Poo Levinston’s blog

i wish i had a burrito that was warm and big enough to use as a pillow, so when i wake up, i could have burrito creases in my cheek, and also i could just turn my head down and have a good breakfast.

Only at the BlipFestival would you see a crowd tossing around a giant Tetris block. (That was impromptu, by the way. It was either a decoration or a costume) I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a music scene that had more outward love and support for each other than this community. One of the many reasons, I think, is because the genre is such a strange, idiotic, and outcasted sound, that if the show fails, then so do the music lovers. Curious people and friends of friends would walk in shrugging their shoulders.

Someone at the show asked me why people like it, and I tried to explain my reasons. “Do you have an instrument or sound that mysteriously resonates with you?” I asked (obviously, because that sentence ends with a question mark, much like the following one). “As if it was the mystical source from where you originated?”

“Clarinet!” she said in a thick French accent (which sounded like she said “Clarinet!”)

“Right. And one of mine are raw primitive sound waves,” I said. “Especially when they’re clashing or rubbing against one another.”

I was experiencing transcendence, yes, like if you threw in a back massage I could have spoken in tongues. But like any other moving moments, these experiences don’t last long. Even Jesus said, “Ok I’m done–you can hoist me up now!”

Waiting for the D train, I spotted a busker talking to this white kid. “What are you?”

“Irish, yeah.”

“Oo, I got a U2 song for you.”

He played a little bit of it, then said he loved the Irish, in the same enthusiasm you’d use for favorite TV shows. I could tell he was the charismatic hustling type. The spuds walked away after he asked for a donation, then he turned to me. “How about you? What do you wanna hear?”

“I don’t know, I just got back from some electronic music show. Give me the opposite of that.”

“Alright.” He hesitated and drummed on the strings with individual fingers. “Oh I got this Neil Young song for you…”

“No covers. Give me some originals.”

“Alright.” he hesitated and drummed again. “Um, how about, ok, what sort of style do you want? Funky, bluesy, folky–?”

“Something that makes you cry.”

Hesitation drummed again, but then a pause stopped it cold. It was a split moment of meditation, or that silent prayer people do before kicking field goals or jumping off high things for the first time. It was one of those nuanced things you notice, where someone gets choked up from nothing but a thought. And then he sang a song called Soulsville. I only think it’s called Soulsville, because that was the reoccurring word. I’m the worst when it comes to paying attention to lyrics, but i think it was something about urban lonesomeness, strange hours, and riff raff. He reminded me exactly of an old friend back at home, minus skin color. A bottom eyelid trembled on my face and it almost welled up. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the actual song or because of how he paused before he started. The platform around us seemed to go quiet for him. When he finished I shook his hand and said it was exactly what I needed to hear. My train came to rest at the stop, so I gave him five dollars and boarded.

He followed me into the car and said that sure, I gave him five dollars, but saying it was exactly what I needed to hear was worth five million. Then he started to shoot the shit with me. I’ve been screwed over enough to not trust things strangers say, but it doesn’t mean I can’t humor him. Oh, how did he open? “Hey, how old are you, because your face is young, but your hair–”

“–I’m a thinker,” I said. “It’s what i get for thinking.”

“Ah,” he said. Then he ventured off into other conversations, like neighborhoods, and how he seemed to enthusiastically like whatever neighborhood I bring up, etc. Then he began to play some strutty swingy riffs on his 12-string. “I want to thank you for letting me be myself,” he sang, and I only know he sang it because he repeated it repeatedly in hook form. In between? He’d sing about things from our conversation, mostly about gray hair and young faces. Thinking, neighborhoods, thanking me for letting him be himself, etc. The train charged up, and he stopped playing and thanked me while backing back out of the platform. Back into oblivion he went, or is it back into oblivion I go?

I overheard the “sistah” portion of a couple sing the refrain (the one in regards to thanking me for letting him be himself). “Good song, isn’t it?” I said. She nodded and I went back to minding my own business.

