Posts Tagged ‘probably unfinished’

Unfinished and Abandoned, Incomplete: The Jerry Palotta Story

November 23 2009

Meriden: the Amazing True1 Life Story of Jerry Palotta2


Absolute Beginners, my parents became so right out of high school. Barely. Art and Judy Palotta, their names a perfect match, to added young Gerald in 19. We lived in Meriden, Connecticut. I grew up there.



Complicated, my least favorite word in the English language. No good has ever come from complications. The best songs, the best literature, the best films, the best TV shows have always been deceptively simple. Crisp, clear, easy to comprehend. Pretense is a tense best left unused. Complicated is an ugly, fettered, fetid, flea-bitten, flimsy excuse of a term. A cop out. A crutch. It’s why you weren’t , it’s why When you get a toy, “It’s Christmas.” When you get a smack, “It’s ‘Cause I love you, and want you to grow up right.” But when your father leaves, “It’s complicated.” I wanted to know when he was coming back



Easily Fooled, I believed her. Every night before sleeping I would place a necklace of bells (stolen from a stuffed reindeer) on my doorknob, assuming that the first thing he would do would be to come and kiss me and I could know the second he came back. The bells never rang. On holidays– well, Christmas at least, and once my birthday– we would receive a brown paper package with no return address. Inside of which would be a toy, usually more age appropriate for the six year old boy he left behind than the 7, 8, 9, or 10 year old I became. After missing five years, we got one last package about two months after I turned 16. The box– still absent a second address– was dinged and damaged, dotted with redirects delineating the route it required to reach our new home. Inside, wrapped in the same roll of Christmas paper I remembered from past gifts, was a pair of tan leather driving gloves. I still wear them to this day.



Grew Up Hard? Hardly. My mom soon remarried– about a year or two after dad’s departure. Her husband, my stepfather, was a perfectly amiable and absolutely acceptable gent. 13 years older, but without the immaturity that a 37-24 year gap usually entails, Kenneth was as decent a man as you could hope for. Though I never thought of him as my father, after a somewhat rough settling-in period, I only had positive feelings about the guy. He provided for both my mom and me, as well as the two half-sisters I was soon blessed with.3 No, I was a sheltered Siddhartha until I hit high school. Until I met Juliet Katherine Leschowitz. Juliet



I Thought I’d Write to Juliet. It felt almost pathetic– here I was, now 13 years later much-lauded, [Canterbury Award winning] (and newly wealthy) writer at the peak of his powers , and instead of taking advantage of the, ahem, [opportunities at my disposal], I’m penning (secretly, even!) love letters to my high school/college sweetheart. but there was one big obstacle blocking my path to being her Romeo– Romeo. Yes, Romeo[–Romeo] Alfa, inventor of the Alfa Romeo, whom Juliet had been seeing since the previous summer. (The man, not the car).4 He was, not surprisingly, a pompous, arrogant man. To her credit, Juliet was aware of this, but she found his machismo amusing and assured me that for all his bluster he was a ‘mewling kitten’ in private. If anything, she confessed, she wished he would be more [pompous and arrogant] when they were alone, as his slavish devotion and surfeit of coos and cuddles and other soft attention were growing wearisome. This was indisputably a sign. Unfortunately, I was (once again) too eager, too effusive, too… eediotic to take appropriate, slow, tactical advantage. I immediately stuffed an envelope with a dozen alphabets– each cataloguing the ways I feel, times we shared, her looks I still remember…


Kentucky Cocktail, Southern Mash, , I turned to bourbon to drown my heartbreak. I drank Mint Julep after Mint Julep, just because it sounded like her name.5 She’d not written back for three months since. Even two days after I’d spent all day staring at the mailbox. Wondering after a week if she was ok, I called [Alice?] to see if anything had happened. Something had happened, alright, she said, the twist in her voice confirming she’d at least received it. Or so I thought. As with most outwardly confident, secretly smothering boyfriends, Romeo Alfa wasn’t the trusting kind. Suspecting something was different, he’d taken to opening Juliet’s mail. To be fair, Romeo wasn’t wrong. I had been up to something. [Still, that doesn’t justify felonious behavior!]

