Have you ever lost a piece of luggage?

should never be the reply

of a man too shy to look and say,

“hello.”

[journal entry dated 4/13/98]

A Letter

To All People Who Have Lost Luggage and Never Received it, especially from LAX Baggage Claim 12, but also from ALB Claim C, CLE Claim E1, JFK Claim 10 and CLR Claim 7:

Do not be mired by this manifesto.  I need you to keep moving to survive.

I truly hate you, but I’d love to become you.  Only I can make you whole; only you can consummate my existence.  I can’t stand to hear you talk, but I’d love to steal your voice.  Only I can make them listen; only you can help me speak.  I vomit when I smell you, but I can’t help dousing myself with your toiletries, and reveling in my own reckless abandon, our own reckless abandon.  I can’t stand the sight of you, but I’ll drape myself in your clothing.  Only I can perfect your image in a mirror all alone; only you can give me identity.

I offer you this not as an apology, but as an explanation.  I am not sorry for what I attempt to set forth in following pages, as you are not sorry for walking out your door wearing a suit bought from a chain store at a local mall.  I just refuse to go shopping.

Really,

Albert M. McGuinness

PS – Do not be alarmed by the receipt of this letter.  I am not a stalker.  I truly have no desire to meet you.  I have made no effort to track you down—your baggage tag gave you away.

staring at almost-ancient horsehair

through cracks in plaster walls

 while sunlight gathers outside windows

 opaque with grease.  shall

 i feel at home for a moment, brief

 while my companion sleeps

 for now, over Detroit or LA

 not knowing we  will  meet

 nor will he, when we do.

 I look inside his mind and find:  you.

-1-

From the Inside, Out

I remember when it was the sun that would awaken me. I felt awful. The early morning rays ricocheted off the brilliant white overhang under my window, directly into my sleeping eyes, blinding me even before they opened. It was miserable. I would awaken, force myself to squint, and always reconsider starting my day.  Despite my inevitable despondence, each and every day I would flop over in bed to see what God had laid out before me:  Through the window, I watched the people rush in and out of the little cafe across the street, probably hustling to meetings or some other pre-destined targets within their manufactured days.

I used to wish I had a manufactured day.  Just one.  I imagined having a routine might change everything, or at least something. It might make my miserable existence worth continuing.  Although at that point I didn’t have the slightest inkling of the depths of my perversion.

I started working mornings at the liquor store down the street.  I continued to let the sun wake me up, continued to watch the same busy people kick start their days with lattes and national newsprints.  I watched the same clumsy girl in the same loose grey business suit drop her paper trying to tuck it under her arm while sipping her coffee and hailing a cab. The weakness of her left ankle forcing her leg to almost collapse every time she took a sharp corner.

Part II to come Fryday….