nick hornby watching me....number two?

alright. i know this is kinda weird, but let me just spit it out....book covers that have the author's face on it, especially if their eyes are not on someone else on the cover but pointed out towards the world, make me feel uneasy. mind you, i have no prejudices against abstract art, animals or just artistic junk littered all over the cover of a book. i'll even let graphic baroque scenes slide (for even the artists who painted the scenes had their subjects usually facing one another). human faces on the cover of books staring out towards the viewer, on the other hand, creep me the fuck out. I'll explain.

like most avid readers, i can read almost anywhere but prefer certain places over others. i can read in a bookshop cafe or any cafe as a matter of fact (including starbucks) as long as a mother (or father, let's not be sexist because sometimes the father is more motherly in our modern times) hasn't brought a child who won't shut it or a baby who is crying. not too much to ask right? i can read in a park in the middle of a city, with the commotion of buses and taxis and cars and even the bikes that thread the needle of life or death traffic, car horns blaring, perilously close to accident. and i can suffer the honking horns, the "fuck you's" delivered from one driver to another, which unbelievably is somewhat seamless in the tapestry of city sound. i've sat on the grass in the confines of rittenhouse square, back propped up against a tree, legs crossed, eyes glued to some book or another and felt fine. now, don't get the wrong idea...i can read in commotion, but it has it's limits. if i'm in anything moving, i.e. train, plane, car, bus....that is the kind of commotion my stomach cannot handle.

so, to the point. since i don't want to have to argue within my head for the rest of the day of where i prefer to read the best or what places are better than others, i'll tell you one of my many favorites.

the bathroom.

i bet it is probably good for you too. the one room where you are meant to be alone (we're not talking public bathrooms here). no girlfriends or boyfriends, wives or husbands. no neighbors (unless your're into that) or friends. just you, maybe a bathtub, toiletries, vanity mirror, maybe an exhaust fan to take away your more embarrassing smells or maybe to cover up the sounds you may (tongue in cheek) or may not produce, the sink and the soap, a waste bin and drum roll...the toilet. i do have to admit, reading is quite Divine when on the toilet. i don't know why and i don't think i really need to get into the exact feelings with anyone, but i wouldn't be surprised if many other readers agreed with me about the bathroom being one of their favorite reading rooms.

so to the penultimate point...nick hornby watching me make a number two.

well he's not actually "watching" me make a twosie...remember my problem with faces on the covers of books? well his face is on the cover of one of his books (and i won't mention which one or more so as not to spread my paranoia with whomever reads this). when after nature has called, i throw the book down to finish up (because it is only civilized to have your hands free to finish up), it usually lands on the floor cover up (and please, don't berate me for throwing my books, i don't really and it's not in disgust, let's just say between us that i gently lay it on the floor), facing me. ugh.

and herein lies my problem. it's a good book, but having a picture of an author you respect being on the cover of a pretty decent book (so far) "watching" me wipe creeps me out.

leaving without waking you up

and it's these late nights awake that buy you the drinks. so i should thank the moon and my dirty window panes next to my bag of clothes on your kitchen floor. cause i got out of your house through that window onto your neighbor's porch, without waking the dog, or god out of their slumbers. but i forgot my cigarettes. they're under the mattress, probably next to your dog, and my watch too. i have my phone and the keys to the car and a last call for alcohol replay, in my head. i hope to forget, not regret, please.
so i guess i'll settle for watching her dance cause i'm not anyone's cannon...not a camera or a lens. just some broke son of a bitch, with lungs and a knack for fixing something that is not broke.

delayed

breathe. breathe. breathe. i'm looking up, seeing through your ankles, up to your teeth. with that chip of a tooth, it's sad that your father suggested a career in dentistry. there's a desperate look in your eye. like your underwear would come off. if not for your thighs, that you're scared that i'll see. so you turn off your one light in a stroke of brilliance.
breathe. breathe. breathe.
you're gently lying back, stealing with you the sheets. but don't you know that i'll only sleep with you if the lights stay on?
you've read my face and you guide my right hand to the clouds. maybe now is the time to be gone, be that guy you tell your friends about or maybe you won't.
breathe, breathe, breathe.
i've worn a sweater with no shirt underneath. it's dark and now i feel just sorry for you.