sometimes i can stare at this screen for hours….

…and not write a damned thing.

i’m going to australia in like, forty-eight hours.
i have not yet begun to pack.
weeks ago, my friend called and said, “i’m going to visit some family and give away my sister at a wedding. you could use a vacation. want to go to australia?,” or something like that.
i might have paraphrased it, but you get the gist.
i said, “uhhhhh….yeah, ok.”
after getting the tickets, an overwhelming sense of guilt overcame me.
because of this, i’ve been taking maxx to the beach as often as i can.
and because of these trips, there’ve been “guest appearances” by friends and neighbors out to “prep” maxx for my scheduled disappearance.

on one day, my friend tom came out. he decided to go mining for rust.
there’s plenty of that out here.

it had snowed some this day. little more than a dusting. it looked nice. we went to the nike missile base where maxx could run around unrestricted.
the next day, carly came came and i brought her to dead horse bay first, then fort tilden. she was amazed with the wealth of old glass laying around everywhere. she and maxx frolicked in the low-tide muck.

i didn’t feel like photographing anything.
the camera lay in its case in a pocket, deep in my coat.
after a while images began to nudge my hand into my pocket.
a wealth of old fixtures laying in one particular area prompted me to start documenting things that didn’t matter, even to me as i shot them.
sometimes you have to make believe it matters.
this was one of those moments.
i don’t doubt that somewhere, inside, it really does matter, whatever it is. i don’t doubt this disconnectedness is the sputtering of the many frizzled wires harnessed in and around my hard drive.
about my hard drive;
it’s got the most up-to-date, state of the art things i can imagine combined with the most archaic whirligigs rube goldberged together that reside within me since birth and before.

i found old porcelain fixtures laying half-buried in the sand like art-deco pieces that belong on small shelves in art galleries.

some days i feel like everything everywhere should be framed and mounted.
this day, i felt like i wanted to get into a cancer ward and photograph faces and cancer cells together, just like you see people and their dogs. this is probably because i learned that a young woman who worked for me when i first opened my store has sinced zoomed off this mortal coil and is headed (at no-longer-relevant “breakneck speed“) toward and around the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension courtesy of cancer’s magical properties to propel organisms into other dimensions of time and space.
three and a half years ago i would leave the house in the early morning, headed for one type of cancer therapy or other, still grey-pallored from the previous day, forcing-down a bottle of ensure just purchased from the bodega, standing zombie-like on the corner of broadway and malcom X blvd, eyes closed, hating the seconds, this good soldier, whatever it takes, whatever they tell me….”hello,” i hear, unable to focus, “who?” i ask myself….my eyes open, the bottle pulled from my face,…shit, am i doing this in slow motion?…is that…uh…?
she walks past, i recover in time to realize who she is, on her way to something pilates in nature i imagine…last i heard…”oh, hi – how are you?”, in time to acknowledge her, her smile, confused… looking down to the remainder of the, what….strawberry?….is this strawberry?…fuck if i know what this tastes like….i have no idea what i’m eating or drinking…i want to lie down right here…right now…and go sleep forever…..pavement here, yeah, you’re just…j…u…s…t…fine.

she’s out of the cancer ward, she’s out of the hospice….i heard something came over her like a dark cloud, a surprise…..WTF?…and a million other expletives that never got a chance to leave her mouth.
allatonce i’m at that corner. was her hello her goodbye?
i guess it’s all the same.

someone told me that my dearest friend is missing.
i’m keeping her there, wherever missing is.
this way i’ll always know where to find her.

i’m gonna pack.

About stephen trimboli

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