{bags of coins and other futilities}

I've been attempting a poem-a-week minimum, and doing pretty well, particularly since I've taken up residence at Stain every Saturday and given myself hours to write. Last Saturday I went shopping instead, introducing Rebecca who despises shopping like only one other woman I've ever known, to Beacon's Closet and its many and vari-colored joys. Anyway, the point is that between that and a quick mimosa with she and Kyra and a side trip to a place that makes scents -- not perfumes per se, but things you put on to smell like things like roast beef or hyacinth or wet asphalt -- and then going to the regional slam in Brooklyn, I did not write.

And Sunday, oh Sunday the universe has declared "Marty gets nothing done" day. Every single thing I try to do on a Sunday falls apart of late. This particular Sunday I tried to write at home, got nowhere, ended up napping, had planned to meet Vandana to watch her play chess in Washington Square Park and try to remember how, decided that I should bring the boatload of coins from the container on my dresser in to the Food Emporium and cash them in. Why not? Then I'll feel productive! And efficient, because it's on the way.

But no, no. It's Sunday! So I get there with my 10-pound Happy Birthday gift bag of coins and the machine is out of order. What to do? I start walking toward the park. Briefly consider going home to drop off the bag. Realize that's ridiculous. Consider giving it to the girl panhandling on the street, but my blood sugar is too low to make a decision. Get some Jamba Juice (no bananas!) and decide to give it to the next homeless person I see.

SOMEHOW, I walk from 13th and University to Washington Square Park and encounter NO HOMELESS PEOPLE. Not one. Is Giuliani mayor again? Have the cops been arresting everyone napping on the pavement in this five-block radius? The bag of coins now weighs at least 30 pounds. It's like a strange, shifting, boneless infant on my hip. I get to the park, sure to see someone in need there.

But it's hard to tell the hipsters from the homeless sometimes, and I don't want to insult anyone. I also don't want to approach anyone truly insane and give them a Happy Birthday bag of coins -- you never know what someone's triggers are going to be.

So I see a man collecting bottles and cans from various trash receptacles around the park. Aha, I think. This man works harder than I do. He shall have the coins. But he does look crazy, though it's hard to tell without staring. And staring is bad. So I notice that he's left his cart of cans and bottles quite a distance from himself; assuming, I'm sure, that no one's going to steal a monstrous big cart of recyclables. I casually stroll by the cart, pause, set down the Happy Birthday bag of coins, pause actually trying to figure out which is the northwest corner where I'm supposed to meet Vandana, and walk off. Coinless, lighter, wondering if the wish for good karma negates the karma.

Point being, no poem. And look how much time I've spent telling you all about this.