last night...

...i dreamed of writing a book of short stories.

don't move.

*sigh*
what?
it's just a lot.
what?
i dunno.
there's a lot you don't know.
i don't want to know yet.
do you want to tell me?
no, not yet.

you're smarter than i am.
am not.
but you know what i'm thinking
i don't.
but you read my mind.
no. okay--yes i do.
i'll stop.
i'll stop thinking now. i will
okay?
okay.

let's not think today.
today we will not think.
let's just lie here.
look at me. and lie here.
and be simple.
we are simple.
yes, we are.
simple is nice.
yes. it is.

this will not be cool to you.

but come with me anyway.

at the bookstore on bedford, the one with about a dozen shelves of the best books by the best authors--Wilde, Butler, Atwood, Boyle. You name it, it's there, or they can order it for you. "One week. That's all." So, I'm eyeing the social activism section, without knowing i'm eyeing the social activism section. Pick up the Eldridge Cleaver biography, and it hits me "Is this the social activism section?!" Wasn't he a traitor? I recall someone telling me that. But what do I know about social activism and being a traitor? "I should read this book." I could learn something about being a black radical in the 60s.

Anyway, I slide the book back into its slot, trading it for the last literary masterpiece by some French guy. Not Voltaire--i think Descartes. I skim the back copy--it says something about him being the "world's greatest philosopher." I dunno, this wall is a bit too heavy for a Monday evening. Where's fiction? Didn't I come here to look for a cheap copy of "The Road"? I pivot--a little too fast--bolting away from the social activists, and at my 180 is this guy. We lock eyes (really, we do) long enough for me to deduce that he is not in fact someone I "know from somewhere" like college, or my commute to work, or my neighborhood coffee shop or bar. but I do kinda know him from somewhere--like somewhere on a stage performing in front of thousands, and not standing less than a foot away from me in a Williamsburg bookstore waiting for me to scoot out of his way so that he can eye the social activism section!


He's my height. Lovely eyes beyond round specs. Cool afro and beard--perfectly messed up. He reminds me of a little brown bear--the friendly kind that share honey with you instead of biting off your arms and legs. I don't do anything brave like ask for concert tickets or say "hi-omigosh-it's-you." But before leaving empty-handed, I take an extra long time perusing the shelves, pausing to sneak peaks at him (hoping he hasn't noticed), and speculating on what book he ended up with. Soul on Ice?

photo: stereogum

natasha.

r.i.p.

from Asylum

i promise to be more pleasant.

i do, and i really have sweet, sappy things to say (though, i've just been busy busy). But I haven't been able to wipe this news from my brain...and how awfully grim it is. You hear the stories, you read the news headlines about the "epidemic" in DC, but seeing it here in this shocking visual gives it a entirely different, dare i say--horrifying--dimension. My jaw dropped when I saw this. My city *sigh*

p.s. and let's add another layer, shall we? DC is not a state :-(

soft spaces.

Our gray house has thin walls.
It smells old.
Firewood and ash.

He smells of firewood and ash.
Long black hair hides his eyes.
He is a nose and a beard.

You take him into your bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Mumbles. Squeaks. Cries. Sighs.
Your bed.
Our bed.

You scream
Are you crying now?
Are you sad now?
I hear you call him 'vile.'
What does 'vile' mean?
A liar!
I know what a liar is.

He stumbles out. Buckles his belt.
Nods at me. Wipes his brow.
No eyes.

He shuffles down our staircase.
Feet heavy.
Out of our house.
"Get out of our house!"
The screen door slams.

"Can I sleep with you now?"
You nod at me. Wipe your brow.
Brown eyes.

I squeeze my face into the soft spaces on you.
My nose into the place where your heart thumps.
Breathing in and out.
Taking in the fragrance of
sweat, him, and drugstore perfume.

i know that i complain often...

...about having to trek all the way out to the sticks to get to my job. Most days i waver between reminiscing on the easy non-commute of my old job in Midtown, and just plain ol' fantasizing about not having a job at all...though I've never had the luxury of the latter (and if I did, I'd likely not think it as grand as it seems). Yet, when it snows, what does one who trekketh out to the sticks to get to work get? A SNOW DAY!

Last night i said to my friend Harry, "I reaaaally hope it snows all night so i can have a snow day."
Says Harry: "Snow day? You don't get snow days. It's New York!!"
Says me: "Yes you do, if you work in [the sticks]."
And sure enough, I woke up to several inches of pillowy white goodness and a message on the company voice mail saying "Due to inclement weather, the office will be closed today." Oh, the utter joy of a Monday off...

To properly celebrate, Hannah and i packed up some grilled cheese sandwiches and strawberries, and took a stroll through Central Park. It amazes me how the snow muffles sound and makes the city feel slower and less frenzied. Two friends sat on a swing in Central Park, gliding and giggling like children, and watched the real children sled and giggle down a hill. Who says there's no such thing as perfect? Well, it was at least until my fingers and toes began to freeze b/c of the 20-degree temps...ouch...oh well...sledding...snow pose...swinging...i didn't see the set of steps on the side of this hill, until after i'd climbed up (and fallen down...TWICE)oh, and then i met a boy...