But why hadn’t she written back? I asked Alice, and she replied with me least favorite word in the English language. “It’s Complicated.” And thus [the levees broke/began my bender/ ]



My Home Town: Meriden, Connecticut. This is where we would see each other for the first time in over a decade. Having drank, and spent, and otherwise misbehaved myself broke and broken and friendless, I decided that now was as good a time as any to finally return home.



Of Pressure you know not until you’ve sat waiting both to pop the question, and then to hear its response. Exponentially so, as I was skipping all the normal steps, hoping our history was enough. If I was wrong I would be wrong knowing there was no other way I could have been. Still, it was stupid and impetuous, and displayed all the maturity that I had yet to gain. It reinforced every opinion she’d had about me when we were in High School, revealing the shocking lack of growth I’d undergone since. It was foolish, And it worked.


Q. It’s generally one of the hardest letters to write for. X would be harder if not for the fact that people X-pected you to improvise your way around it. Ditto Z. J can be tough, and since no one thinks about how hard it can be, you don’t have the advantage of the previously mentioned ’empathy benefit’. Depending on the subject,6 J can definitely be harder than Q. Luckily, in life, I have my Juliet. I’d already alphabetized her exquisite qualities[properties], all our private jokes and precious moments, so many birthdays, and even my proposal– the old bag of tricks wouldn’t do this time. I had to come up with something special, something better.

[in [year], I married [name] [my third and final wife]. It was a small [Quiet] ceremony but a ceremony nonetheless [no wedding so far?]. Our only [expenditure] fancy flourish a string Quintet These were those vows:]


Rainbows. When I look into her face, a crimson

outline in which I place all [orange][-x][ginger]

yearns, [all] delicate delight[s]: a golden

grail, a guiding

b agave? Cerulean?

I darkest denim? Some monastic/monastery mood?

v[aricose] light and hum? Royal hue?

rainbows (when I look into her face). [a string quintet / quiet]




When I look into her face, a crimson

outline in which I place all ginger

yearns, each delicate delight: a golden

grail, that guides me right.

because/but when I [ ], and [ ] fall into a

I lapse into some deep monastic mood

verily I return to [light, and hum a] royal hue

rainbows, when I see her face A string quintet


Two Of Us, for all eternity, ‘[un]til death



[tu Two of Us, for the rest of eternity, then bound






X Or Y? It didn’t matter. Just the idea that we might not be able to have a child was more awful than any thought I would care to imagine. And yet when the results came back, our worst fears were confirmed. Juliet was

Now I’ll be brutally honest with you– noting only that my mind has turned 180 degrees since– the notion of adoption always seemed like nonsense to me. Not morally wrong, not by any means, nothing could be nobler. But I had my doubts about the whole process, with very strong doubts about the concept. The idea that you could genuinely love a child that was not actually your own in the same way (or anywhere near) that you could love a kid that you yourself created seemed absurd to me. Nice– a very useful and utopian self-deception, but ultimately unbelievable.


Yue Er Wan Zhao Jiu Zhou [was playing when we deplaned in Beijing [footnote: double cop-out here, both re-using the letter Y and using the title of the song as a song straight up– but it figures importantly into the story]].




1True in the sense that I truly just made it up. Or that his aim was true? No. Then I would have to re-mix.

2I ditched this when, checking the internet to confirm what little facts I actually used (is his name Jerry Palotta (close: Jerry Pallotta); he was the alphabet book one, right? (yes)), I found that he wasn’t the New England-based Childrens’ Book Author who was born in Meriden. It was (instead) Tomie dePaola aka “The Strega Nona Guy”. So I stopped.

In addition to this, although mostly moot after the Meriden rug got pulled out from underneath me, I got too attached to the song titles I chose without checking to see if the songs were worth a damn/sounded good together. They did not sound good together (or at least were inappropriate). So I stopped even more.

There are a few chapters missing and a lot of words. Eh.

3Emily and Daphne, sweethearts both.

4Although, unsurprisingly, he did drive one– so I guess you could say both were true.

