Stirring:
The Andersons
Anderson was tall, thin, with a cleft chin like the Grand Canyon. He was in insurance. Drank gin martinis. Smoke Chesterfields. A man of few words.
His wife was named Buffy. Housewife. A blonde hair helmet that didn't move. Desperately unhappy face. Blabbermouth.
They lived in Connecticut. Anderson took the 6:05 from Stamford to Grand Central Station everyday and walked to his office on 6th avenue and 46th Street.
Buffy would rise at 8:30, take a handful of pills and mill about the house.
They had no children. They never spoke of children. She spent most of her days shopping from mail-order catalogs; he spent most of his weekends discarding of the boxes.
They had worked together in the early days. Their first contact came when Anderson was promoted to regional sales manager. Buffy worked as a secretary in the home office. She was most efficient at keeping his schedule and tracking his sales. He was efficient at making the sales. The combination of those traits drew them closer together. He earned and she managed. And so it went.
One got the feeling one of them would bust - want to break out of the monotony. But it never happened. They died - he first, and she several years later - just the way they had lived.
The End.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
Journal Series - AH
Dumont didn't keep a journal in the typical sense. Most of his journal stuff was just a mismash of different thoughts, different ideas. But from time to time he would date stuff like a journal only the sequense of events never lasted that long. Sometimes just for several days, sometimes a week, or in this case, for an entire month. This is one of Wesley's longer running journal sequences.
Without giving much away, this stretch was a period of excitement and charm for Wesley. It takes place in the Spring of 1961. He was working for an artist who's name he never mentioned, but based on the descriptions of the work and the activities around the studio he worked in, the artist was a contemporary of Andy Warhol, Robert Raushenberg, and the other New York artists that were hitting their stride in the early 60s. For all I know, "AH" could have been code for one of these very artists. I don't know. Dumont did mention that he had known quite a few of most prolific artists New York had ever known, but I didn't actually take him all that serious at the time. Everyone has a prolific list of fish stories to tell in dive bars on Tuesday afternoons.
Journal Entry #1. April 9, 1961
I met AH at a bar in the Village last week and despite the fact he was as drunk as a sailor when he offered me the job I showed up at his studio on Wednesday morning just has he'd suggested. I even showered.
The door downstairs was cracked a bit so I let myself in and up the stairs to the main studio. It was large and uncluttered. Most of the activity was taking place in one corner by the windows with the most light while the rest of the space was lost in shadow. It was cool and breezy; wind passed through the lazy white curtains in a joyful way. I announced myself with a loud hello that echoed around in his giant chamber.
AH was startled. He came to me and it took a few minutes for him to remember who I was. I got the distinct feeling he was going to throw me out due to shame until I became curious as to what he was working on and made my way over to the canvas in the corner.
It was a shocking mess of greens and blues, pinks and purples. Vague figures moving in unspeakable ways, draped on one another as if Caligula and his horde had invaded a Matisse picnic. I was horrified. He called it "Daffodil" which confused me. But I feigned interest and asked to see more which flattered him just enough to give me the work he'd promised.
I stretched canvases all day. It took me awhile to get used to it but I did, stretching them against wooden frames as taut as drums.
AH and I lunched on peanut butter sandwiches and soda. He was curious about my life and I was candid in my answers. We agreed I'd come back Friday. I left with $10 in my pocket which I quickly turned into beer.
Without giving much away, this stretch was a period of excitement and charm for Wesley. It takes place in the Spring of 1961. He was working for an artist who's name he never mentioned, but based on the descriptions of the work and the activities around the studio he worked in, the artist was a contemporary of Andy Warhol, Robert Raushenberg, and the other New York artists that were hitting their stride in the early 60s. For all I know, "AH" could have been code for one of these very artists. I don't know. Dumont did mention that he had known quite a few of most prolific artists New York had ever known, but I didn't actually take him all that serious at the time. Everyone has a prolific list of fish stories to tell in dive bars on Tuesday afternoons.
