Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Aimless Reading: The G's, Part 11.2 (Michael Gizzi)

Gizzi, Michael
New Depths of Deadpan


Sent to me by the author. Inscribed.

A little distracted this morning, I am staring at the painted white wood of the bookcases in my library and remembering this room as it was when we bought the house a little over a year and a half ago. The room was painted dark green, about the color of doctors' scrubs. What you see behind me in photos was enclosed in homemade cabinet doors made of particle board. We removed them to reveal the shelves and added a few new ones to house all my books. Even the ceiling in here was green. In the window behind me there is still a small, unpainted swatch that we never covered over after replacing the window. When guests come we show them the swatch and ask them to imagine the whole room that color. I sometimes wonder if they can imagine such a thing. If they can repaint the room in their minds and hold the image there of that place, as it was or might have been, or if they just smile and move on to the next room. On one of the lower shelves, where the A's and most of the B's are housed, the doors once had holes stuffed with what looked like sixties era speaker covering. The room may have been someone's groovy cocktail lounge. Overhanging those shelves is what appears to be a countertop, and at the same height in other parts of the room there are small, hidden shelves that can be pulled out. You can set things on them. This leads us to believe this must have at one time been a pantry or a kitchen. I keep them closed. The cats. This was at one time the rear of the house, before the two additions were telescoped onto it. One of them sags on the second floor. They seem to have removed a wall or built on top of a one story structure without properly supporting it. We painted the walls inside the bookcases. A kind of deep mustard yellow. In the corners we kept the doors on because the shelving inside is too deep for book cases. I store things there. They are also wired for cheap florescent lighting. I use it now and again when I am looking for something. The cats alway try to open the doors so they can crawl in and hide. The cats love to hide. They like to knock things off the shelves. They like to tip over garbage cans. One likes to hide behind the venetian blind in the window or, when I pull it open, to play with the cord, which then hangs low enough to tussle with. Sometimes they jump up on my desk and walk all over the keyboard as I type. I have to delete their writings. No one should read them. Sometimes they chew at the corner of the lamp, but only when it is lit. Maybe the light has some taste only cats can taste. Other times they lay down and fall asleep. Still others they fall asleep sitting up. Their eyes begin to droop, but their bodies remain erect. I pet them. I scratch their bellies, their backs. Both like to be scratched. They meow a lot. Lori can tell their meows apart. I can, too, sometimes. Sumi's meow is a bit deeper. Blues a bit higher pitched. Sometimes they fight for attention, other times they share it. Cat hair piles at the place where the plastic chair mat meets the tatami mat beneath it. I should vacuum. I will vacuum. Soon.

from New Depths of Deadpan

The Deep


A reflection blinds a gardening correspondent. Shade requires a starting point. The elementary particle makes to leave and its extremities fill.

Aliens write in puns we know are curly fries. Drive-up windows make this clear.

War with its lights out eschews imagination. All our buds lost their hears in the flower of their youth.

So we got this apartment on Jockey Street. They used to race horses there.

But we're not going to jaw about Ovid or the rosy steps of mother, her microscopic brand of honey. We expect you to understand.

See you over the next hill.

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