31 July 2010

Polly's At The Door

I just moved out of my house and into a new apartment. Ok, studio. Ok, efficiency. Ok, room with a sink. I brought two bags of clothes and put $500 worth of IKEA filth on my credit card to "furnish" the entire place.

Whenever I move, the greatest challenge is adjusting to new sounds. For the most part, an apartment's an apartment, and I've already given it a thorough visual inspection before arriving. So thorough, in fact, that I pay no attention to the aural landscape until much later.

There's a parrot next door. Well, there's a gay couple next door, and therefore a parrot. Not that all gay couples-you get the point. Anyway, I'm not a parrot expert (I'm not even a parrot amateur), so I'm completely ignorant of their habits and behaviors. However, I do know that this parrot whistles. It really whistles. Shrilly. Constantly. And worse yet, salaciously.

My summer sleeping habits include no pajamas, and every time I prepare to retire to the sofa bed, just when my shorts fall to the floor, I'm assailed by a string of notes, sung in an eery human-like fashion. Not quite a catcall, they seem to be saying "Heeeeyyy, lookee over heeeere". And though I know that the wretched thing is in some ornate brass cage, most likely adorned with false garnets and gold accents, the acoustics are such that its oddly masculine voice sails through my window and seems to come from very, very close by. I can almost feel its curved beak brushing my earlobe, its black eyes boring into the side of my head, its claws digging into my bare arm.

Lately I've taken to sleeping in a robe that I change into in my closet/bathroom. I've also invested in ear plugs, but they don't seem to be working.

"Heellloooooo over theeerrreee. Let's see what's under the terry cloth."

Is it me? Maybe I sent out some mixed signals, gave the parrot the wrong impression. I feel so dirty. Why am I blaming myself? Regardless, something's going to give soon. Or give it up.

"Heeeeeyyyyy you. I seeeee your light through the window."

Utter Laziness

I am trying, little bloggie. I promise to come back to you. Until then, another old journal entry will have to tide you over:

I gave him a blowjob at the Denver Museum of Miniatures, Dolls and Toys. We were the only two people there. It was upstairs. The volunteer, that woman, was downstairs. Once maybe I thought I heard a creak, and I pictured her: high jeans, floral blouse, and strange page boy haircut, leaning at the base of the stairs, straining to hear the slurp slurp, maybe even with her hand up to her ear or, yes, one of those old ear horns coming out of her head.

Maybe she was closing her eyes and trying to remember what it was like to have sex, but she couldn't quite hold onto it. So, back to the front desk of the Victorian house she called a museum, and the two of us upstairs, feeling the heaviness of the air as we wiped and zipped and avoided eye contact.

We broke up a few days later. And when I was on that plane going West like the young man I thought I should be, I wasn't thinking of him. I came back to that frail and shriveled creature in her doll mausoleum, catching my eyes with hers as I hurried out, still trying to get a pulse between her legs, but settling for a nice hard candy.

She and I-we knew the score.