Journal Entry #1. April 9, 1961
I met AH at a bar in the Village last week and despite the fact he was as drunk as a sailor when he offered me the job I showed up at his studio on Wednesday morning just has he'd suggested. I even showered.
The door downstairs was cracked a bit so I let myself in and up the stairs to the main studio. It was large and uncluttered. Most of the activity was taking place in one corner by the windows with the most light while the rest of the space was lost in shadow. It was cool and breezy; wind passed through the lazy white curtains in a joyful way. I announced myself with a loud hello that echoed around in his giant chamber.
AH was startled. He came to me and it took a few minutes for him to remember who I was. I got the distinct feeling he was going to throw me out due to shame until I became curious as to what he was working on and made my way over to the canvas in the corner.
It was a shocking mess of greens and blues, pinks and purples. Vague figures moving in unspeakable ways, draped on one another as if Caligula and his horde had invaded a Matisse picnic. I was horrified. He called it "Daffodil" which confused me. But I feigned interest and asked to see more which flattered him just enough to give me the work he'd promised.
I stretched canvases all day. It took me awhile to get used to it but I did, stretching them against wooden frames as taut as drums.
AH and I lunched on peanut butter sandwiches and soda. He was curious about my life and I was candid in my answers. We agreed I'd come back Friday. I left with $10 in my pocket which I quickly turned into beer.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Playing in the Park
December 17, 1992
Stanley Frankle had never been a bright fellow and certainly wasn’t anything to look at standing only about five feet two inches which was deceptive given his bad posture that made him more diminutive than that. Stanley spent most of his days wandering around Washington Square Park, feeding the pigeons and ignoring the college kids and hippies that gathered around. In fact, the only thing Stanley seemed to pay attention to were the pigeons and the chess players at the northwest end.
Stanley had been operating like this for quite a number of years. He lived with his mother in publicly-funded housing out near Coney but would venture into the city everyday to mill around with the pigeons and watch the chess players. No one paid him much mind. Occasionally the colored players would joke with him in a friendly way.
“What should I do next, Stanley? Queen to the rook side? Take his pawn?”
They would laugh and Stanley would laugh right along with them never sure if they were laughing with him or at him.
And so it goes.
It was on an ordinary Wednesday that Stanley’s position in the park changed. It was slow that day and no one seemed interested in playing chess. Harold, a large black man and a regular at the tables was sitting alone with his racing papers waiting for action. Stanley sat on the stone wall near the table waiting for a game to watch. They both sat minding their own business. Finally, to break the monotony, Harold spoke.
“Hey Stanley, let’s play." Stanley just smiled back, not sure how to answer.
“Come on, dude don’t play me like you don’t know, hanging out for years watching. Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”
Stanley looked around as if looking for permission, but there wasn’t anyone there to approve or not. Stanley had always thought of playing but was too terrified to do so. Not to mention that no one had ever asked him to play. In a fit of bravery, Stanley stepped forward with a shy grin and took a seat.
“Now don’t you worry about a thing, Stanley. We’ll go real slow,” Harold offered. “You go first.”
“No, you go first,” Stanley said.
Harold looked a bit surprised. “Okay, big man I’ll go first.”
Harold moved his King pawn two steps ahead, and with a second of hesitation, hit the timer box. Stanley smiled and took a quick glance at Harold, excited about his first move. He mirrored Harold's move with his Queen pawn.
"Monkey see, Monkey do."
Harold countered by moving his King-side bishop out one space and waited. Stanley then moved his King pawn up one. Harold looked puzzled but let Stanley do his thing.
The game began to pick up pace.
A horse was moved into a defensive position. A bishop was poised to pounce. A horse was lost... a rook was lost... as blood began to pour from both sides.
