one point of view. betsy had a reddish face and that strange smile which is no smile at all. the wrinkles on her nose looked as if she had just pretended to be a lion, annoyed by a stick that smelled like meat but had none on it. betsy the lioness hated that. she had a very particular view of the world. a very simple, well organized, right view. yes, it was the right view. the correct one. the one that had been selected a long time ago and one that has worked ever since. longer than anyone alive could remember. not only did betsy follow that view of the world, she also made sure others around her knew how to follow it. those who did not, got to see that side of her which made those wrinkles on her nose. she could get very... well... upset. her anger could become incredibly strong at times. especially when those whom she allowed to be close to her tried to make fun of her beliefs, by adjusting little details in her world. well, they were not really little details. there were no little details. no details were little, or small, or of a negligible size. and even the tiniest things had to have their order. those subsets of these things as well. the more betsy began to control her universe, the more items in it appeared to have been left out of place. the more she looked the more there was wrong. and so betsy was upset quite often. but always for a good reason. the reasons were always good. and they were also always very obvious (to betsy.) in this universe which needed betsy's help so desperately a lot had to be done. and we are not talking about the arrangement of shells in a room (from biggest to littlelest.) there were colors to be muted, images to be named (she wished she got to name those more often) and there were houses to be kept in perfect order. people were houses too. and houses were like people. houses contained people. people maintained houses. after a long ride out in the country side betsy had the idea of having a party with the people around her who were busy completing her vision. in a wrong way, perhaps, or rather, not good enough... but still. betsy would end up winning this and all the other games. her point of view, after all. was the one and only one.

Poetry in motion on the B train going to Manhattan this morning. Out beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing There is a field. I'll meet you there When the soul lies down in that grass, The world is too full to talk about Ideas, language, even the phrase each other Doesn't make any sense. Jelauddin Rumi (1207-1273)

18 minutes of fading light. swam to the subway this morning. the umbrella broke one of its wing joints and so i was one of those guys who held a strangely broken round object above his head. that train station on 7th ave and 57th street really has a cave like appearance. mineral water of the freshest kind drops from the ceiling onto tiny landing places all over the platform. how many coffees have i managed to pour into myself today. many too many. and they were not the short kind either. i should be holding on to the ceiling with one foot while writing this. i am in front of the open window. there are still the very last remnants of daylight over park slope. and it is almost 9pm. fantastic. i visited some temples tonight. walked past rockefeller centre to one of the department stores and let the wood panelled elevator bring me to the top ("notch") floor with all the tight and shiny and ridiculously expensive weird stuff. it is amusing to look at some of the things from time to time. weird things. very much so. for me at least. there must be many out there who love this kind of stuff. i dream of buying things once. the shoe department was amusing as well. such odd personalities. shoe people. buyers, sellers, foot fetishists. i left the building after having purchased nothing. and i mean it. right next door: st. marks cathedral. it does have a shop which i did not visit. i looked for the most quiet spot and just cooled down as far as i could. once the snow began to fall in my head i was ready to complete my shy round around the church. i ended up by the black madonna, the one which i had seen in original when visiting czenstochowa at the age of maybe 7. there was a good amount of tourists by the shrine. a woman was there to ask for some seemingly very serious favors or maybe close to impossible forgiveness? the painting stared patiently onto the burning candles. i wonder how many copies stare over burning candles all over the world... it was really good to visit the church. after that visit no store really made any sense. (I visited two more. buying nothing.) things appeared very weird. weirder than the shoe department at sacks even. yes, that's possible. i took the train home. the f. f is for hmm... "very" slow. and it was good. it made sense to just sit by what used to be a window and now looked as if some ghost had wiped its behind with it. the 7th avenue train station smelled like the rim of a truck exhaust. and indeed, an ambulance was idling right outside the exit. two friendly people were eating their sandwiches with the engine pumping diesel fumes into the train waiting chambers. no swimming was needed for the return home. my laundry was many pounds of stuff. that coffee just makes me feel incredibly disoriented. the thoughts in my head appear to be like bees mixed with flies mixed with pollen. I am afraid to even open my mouth right now. would even like to close my eyes and press both hands against my ears. daylight is gone. i have some work to do. for weeks now. oh dear. i have to sign some things. now.

104 steps and 8 doors? the old man took a good while to get to the apartment. he carried a flashlight with him. it was one of the bright yellow ones. he carried it as if it were made out freshly painted lead. step after step after step and floor after floor after floor he finally made it into my apartment. i had removed all the parts i could access under the bathroom sink and so now there was only a pipe sticking out of the wall, and one from top, pointing towards a plastic bucket i managed to squeeze into the narrow space. the old man looked at the pipe for a few moments. he then pulled out of his overall a printed piece of paper, a pencil, also yellow and heavy. and with it in one hand, the paper in the other, the flash light on my non working bathroom sink, the price for the project was now officially estimated for $248. plus parts. plus tax. plus i had to sign some sort of agreement that would release the old man and all the men that would come after him from any responsibility whatsoever for... ever. it took the old man a better while to get down the stairs. three floors. i think it is 52 steps. a total of 4 doors. good thing my neighbors saw the old man. they gave me the number of the plumber actually responsible for the piping in this building. and now i can again wash my hands. innocently. a man? what man? a pipe? what pipe? water arrives. and it leaves. in mysterious ways.

what were you doing out there angry dead man? there was some sort of shout in the distance to my right, outside, beyond the buildings on second street, then there was a squeak, a little closer. a squirrel? next: sparrows on my fire escape began a wild argument. a cold sensation passed through me right to left. my jaw especially. i had to stop writing. moments later a pack of dogs went into loud barking on third street. seconds later. quiet. it was as if a frustrated soul were on its way back to the greenwood cemetery. maybe a friendly one will follow? though i do not have time to wait. right now.