PICC: Addendum 3: ArtOdyssey1

 Some choice pronunciamentos, both from Abby and on Abby's behalf, circa 2011. 

PICC: Addendum 2: Artists' House (Olde City Philly)

 Artists' House in Olde City Philly is where Abby debuted The Lost Twins in '08.

More from PICC

 More from PICC: #34 on P.F.S. Post.

PICC: Addendum 1

Something else important to say about Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum, who appears as Christopher Severin in PICC. Jeremy, as should now be known, made several movies. What I neglected to mention in the book is that his own movie tastes were European art-house tastes; he was not that keen on Hollywood and Hollywood productions. I have not yet seen myself the films he produced at Villanova in the 90s, but from his own descriptions, which I do recall, they were experimental, dream-like, and surreal. They made few concessions to commerciality and the demands of the marketplace. So that, at any given time you might accost Jeremy or he might accost you in the Aughts, what he'd want to talk about, film-wise, were discoveries around what was fresh, new, and exciting in art-house cinema. Directors like Scorsese, Tarantino, and David Lynch were not all that interesting to him. Bunuel, for instance, here shown, was. So that, wherever Jeremy roamed during the P.F.S. years, it was with a head filled with visual imagery, as well as with the frustrations of films not yet released. Stay tuned.

PICC (A Poet in Center City) on P.F.S. Post

 

 From PICC (A Poet in Center City) on P.F.S. Post: #s 18 and 44. 

Equations: Thesis: #45

 

 

Growing up with Emma, who had been in my class at CHS, wasn’t like growing up with Roberta. It wasn’t like anything. Emma, a lanky blonde with long, lank blonde hair, a chiseled, cat-like face, and long limbs, looked like a stunt double for Trish, and had been merely an acquaintance. She was quiet, and kept to herself. Her friends were among the geeks of the class. Why and how Emma knew to show up now, in the midst of all this turbulence with Trish, I have no idea, but she did. I laughed because she so resembled Trish, but I was also aroused. I liked the idea, past N and Roberta, of a real hook-up within my class, even ten years after the fact. She was there, at the Last Drop, on a succession of key summer days, in a sleeveless white blouse. After all these years, her cat-face grew on me as enchanting, compelling, suggestive of something her whole presence insinuated— she identified heavily with Trish, and had a female impulse to demarcate turf which could also be hers. Whether she’d been stalking us or just heard what was happening with us from the suburbs, I still don’t know. I knew she was commuting to Center City from somewhere. What she wanted was just one night with me, I later concluded. When, on the one late afternoon I made my way with her back to Logan Square, we were ensconced, she took out a bottle of Robitussin as though it were an aperitif, and she were Trixie Belle. She wanted, as she said, a Robo-trip. It was part of the magic of that night that Emma wound up encapsulating for me so many different partners at once, including partners merely being anticipated. I found it easy to begin making love to her, because she made it easy. Her equation was interesting, about female levels of awareness— everything about her physiology screamed, you always wanted me the most, but you just didn’t know it. You’re a man— you don’t know these things. I have delivered myself to you because you need me now, and I need you. Now you may begin to learn who you are. And we made love with great fluidity and rapidity, and then we made love again. Her fluidity was like Heather’s would be, and the sense of being lulled into a trance of perpetual, high-intensity intercourse, on the bed, then on the living room floor, on the couch in the living room, from the front, from the back, was like Jena. We each gave the other a show-stopping performance, manifesting (as was odd, and as I was not too dumb and callow to notice) an inversion of our years of starving for each other. The absolute ecstasy of several mutual orgasms was the tactile insignia, as it might’ve been with Roberta and N, of an eternity of denial overcome. This, even as what was built into us both had been noticed only by her. Why, in sex equations, women usually hold the cards: women are receptive to sensory data on a deeper level than men, and have a primordial understanding of physiology, of bodies and more bodies, which men do not. When bodies speak, women listen more. Emma and I shared a home, but only she registered what our bodies shared, what was in them. When Trish showed up, it was a red flag from nature that it would be Emma’s time to show up too. Even if it proved to be the cosmic design that after one night, I would never see Emma again.

 

Equations #25: Thesis: Argotist Online Poetry

 

 Equations #25: Thesis in Argotist Online Poetry. Many thanks to Jeffrey Side.