Before they new it a whole crowd had gathered around the table watching the action. And just like that there was a pause. It was Harold's move. Only a scattering of pieces remained. Stanley's smiling face was fixed on the board. Harold was frantic.
"Ain't you gonna say anything! You gotta say something!" Harold shouted.
Stanley looked up about to explode with excitiment and quietly muttered "checkmate."
From that day forward, Stanley wasn't afraid to play. And on most days, rain or shine, you'll find Stanley Frankle on the northwest corner of Washington Square Park, looking for action.
Stanley Frankle had never been a bright fellow and certainly wasn’t anything to look at standing only about five feet two inches which was deceptive given his bad posture that made him more diminutive than that. Stanley spent most of his days wandering around Washington Square Park, feeding the pigeons and ignoring the college kids and hippies that gathered around. In fact, the only thing Stanley seemed to pay attention to were the pigeons and the chess players at the northwest end.
Stanley had been operating like this for quite a number of years. He lived with his mother in publicly-funded housing out near Coney but would venture into the city everyday to mill around with the pigeons and watch the chess players. No one paid him much mind. Occasionally the colored players would joke with him in a friendly way.
“What should I do next, Stanley? Queen to the rook side? Take his pawn?”
They would laugh and Stanley would laugh right along with them never sure if they were laughing with him or at him.
And so it goes.
It was on an ordinary Wednesday that Stanley’s position in the park changed. It was slow that day and no one seemed interested in playing chess. Harold, a large black man and a regular at the tables was sitting alone with his racing papers waiting for action. Stanley sat on the stone wall near the table waiting for a game to watch. They both sat minding their own business. Finally, to break the monotony, Harold spoke.
“Hey Stanley, let’s play." Stanley just smiled back, not sure how to answer.
“Come on, dude don’t play me like you don’t know, hanging out for years watching. Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”
Stanley looked around as if looking for permission, but there wasn’t anyone there to approve or not. Stanley had always thought of playing but was too terrified to do so. Not to mention that no one had ever asked him to play. In a fit of bravery, Stanley stepped forward with a shy grin and took a seat.
“Now don’t you worry about a thing, Stanley. We’ll go real slow,” Harold offered. “You go first.”
“No, you go first,” Stanley said.
Harold looked a bit surprised. “Okay, big man I’ll go first.”
Harold moved his King pawn two steps ahead, and with a second of hesitation, hit the timer box. Stanley smiled and took a quick glance at Harold, excited about his first move. He mirrored Harold's move with his Queen pawn.
"Monkey see, Monkey do."
Harold countered by moving his King-side bishop out one space and waited. Stanley then moved his King pawn up one. Harold looked puzzled but let Stanley do his thing.
The game began to pick up pace.
A horse was moved into a defensive position. A bishop was poised to pounce. A horse was lost... a rook was lost... as blood began to pour from both sides.
Before they new it a whole crowd had gathered around the table watching the action. And just like that there was a pause. It was Harold's move. Only a scattering of pieces remained. Stanley's smiling face was fixed on the board. Harold was frantic.
"Ain't you gonna say anything! You gotta say something!" Harold shouted.
Stanley looked up about to explode with excitiment and quietly muttered "checkmate."
From that day forward, Stanley wasn't afraid to play. And on most days, rain or shine, you'll find Stanley Frankle on the northwest corner of Washington Square Park, looking for action.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Dumont to do list
TO DO
--Shower at shelter
--Eat at shelter
--Panhandle
--Stare at beautiful women
--Contemplate what went wrong
--Drink
--Nap
--Play the ponies
--Holland Bar
--Talk about what went wrong
--Fantasize that things will be okay
--Sleep
--Wake up
--Repeat
--Shower at shelter
--Eat at shelter
--Panhandle
--Stare at beautiful women
--Contemplate what went wrong
--Drink
--Nap
--Play the ponies
--Holland Bar
--Talk about what went wrong
--Fantasize that things will be okay
--Sleep
--Wake up
--Repeat
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