wednesday.

This is

good: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvSY4NYkySM&NR=1

FRIDAY

I dreamt of Jason last night.  Jason is now a collegiate football player, but I always dream of him as he was, as I knew him, a very little kid.  The youngest of all of us, with a deviated septum that made him talk as if thru a mouthful of play doh and mashed potatoes.  In the dream he had some mild terminal disease he was working into remission, staying at home in Brockton while his family was somewhere in the woods out of state, living in a cabin.  He was doing so well.  And I was so proud of him.  To see him growing up, coming into his own, doing things on his own.  I asked him Doesn’t it feel great?  And it did to him.  I’m always nursing him in some way when he appears.  In another dream an asteroid is falling, and I’m cradling him from the impact, kissing his forehead, whispering constant things.  It’s definitely Friday and raining, the river swelled and choppy, still cutting thru the city.

MONDAY

I don’t know what to do.

I can’t wait.

And that’s not as in waiting for something.  Not that I can’t wait for you.
I just can’t sit around and generally

wait.  Not like this.  And I’m not.

If I was nineteen I would probably start hitchiking to you, on a

dime.  Napping in
the patches of trees between houses along 123, quieting insane blue jays w/ my
mind.  In the hills outside providence.  Below an overpass, rusted

scaffolding before my face, fourth of july fireworks resounding around the rain.
And I would be writing about you.  But

I wouldn’t be writing to you.  I would be writing to something, someone, some
ideal.  I would be writing about you, forcing you, forgetting you in a
really terrible and dangerous way.  I would say ‘she,’ ‘her.’  Her

hair.  Her eyes, nose.
Her breasts, legs and feet.  Her.  Her mouth.  Her voice, and her laugh, smell, life.

I would never make it to you.

FRIDAY

Today I sent you a letter and a mix cd.

It told alot of things.  Mostly the things I was intenting to say to you in a message, and a little
less, tho it was much longer.  When I reached home I saw Laika the cat across the street, in the Indian
lady’s driveway, and I said Hey man, come on.  And he did.  But just as he did I realized a car had been
rocketing down the street, was closing in on him.  I waved at Laika the cat to stop, said stop!  Stop, wait!
But he kept coming.  To a cat stop means the same thing as come on.
I looked at the driver like a maniac, back at the cat, and she slowed down a
great deal, and Laika missed it by a nose, ran back across the street.  I spent the next twenty minutes
scrounging around the Indian lady’s yard trying to get him.

Yesterday I went w/ Steph to the secret lake.  It was good.  She’s back from Brazil for good.  I told her
a bit about you.  Basically cleared my chest.  And she said to get back to the well.  What was done well.
It was the letters.  So I sent you a letter today.

WEDNESDAY

I slept over Leens house lastnight to babysit for Erin in the morning, but didn’t sleep, and ended up not needing to babysit in the morning anyways.  All night I continually went over the message for you in my head to give to you today, it’s long and sweeping and gentle and is about how and why I am not going to send you any more messages, not even a really beautiful breakup cd, but today I’ve decided to just not leave any more messages.  To not send anything.

Swift and cutting, deliberate!  At least for me.  Because there is so quickly so little wonder about what you are up to, have gotten into.  Whatever it is it’s etched into stone, it’s unexcavated, unplotted, I don’t know about it and can’t.  I am physically incapable of pursuing it, and it will become physically debilitating if I do, I’ll have to dip my toe into the dark side, and waste alot of time.  Not that going into google translator and learning how to say things in Spanish like ‘This is the sound of the running toilet’ is so extremely taxing, it’s not, it’s silly, it’s just that such things are not so much hobbies or preoccupations of mine as they are fundamentally my life.  Yr loss of faith in me is inaccurate, the way convenient things tend to be.  I still don’t know if closure is called for or applicable, but if it is and if this is the closest I’ll come to getting it then I’ll take it, and be happy to go.  I love you Dusty.  Good bye.

And that’s just about the message I was going to leave. 

I’ve forgotten alot of it because it was mostly just talking to myself, sternly and in the moment, to be forgotten.

But that’s the gist of it. 

And I’m glad I didn’t leave it.

TUESDAY

Last night I called you and said This is the sound of the traffic going up and down pleasant street, from inside the open lip of the mail box.

Then stayed up all night, on youtube.  I watched Jim Carrey all night, chronologically, from this:

http://www.youtube.com/embed/yHdth8Q6TjE

To this:

http://www.youtube.com/embed/kc2NPeIFItQ

About a quarter ways into it I realized that I don’t really even like Jim Carrey, but it didn’t stop me.  Afterwards I did the same for Bill Hicks.

MONDAY

Sunday was Katies birthday.  Richard left you a message, he made strange noises, like the little pistons of a model train breaking.  Then Megan left you one.  She said This is Megan and I love Ra Ra, I don’t know what yr name is, and I told her Rachel, or Dusty, then she started talking in spanish, which sounded alot like obie obie clue clue, blue. 

That’s all.

SATURDAY

Nothing much happened on Friday.