Later I overheard the couple bickering about being lost, not knowing where the train was taking them.

The weather finally turned over, and my routine between the apartment and subway hasn’t changed. It’s a well oiled motion against seasons, and the only difference is the addition of clothes. First just a t-shirt, then a scarf, then a light jacket, and–now that it’s significantly cold–an old cafe jacket (which mysteriously had $20 in the pocket).

The routine:
1-step outside
2-realize I underdressed/need an umbrella
3-continue walking
4-put on giant headphones and sunglasses (if it’s sunny)
5-think about coffee and food
6-discover something on Discovery Sidewalk

Discovery Sidewalk is a strip by a little kids’ park. Like all sidewalks in residential neighborhoods, there are faint smudges of dog poo, but on Discovery Sidewalk, I like to think it came from the kids. I imagine it’s a darnedest thing to do. Sometimes there are a lot of fecal smudges, and sometimes there are hardly any, which is when I think, “must have rained last night.” It’s the windchimes of rain, and all you need is sidewalk and kid poo.

I didn’t call it Discovery Sidewalk until I needed a safety pin for my fly, which I never got around to sewing back on. There weren’t any pins in the room, and it wasn’t until the sidewalk that I found one, in the seam of the concrete. Of course, why didn’t I look there? The sidewalk is #2, after “behind the couch”. That little occurrence didn’t seem that weird until a dove landed in front of me soon afterwards, as if to say “I found land, and here’s proof. Safety pins are #2 after olive branch.” Maybe it was an albino pigeon. It was still mystical, right after dove.

Another thing I consistently find on Discovery Sidewalk is an international child, with one international parent. One morning it will be a Mexican kid. Another day, Russian. And they go through their own routine. An excited toddler exclaims something in their native tongue, whether it be Spanish, French, German, or some oriental mish mash of sounds. It’s like they took a break from holding hands around the globe to tell their mother about what peace keeping bill they learned about. Now that it’s cold, instead of wiping ice cream off their faces, the mothers are bundling their electrified joys with layers of clothes. They’ll be toddling yarn balls by winter.

I like seeing these babies. It’s one of the few things keeping me sane during the hour plus long commute to midtown. The train collects babies like a Swiffer wiping down the city, and shakes most of them out on Grand St. A little Asian toddler with a moon face sat between her mother and a burly man who wore a sweater that made him sensitive. He kept peeking over at the girl, sticking out his tongue. When the girl caught on she started giggling and they began to mirror each other. Her mom pretended not to notice a thing, while they giggled and flailed their fingers around their respective heads (one is bald, the other is a floppy punch balloon tied to a stump). By the Grand stop, the mother dragged her out, while the little one giggled and waved to her Impromptu Pal. They held their wave through the window–she, with midgetine giggles, was pulled toward the earth’s surface while the concrete swallowed the train. One of them should have had a handkerchief. After smiling to himself, the man returned to his stoic passenger setting.

Late nights don’t have scenes like that, because babies don’t drink, duh. By wee hours it’s only people experiencing the chore of going home. In the middle of that chore one night, I realized I left my bag in a bar that was closing. Another hour of sitting in dim spots of the train and listening to worn out playlists. The train went local, with a constant shove off to the next stop like a car and false starts high on raised tracks that snaked above the neglected parts of Brooklyn. By 3am I skipped down the stairs and shuffled home with nerves tipped with a broken uneasiness. But by good old Discovery Sidewalk I came upon a plastic figurine of a horse, and put it in my coat pocket.

Apparently over night, it snuck into a tear in the pocket and holed itself in the lining of my jacket. I forgot about it until I was walking around midtown, where it surprised me. At first I thought it was a decaying squirrel that died by my ribs, but now I grip it instinctively during walks. Hiding in my jacket, it became a shape only visible to the enclosure of my hand.

Yesterday was cold and windy and I bought a hat. The hat and the horse is what I’ve added to my mornings. Thend.

Hey, I made a farting babies list.