i've got to go, i've got an idea i've got an idea i've got an idea i've got an idea i lost it . i have no ideas.
when i was small my father was the architect for an old movie theater in brooklyn that was to be restored and
extravagantly redesigned and re-opened. during the renovations from time to time he'd take me inside, while the construction workers pounded and sawed in thick clothes and boots i'd walk past, holding his hand. i was distinguished - the architects daughter. i became a pioneer. i felt like a cat. i would walk slow and take every single thing in carefully as to not miss a drop or sound or second. the main room was massive, with gigantic unfinished cathedral windows so the sounds outside drifted musically into the theater, the dusty black gate of the upper balcony romantically twisting. layers of fresh unlacquered wood laid around like sleeping lions, the dust of the wood dancy in the sunlight -- dandelion parachute seeds. i remember the new, clean construction smells. maybe you know them, the smell of trees sliced right open and breathing. 
it was built in the 20's as a vaudeville theater looking out onto the park and most of its archaic fixtures and pieces were still there, dusty and sleeping, waiting. a grand sooty vintage chandelier was still there among them, laid gracelessly sideways in the middle of the room, its body tilted. i didn't like it there like that, defiled like that. my father took a misplaced dangling crystal prism from that chandelier, it was bigger than my palm and hung like a long earring. he brought it home and kept it in a drawer. i looked at it a lot to remember the way sunlight holds onto dust but still lets it dance around inside it. i looked at it a lot to remember i was a pioneer. sometimes in the admiration i would feel for a second like maybe life was treasure, my little hands would touch it and i'd pray wildly that life was treasure. maybe. its not around anymore, the bit of chandelier, my father loses everything, even himself, but god damn i still think of its dripping jewels, how we had to dust it off and shine it. i should have swiped the thing. i should have hid it in my underwear drawer or inside a sock. i should have swallowed it. 

but naturally, of course, it's a little too late for that and this wasn't even my initial idea in the first place. i lost that one. this one flared in with the blink of the 6:09 on the digital clock, with the stiff-suited good looking men and women en-route to day jobs, how many cups of coffee in they are by now, no clue. it's not my idea. and i swear i'd sleep if my head didn't go off and do the wild rumpus or the run-around or catch things in its mouth to then spit out, like playing with water in the shower. and now it's 7a.m. which means i won't wake up until about three in the afternoon, which is not okay - by normal standards and probably means i should fix something, see a doctor, or another one, i should say. maybe i will find one that looks me in the eyes and has pretty hands and even stays up all night lying in a fort on the floor writing about childhood and chandeliers. that is my plan. i don't know much about tangible treasure anymore but sometimes things illuminate other things like the prism of that crystal would, and i know its not enough but it still makes me stop and move slower, still a pioneer, still the cat, and i've even got ideas. i've still got those, those i swallowed.


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Kerry Giangrande said...

love you.

thad said...

"i've got to go, i've got an idea i've got an idea i've got an idea i've got an idea i lost it . i have no ideas. "

hahah I love the way this starts. And I've just finished reading the Bell Jar for the first time, and I feel, maybe, that your metaphors remind me of that. I mean your sense for poetic description.

"layers of fresh unlacquered wood laid around like sleeping lions"

keep on keeping on.
keep me in mind for the future.

Kerry Giangrande said...

thank you so much thad. i've never gotten plath before. interesting. i will keep you in minds, naturally.

Len said...

i really like the way you write.

Kerry Giangrande said...

len your comments are fantastic feeling always.