"There I was. Here I am."- Emmylou Harris
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Talk about places you have been, strange customs.
I have never read a book like Ulysses before. It is maddening. I read a dozen pages, swept up in language ("he died of a Tuesday" sends me whirling), then go back and reread the same pages, realizing that I missed all of the plot. My "Greensboro thing" is evolving slowly, one paragraph at a time. The main problem with it is the thing I like best: it shoots back and forth across time and space, making no concessions or explanations.
And all year I've been dancing around this idea of New York, ever since the dream where Mira told me I could take peace with me anywhere I went. I don't have a job or the prospect of one, and I've seen far too many people return from the city, defeated, tail between the legs. What makes me think I won't end up the same way? I am moving in September, which always brings promise. My birthday, Rosh Hashanah, the autumnal equinox. There are no coincidences. I can only be young, cocky, and heedless once. This is what I know I should be doing. I wouldn't have been given so many signs if they weren't all heading in the right direction.
A pier is an unfulfilled bridge.