I got up early, called you, and said ‘Este es el sonido de Nate Berkus, una deidad importante entre los muchos estadounidenses de estancia en amas de casa. Mi amor, Nate Berkus. . . mi amor,’ and put the phone to the television.  I remembered how defensive I got when you asked me about my father, how I ended it by telling you that I’m pretty sure he was gay and how I sort of ran off into another room, the bathroom, washing my hands of nothing.

Later I went to the bowling alley w/ the kids, called you, said ‘Este es el sonido de la pista de bolos y los niños y la música,’ then gave the phone to Megan, told her to say anything.  She said ‘Ra Ra’s found new friends in Megan and Richard and Erin,’ then gave the phone back to me.

     *

I think writing in a language I’m not born to will begin to wear very thin
very quick, no matter how spontaneously and miraculously fluent I’ve become
in it.  I’ll still write the things I say to you in Spanish, but in English from now
on.  And this really is a huge development in my life.

It’s really like that.

Everything so forgivingly soft in every movement I make.

It feels like I’m shifting
the reed-like rudder of a serious childs little paper boat, a little to the right, a
little to the left.  A long and hypnotizing circle, either way.  Damned if I do, damned
if I … I wonder if I’ll ever speak English to you again.  I wonder if I’ll ever
hear you again, hear my name in your voice.  I don’t feel like manufacturing

any disbelief.  Life may as well
be what it likes, and be that incomprehensibly impossible, teasing and lovely. 

I called
while unwrapping

a new pack of cigarettes tonight, and said ‘This is the sound
of the moon just above the seven eleven, and the cars.’

I’ll write the things I say to you
in English from now on.

THURSDAY

Last night I called you from under my covers, in bed.  I said hey, hey, it’s just me.  I’m using my second allotted message of the day … I had this epiphany that if I called you when you weren’t working I’d have a much better chance of getting thru … but that’s cool … I’m pretty tired.  I think I might go to sleep.  Maybe I just called to say good night.  That’s a nice message.  Good night Dusty.

This morning it was difficult to get out of bed.  I did, and called you.  Said Hey Dusty!  It’s 12:45 on what I believe to be Thursday.  I’ve had a pretty good idea today.  You know that part in Il Postino when he records all of the things on his island.  I’m gonna be doing that for you.  I will start today, it will be my second message.  The only problem is I have to learn spanish so I can tell you what the things are that are being recorded.  But I learned it last night, I worked real hard and now I know the whole language.  I hope you are having a really good day.  Take care.  Bye.  Bye!

It was difficult to not say I love you, and I’m not sure why I didn’t.  I went to get a sub and coffee and halfway thru the walk back I stopped, took out my phone and called you.  At the tone I said Este es el sonido del rio, mis amigos y yo soliamos navegar abajo cuando poco.

And then lowered the phone down over the railing, closer to the river.

     *

Maybe this is all too much too quick, and I’ve creeped you out, stressed you, just

turned you off.  Maybe if anything you feel you can only choose between changing yr number or finally adopting me, once and for all.

I want to call you right now and tell you that’s not my intent, but I’d end up asking for it.

And then maybe you’re just twirling me like a quarter from finger to finger, chewing gum, shooting pool, biding

     your time.

Maybe I’ve been hurtful.

I know if under different circumstances you would rather be mean to me than this silent, and maybe you are being mean, and

spreading me around to others, a

hobby, a release.

Maybe there really is that much I don’t know of, was

never anywhere close to being a part of.

     But maybe you’re just making an exception

of me.  Maybe I’m somehow

still yr secret. 

     Maybe.

WEDNESDAY

Today I sat in the tub for three hours.  I don’t have a drain stopper so I use a little mug, place it ass end up so that it cups the edges of the hole and suctions.  There’s a little chip in the mug so water trickles thru and down into the drain very slowly, and I found myself realizing again and again that it wouldn’t hurt to fill my surroundings up w/ water.  So I did.  Again and again.  I cried on and off, tearfully laughing my way out of each jag, while saying things like:

‘Shit …’

‘Aw, fuck …’

‘Son of a fucking … ‘

After that I left a message on yr phone that said only one or two message a day keep the doctor away.  That I was sorry for overloading yr phone and for saying anything stupid, but that I was happy w/ the elevator music.  I said I haven’t really been hearing from you for awhile, am a little panicked, and because I didn’t take the intiative in all of that time to contact you like this, you’re receiving it all in one fell swoop.  And that I will continue to do this, to send the panic, only much more sparingly from now on.  Only one or two messages a day, until you call.

O. K.

     *

Then I thought about watching midnight cowboy but didn’t.

Went out and got a burger.

It’s 6:15, that’s maybe 2 or 3 in yr parts, and so it makes sense for you not calling.

And I’m nervous about you calling.

There is a growing dread.

I can’t tell if I’m just doing something or if I am getting myself into

something.

    Troooouble!

All of the horoscopes keep telling me to go for it.

One says to not forget about the thing they say about cracking

a walnut w/ a sledgehammer, and

I had to look it up to find out its meaning.

Makes sense!