[6 From NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor]
“& the summer came, the New York summer, which is like no summeranywhere. The heat &
the noise began their destruction of nerves & sanity and private lives & love affairs.”
James Baldwin
The Unloaded Camera Snapshots [Paris Scratch & NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor] were launched as an exercise to document the not-quite prose poems, not-quite journal entries, “snapshots” of everyday life in Paris with Paris Scratch. & this continued upon my return to NYC. The exercise consisted of every day “taking” a written “snapshot” – 365 of them …”
bart plantenga
- Swingin’ in the Pain
The dinner 3-some in their best outfits of awkward splendor, twirl & twirl as if they haven’t been dizzy since their romps through fields of deep weeds that Summer of ’66 – or ’76. They dance under the swaying lights of Little Italy like a scene from a musical. She twirls & twirls like something you’ve seen in a Godard film or a doc about whirling dervishes as she yanks them into her intoxicating spin. They are indeed singing: “Singin’ in the Rain! We’re just swingiiiin’ in the pain.” She seems happy as a flower in a pretty vase with these 2 nonthreatening guys. They’re old friends, you can tell, & they need to announce it over & over, across the rooftops to New York’s by-now sleeping inhabitants, passing out & away in their tiny rooms. The taller guy is wearing some of his dinner & she some of his dessert. The last train back has already departed. Grand Central’s doors will reopen in no time.
• Pigeon Croquet
The summer downpour flushes the gleaming streets. Gruesome clumps of garbage clog the smiling teeth of the sewer grates. He is in the middle of the street, he is wet & playing something like golf with a broomstick for a golf club, desperately courting the hollow yucks of his streetmates. He takes aim at the “ball”—a half-dead pigeon—& WHACK! The neighborhood “fuck-you girl” yucks it up too while hitching up her pants every 10 seconds. He gives the twitching pigeon another 3-iron whack. But she wants a swing at it too. “Hey, it’s still breathing!” She notices. He grabs the club back; takes another swing, checks it for traces of blood & drama. “I think it’s almost dead,” he declares, holding the broomstick like some sad exclamation point at the end of an even sadder sentence.
• The Streets of Downtown Beirut
On East 3rd St., approaching the Nuyorican, these guys who are much older than they seem at this moment are throwing firecrackers that some would classify as almost bombs. It is as if mischief had reversed their ageing process. One tries to outdo the rest—you are dead without a dare—rolling a firecracker under the pleated summer skirt of the young woman & as it goes off her entire body flies onto the hood of a car like an unbelievable scene from an action movie. She is now holding her ears just laying their on the dented hood. “Pathetic way to have fun, mister!” I just couldn’t help myself although this mouth has gotten me into earlier near-death experiences. “I didn’ do it,” as if everyone hadn’t seen him, although most would, out of deference for his size, have agreed with him. “Dju see me set that firecracker muthahfuckah?! I’ll kick your ass through your fuggin’ mouth!” A calmer neighbor restrains him. “I kill for less shit than this!” The girl was gone, “just another afternoon in Beirut,” a bystander observes holding an imaginary microphone as if she’s a CNN correspondent.
• Near-Hindu in a Flash
Me & CP walk up to Central Park’s free concert featuring Sonic Youth & Sun Ra. We roam around toting beers. A perfect event; the music & weather leaving one & all in a summery swoon. Dogs chasing Frisbees & even a can of Schaefer tastes beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. We click cans to toast a wonderful evening. Until … someone casually tosses a lit M-80 over his shoulder, flicking it like you might a toothpick or a cigarette butt or a wadded up love letter that no longer applies & – BAM! – it explodes just over our heads, a shard hitting me right in the forehead—“in the Third Eye,” CP later clarifies. “& to think Sonic Youth’s encore not 20 minutes ago was ‘Expressway To Your Skull’—That’s profound!” Ears ringing, stunned, wambling, I sit down; lean against a tree. A girl licks the corner of her sleeve & wipes the dark patch of residue from my forehead. “It’s like you became a Hindu in a flash,” she observes, peering into my eyes up close. & Sun Ra’s performance is really, really speaking to me this evening.
• The Scent of the Street
Why does a dry-spell, eerily-quiet, summer street smell so unusually wonderful after a rainstorm – with the first drops sizzling on the pavement & this sizzle containing so much enchantment? The scent they say is caused by bacterial spores released when rain hits dry ground—could it be stirring ancient city dust to tell a story to our noses? The percussive nature of acidic raindrops forces plants to release various aromatic oils, which are thrust as an aerosol into thin air. The nose is sharp in humid air & sniffs out various atmospheric chemicals. On a speeding F train, SG reads about how negative ions in the air create psychological calm, an almost evocative, meditational state just before a rainstorm. “Negatively charged oxygen molecules caused by falling rain & lightning, occur commonly throughout nature,” she recites, “& can create an overall sense of well-being.”
• The Park’s Prospects
I pass by the Downtown Brooklyn jail on Smith St. where I encounter a black woman in orange halter & tight skirt, accenting every curve & crevice. She resembles a kind of sashaying pastry, a sex object—provocative but not obscene! She stops me & says: “Can you do something for me? I’m desperate.” “I can’t imagine that.” “You’re sweet. But how good’re you at actin’?” “Not very.” “I wan’ you to take me, kiss me really hard like you mean it.” “That might not take much actin’.” “You’re too much.” “But probably not enough for you.” “You’d be surprised.” “Why?” “Cuz my man, my ex—really. This time really! The fuck. I mean how many arrests did it take me to see the light!?” “What’s he in for?” “Molestation, but it was rape, but he copped, it was his niece who’s 14. He’s fucked wid me for the last time. Price is what you pay & value is whatchu git. & he payin’ the price for not seein’ the value.” & so, right there on the street, I act like I’m approaching her but she does most of the work, letting me take her, swooning, her head tilted back, her big coif full of patchouli incense, one eye to see that he’s watching & we kiss right there in the early August afternoon with cabs passing, guys in hairnets giving the thumbs up & wolf calls … It is a long kiss like a deep breath you take diving for pearls. & her mouth & perspiration smell like nothing I have ever smelled before. & as we part, she smiles & I notice the space, where my tongue had nestled, the gap of a missing tooth.
bart plantenga is the author of novels Beer Mystic, Radio Activity Kills, & Ocean GroOve, short story collections Wiggling Wishbone, The Confusion Spandex, novella Spermatagonia: The Isle of Man & memoirs: Paris Scratch & NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor. He’s a founding member of NYC writer group, The Unbearables. His books YODEL-AY-EE-OOOO: The Secret History of Yodeling Around the World & Yodel in HiFi & CD Rough Guide to Yodel have created a misunderstanding that he’s the world’s foremost yodel expert. He produces the Dig•Scape & iMMERSE! podcasts & as a DJ has produced Wreck This Mess in NYC, Paris & Amsterdam since forever. He’s a regular contributor to the International Times of London. He lives in Amsterdam. Anonymous photo: Coney Island with Nina, 1996.