Valentine's Day at the DMV

I wrote this in the back cover of Singing School by Robert Pinsky while I was waiting at the DMV.

I took the day off of work to come here. I'm sitting in a plastic chair in a row of many other rows with other people who are dressed against the cold. There are red streamers hanging from the ceiling because it's Valentine's Day and I think the government workers love us. I brought this book with me. It's kind of an anthology called Singing School, and I'm finding that only some poems are working with the rhythm of this place.

William Blake's "A Question Answered" - no. Nothing by Emily Dickinson either, or any other poem that sounds like something you might hum to a baby.

But "Howl" is working. It fits somehow with the electronic calling of alphanumeric names and the monotone questions.

"Now serving E414 at counter number 5."

Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch!

"Now serving A016 at counter number 18."

Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!

"Sir, do you wear glasses?"

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!

I look up at the electronic board above my head. It's blinking bright red letters and numbers. A014 is next but that doesn't tell me how soon it will be for me because they're not calling in any kind of order. A015 doesn't follow A014. It's H218 next.

I wonder, because it's Valentine's Day and the streamers are suggesting that I think about these things, if I'll ever have love in my life again. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of feeling it anymore. This isn't something I'm sad about. What's more sad is how detached I feel from the question.

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Nothing makes me feel less human than sitting in a room full of other humans who are waiting to be processed. Sometimes names are called, I guess the ones who are at the end of the process and their licenses are done.

But this is still better than love. This is still better than flowers and behind them all of the uncertainty, and my own bullshit. I am B105, waiting. Which window? Tell me when and which window? I'll wait in my row until the harsh red light flashes B105. It's preferable to chalky, tasteless hearts with alphanumeric codes like "Text u l8r." Staying single sometimes feels like self-love and a public service at the same time - and that perspective seems self-pitying and overly dramatic to me. I'm not really sure how to feel at all.

Dreams! Adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Ok, so maybe I'm not so detached. I'm just not sure that I can feel anything like that again. Maybe I fit with the rhythm of this place today. I'm ok with the little headaches of cracked plastic chairs and Window 11 now serving C135.

real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell. They jumped off the roof!

I was called to Window 18. And the computer is down. Cocksucker in Moloch. I dream Angels.

Howl's Effect on Rubber Chickens of the Imagination

I watched the movie "Howl" tonight, the one where James Franco plays Allen Ginsberg. It's the kind of movie that I'm glad I saw by myself because then I can just let it soak in without comment or having to break the mood after by asking the person next to me what they want to do next.

Speaking of writers and writing, I did a little homework on promoting The Daily Dylanson Obituaries on Amazon.com and one of the things it suggested is that I update my blog every day. Weeeeell, I did decide that writing needs to be my part-time second job. So that's what I need to do. What if I run out of material? Well, darlings, you're just going to have to give me material. Someone send me a box of rubber chickens in the mail so that I can write about that experience. It would inspire a post like this:

I went out to the mailbox, expecting the usual bills, yoga magazine, and coupons for oil changes that are always wet by the time I get them, for some reason. Honestly, I could get a bundle of bills, health insurance statements, and an add for a better face cleanser, but the coupon for an oil change will be the only one that is soggy and useless by the time I lay hands on it. And it doesn't even have to be raining. How is that? Do they sweat? Are they that excited about my potential savings?  But anyway, yesterday I did not find bills, wet coupons, or a monthly magazine when I went out to the box. What I got was a package of rubber chickens, each with a rose in their beaks and no return address. What did this mean? Was this a message from the vegetarian community to join their ranks again? Does Fozzie Bear have a crush on me? Was this a stunt to get me to blog daily because this is exactly what I asked my readers to do? And why didn't I ask them to send cash? There was no way of knowing, and no way to return the gift without a return address, so I brought the rubber chicken bouquet inside and arranged them in a vase.

Ok, I think I can do this. All I needed was the mere idea of rubber chickens (with roses in their beaks) in the mail and whamo - instant blogification. This means I need to make (sigh) a writing schedule. I've tried this before - making a schedule and showing up, just like a do for my day job. It's worked when I've done it before, you know, until one of the kids got sick, or until I got lazy, and stopped.

I suppose I can look at this as a challenge. Can I blog something every day? And if I do, must I always have to mention my book? I don't know, I only read that promotional stuff for ten minutes. I hate the whole business side of this stuff so much that I actually had to set a timer to keep myself reading it for ten minutes. Now that I'm pretty much done with this post, I'm going back for another ten.

But before I go, I want to share what I'm reading in case there's another independent writer who's working at promoting their stuff.
http://cwcberkeleymarketing.wordpress.com/2010/06/17/how-to-make-amazon%E2%80%99s-secret-promotional-tools-work-for-your-book/

And Fozzie, stop sending me gifts! How many times do I have to tell you I am not a Muppetsexual, and no amount of rubber chickens is going to change my orientation, I don't care how sexy you look in that hat!