5A nasty drink. Death is that much less a mystery now, now that I know what embalming fluid must taste like. However much I love mint, it has no place being the dominant mix in an alcoholic beverage. I don’t know how those [white-suited] equesters and their floppy-headed wives do it. I really don’t.

6When you don’t have a Jellyfish, Jaguar, or Japanese Beetle to fall back on…


106 Dates – #102: Co-Dreaming/Shared Consciousness

November 21 2009

102. Co-Dreaming/Shared Consciousness


You know how you have to be extremely careful about how loud you are thinking when you are lying (laying?)1 with the one you love– clenching tightly shut your temporal lobe, if not actively crafting false thoughts to leave littered throughout your consciousness (like depth charges, set to scramble any attempt to detect your true and actual self) lest he or she be able to hear your thoughts, thus literally figuratively cutting your brain hair, Thus Stealing Your ABILITIES?2

Well this symptom of late-onset schizophrenia need no longer be solely the impetus for desperate and misguided acts of self-preservation;3 it is also possible to ‘use your illusion’4 to create a mutually transcendent experience– to build a bridge between body and soul and consciousness (without wasting your materials budget on dicks and tongues).


Unlike the vulgarities of spoken and kinesic communication,5 the sweet cohabitents6 of Shared Consciousness can neither mislead nor betray; it cannot cajole or manipulate or flatter; it can’t ramble, beseech, cloy, or blaspheme maybe; it is a notably poor contrivist and its entreaties are but effete pesters. Divination, without the rod; clairvoyance without the ants7— yes, Co-Dreaming is quite swell.8 And it can be yours’ to employ if you follow the following skull-sealing tips:


Solder – there’s two ways you can go with this:

1. Classic – stick the solder in the soldering tube and solder your heads together.

2. Nuevo – lay the solder sticks between your mutual head(s) and then place the heated metal rod inside the gap and wait for it.

Shunt – find a nice, solid stalk of bamboo; chop of the ends, rendering it a tube; uneven the edge, giving the ends a nice sharp slope; place tube on pillow, laying (lying?) your heads down on either side; grasp hands for comfort; squeeze.

Entwined Irises – Butterfly Make-out (butterfly kiss each others’ eyes) until it sticks.

Magic Words – chants and mantras aren’t just for deranged directors who believe they could fly if only enough people just clapped their lotus-bowed thighs hard enough– it’s also for future ambiphrenics,9 such as yourself and your date.

X1000 Intercranial Surveillance System – the internet provides.10

Mutual Deception – “Oh, no… that was totally what I was thinking too.” “I, uh, know!”


Now that you are simpatico, and you’ve waited the appropriate amount of time for your bridge to cool/scab, it’s time to test this egret out!11 Enjoy your newfound intimacy with the following shared-consciousness activities:


Sing a song singing every other word: I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue style, apparently!

Go for a synchronized swim: serve those smug, lithe, perversely non-erotic Anastasias a synchronized assbeat!12

Make surprisingly adequate love: both in the sense of disappointingly non-spectacular and appointingly competent-for-once!

Yell at each other about the kinds of thoughts you’ve got: henpecking/cockmocking to know no bounds!

Win a dance contest: possible pun-based teamnames- The Wa2si, The Cabbage Match, The Breakin’ 2: Mimetic Twogaloo(?), The Bat, You See? (and then you dress up as a bat, V-bow your eyesline)!

Wince ‘no’ at Dan’s etc.: waste this opportunity by using your new dual-core processing capabilities on stupid word puzzles!

Try futilely to psych each other out: until somebody(‘s ankle) gives!

Write each other’s autobiography: finally, objective subjectivity!

Totally get to find out what it is like to have a peener/’giner: Straights only!

