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Monica Bielanko
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Peanut Butter And Jelly Vision.

I've been swiping peanut butter and jelly onto crackers, standing in the kitchen window, the final resting spot for weak beams of sunlight. Millions/Trillions of miles this stuff travels and in the end, its sometimes just me it ends up with. Other sunbeams find lions fucking under shade trees or just born babies writhing in their Mama's arms. Crystal rivers sliding through emerald valleys. Vast hidden mountain meadows of top-notch ganja. All of it desirable, most likely, for falling bits of sun.

But me?

What about the ones that slip through the junk trees in the strip of dirt by our driveway and coast down on to my arms and across my grinding peanut butter jaws? Is it still a good life? Is it still a good thing to have traveled all the way from the damn sun just so you could shine upon some SnackDude's fingers wrapped around a butter knife?

I don't know.

I don't know the answer. Probably, no one does.


The other day I stared at the photo of The Falling Man for a long time. Like hours. It is a sad stunning shot. Maybe the hardest picture ever taken. Hard to look at. Hard to take. Hard to be in. Falling, upside down, mid-stride; just a moment in time when it seemed like maybe the fellow could walk his way down off the melting World Trade Center...through the air, to the street below. Maybe you haven't seen the picture. A lot of people are pissed off when they see it. It's too difficult. It burns.

Whatever. You have to see it to move beyond it.


I have spent nearly all of my life narrating the scenes of my movie/in my head.

Here is Serge,on a cold salty morning, walking by the sea. Here is Serge at Kiddie City groping Boba Fett. Serge, what are you doing this for....drinking this beer in this barroom window? Everyone is looking at you, laughing at you.

Serge, lay off the fries. People are watching.

Serge-Man, don't be kissing the pictures in the Hustler magazine. Alright: one kiss!

Serge, you're walking down the aisle at K-Mart, past the Blue Light Special cart, past pizza stones and beach towels and Easter cards. Keep walking. Keep walking. Go past these shower curtains, man. Ok wait! Stop. Pick up that dvd. GLADIATOR! Ok, put it down right there in those socks...don't worry about it. Ok, walk on.

Who am I talking to? Who is all this narration for? What happens to the thousands of miles of tapes when I'm gone?

Will anyone be able to listen back? And why would they even want to? You have your own tapes to carry around. Your own walks through K-Mart to pick apart.

Its lovely isn't it? This madness of life. Talking to myself for 38 years. That's luck.


There are the 911 calls too. I found them on YouTube but they're everywhere. Just a few lost voices still echoing when summoned. They've been picked over and listened to fifty million times by all kinds of people, living people in front of their computers, chins atop fists. Pulses quivering. They're voices from beyond now. Crossed over. If there's something else...they know now. But at the time: they didn't know. They were just scared like anyone would be.

The voices speak of smoke and heat. Of not being able to see much of anything. They ask if they might be rescued soon. They say Hurry. Please. It is hot. We're way way up here.

It breaks the heart, of course. To listen to them, through the scratchy static of bad connection. Through the buzz of Doom coming down the hall behind them. Yet, somehow when I do listen,I can't help but think of things I never seem to have the balls/brains to think about otherwise. Things like love. Togetherness. Dumb stupid smiles. The baby's fingers in my mouth.

I look over at my wife's toes poking out of the blanket.

Why can't I get certain shit right before I get cut down forever?

Sometimes the questions themselves are the answers.



You don't go and stay gone. You come back, in the wind at night. On the backs of sunbeams. You ride 'em like buck stallions down over mountains of cobbled cloud. You smash across prairies of stars. Over the crests of distant hills you come riding hard and fast back down along the old familiar trails, dust clouds rising high behind you. Steaming snot shoots from your horse's face. You fire six-guns at the sky. And you ride and ride and ride.

People who loved you love you still. They eat crackers at the window. Unknowing.

You hurtle down the final slope and heave through their glass.

They feel you and smile and just like that you're gone. Again.

Reader Comments (7)

I just have to tell you... I read both your blog and Monica's, and you two combined are like blog nirvana. Her honesty in her writing makes me feel like she's the best friend I lost touch with, and I love her. Your contemplative ramblings are just fabulous.

I just wanted to say thanks. :)

December 7, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterJenny

As per usual, beatiful and just plain right.


December 8, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterMichael McCarty

I was haunted by the WTC picture of the group of helpless people that were hanging/huddling by the huge holes in the buildings; it appeared they were waiting for rescue, but it was totally hopeless.

I cannot fathom that people are judgmental about the people who decided to jump; wtf? One can only hope that they felt 10 seconds of Grace as they flew to the ground.


December 8, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterAnonymous

As always what you write seems to bring the thoughts you were having at the time to life, and as I lie here in my cold flat in Prague, rain falling outside, this blog has brought a little brightness into my day

December 8, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterSpawny666

Wow, that was really beautiful. I second Jenny's comment - I love reading both your blog and Monica's; you're both such excellent writers in different ways.


December 9, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterAnonymous

Serge, I know you great you are at making pictures in your head, so I hope this little scenario will bring a smile to your face...
Last night, Putney, London, Light of Day gig,...
Uncle Dave (somehow since seeing the pics of Dave and Violet, we can only call him Uncle Dave now) comes on stage, Christmas Santa hat and all, picks up the box of Christmas crackers that we brought, slowly takes one out, makes a quip about English people being fucking mean at Christmas and then proceeds to try and pull the cracker with himself. Christine is giggling rather smugly (she's spent 11 years living in the UK, so she knows what to do with a Christmas cracker, and she ain't going to enlighten Dave just yet). The audience try to tell him he has to pull it with another person, but a rather bemused Dave just goes on merrily tugging away at both ends of said cracker and wondering if he was right all along - English people are just fucking crazy. Eventually he tosses the scrumbled (that's kind of scrunched up and crumpled) cracker on the floor and picks up the half dozen soft toy guitars that we also brought for fun factor to see if he'll have any more luck with that.

We knew we were in for one hell of a cracking show.
And it was.... just fantabulous


December 11, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterAmanda

There was a kid I went to grammar school with who was probably a year or two behind me. Nice kid, had glasses, always kind of goofy. He'd try to play ball with us, but was just a little bit younger and could not really keep up with any of us on the diamond or the court or the gridiron. I would not call him a friend, but he was more than an acquaintance. I went to a Catholic High School a few towns over, and lost touch with him, and with most of the kids I went to grammar school.

I saw his name in the New York Times that fall, probably around mid-October. I read the bio. He was married, with kids, and lived in Princeton, worked for some blankety blank bank. I wept, openly sobbed great hot tears, over a guy I barely knew and had not thought of in more than twenty years. He became the face of that day for me.

I don't miss him, but I think of him whenever I am reminded of that day

December 11, 2009 | Unregistered Commentersean

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