Remember edenic bliss / acorporeal harmony: a place without the pain of reality where my heart will not tremble!13



Co-Dreamers— delight in the fact that dreams, unlike thoughts, have spectral legs that reach through skulls and skin and sink into any very, very nearby sentience. All you have to do is sleep with your temples nested neatly in to each other thus allowing for the non-invasive transfer of important Dream-Inventing Precancerous Sleep-Hewn Ichorous Transcendence Soma14 from person to person. In order for the dreams to circulate correctly, however, both temples need to be touching which, unless you are gelatinous, vaporic, or otherwise bone-lite, could require some tricky manipulations. Fortunately, some cave-dwelling Einstein invented the pictorial form as a method by which to secure visual knowledge through the generations.15 So, DIAGRAMS!/:


[DIAGRAM: Three Positions]


Help each other out of recursive re-enactment of nostalgic traumas: secret away to slit the throat of the dog that knocks them into traffic; use your newly gigantic hands to catch the milkglass before its spilt; secret away to knock into traffic the future murderer of your childhood pet; BGAHh– damn you, auto-fellatio and your neck-snapping, somnolescent traps!16

Distract the mind tiger: lure it into one of their house’s infinite corridors and keep reaching for the door!

Catch them when they fall with your ever expanding hands: but make sure not to think about thinking about not falling (or you, too, will throw yourself over)!

Get peed on: with bonus real-life Damp Pants!

Yell at each other about the kinds of dreams you’ve got: chickpicking/roosterbeinganasshole to extend to absurd mindtrash, garbled unmemories!

Be an accessory to patricide/momophilia: hold him down, splay her apart; or vice versa!

Dampen sandtrain to cease creeping, all-consuming paralytic sensations/end incorporeal dread: see number four./!

Shine flashlight on shadow-faced monster: the Tenebrous ur-Fiend was… A Moth’s Body with My Adult Face On It!17

Translate backwards-talk, cryptic gibberish, and the squiggles that there are instead of writing: All of a sudden you have a quintuple doctorate in Linguistics18 in the dream!

Precipitate Ragnarok: stick heavy revolvers in their hands when they aren’t looking.19








1“With the fellas it’s always one or the other Or Usually Both– am I right, also fellas!?” – Chad Clifford Christopher, ‘Battle Of The Same-Sexes’ comic

2Q: Myeah, lily– where’s your Messiah now? A: LEAFED ENTIRELY IN SWEET, SWEET GOLD [note: I don’t remember what I was going for here. I assume lily is short for Delilah, but I’m not sure why she would be being mocked by Edward G. Robinson for having shorn Samson; the gold leaf bit is entirely opaque (even in the context of trying to affect schizophrenia). -ed.]

3Put down the Mixtape That Is Also A Map Of The Places In The City At Which You’ve Spent Time With The Love of Your Life Upon Whom You Will Never Make a Discernible Move– the one that is also an acrostic spelling-out of her birth date/city– you can do this stupid thing now instead!

4‘Izzy Stradlin’ is an anagram for ‘Lucid Dreaming’ SLASH not a reference to Guns ‘n’ Roses but an overly subtle/intrinsically confusing diagnostic portmanteau in which ILLness is posited to be the root of deLUSION.

5The ‘F’ Bomb and The Bird, respectively.

6Shared contents / Mind tents.

7Those stupid, computer-tampering Hasids will be so jealous. Take that, Hasids!/Mind ants.

8Insofar as its revelations are likely the product of encephalitis/inter-cranial swelling/a tumor.

9‘Both minds’, not to be confused with ‘amphibrenics’, or frog-brained individuals– those slimy, cold-blooded, demi-aquatic creepos: always croakin’, never wearing tails; just grabbing broads with their nuptials and then JO’ing in a pond.

10It converted a few measly 1s and 0s into a global network capable of feeding the entire world’s hunger for pornography.

11The egret, well-known amongst birders to be the most poorly behaved, or ‘baddest’, bird./This should be just about where the footnote equivalent of “Mrs. Houston yelling at me to stop dicking around after I made gun fingers/sounds when being taught the structure of a flower” happens (for this article).

12Even this [] is more plasticine than hot.


14Did you know that dreams are what causes cancer? Also: another crummy riddle obtaining nomenclature yuks multivalently.

15Important lessons such as “use a spear to kill food” and “horse”.

16Secret spine-twisting ending to Fight Club director’s cut– Tyler Durden the devertabrating result of dousing your rod after eating six Ambien.


18Fantastical Syntax, Metamorphology, National Grammatical Socialism, Scitenohp, and Semaphore.