i wish you'd make up my bed so i could make up my mind.
I went to Amoeba Music in Berkeley with 
zipperblues and bought a CSNY record. In my father's rental car I played "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" over and over again while he pretended not to notice me moving my lips along to the music. Rebecca took me to hillel, but all I could think about during the amidah was how strange it felt to be home and not-home, how I was writing the book the whole time my father and I were together but couldn't tell him. On the beach I was able to read Dubus' Dancing After Hours, but I brought it to San Francisco because I hadn't retained a word, recalling only the ethereal feelings they gave me. I wanted to meditate but couldn't get any silence in my head.
mirth4maudlin and
surrealpenguin are perhaps the two loveliest, in-loveliest hosts I've ever had.
He wanted to talk about northern California, since he might trade this city for that one. He is tired of paper and maybe of the trains. We went to Essex House and sat for a long time watching people fight for cabs on Rivington Street, thankful we could walk home in a quick minute. This winter has been a coy one. Two giant snowfalls and the next day forty-three degrees. Now it's just below freezing along the seven blocks to the J train, wind always finding the exact path I am taking. Erin and Tadd are both coming for separate weekends in March. I want to go to museums and the park and fancy restaurants and pretend I haven't been living here all this time.
Brennan says that adulthood is lonely. Depending on the day, I think she's right. Sometimes it's mango grappa, free tickets, and new friends on a private beach; sometimes it's the telephone silent for hours and hours. I always know what's louder. I always know what lingers.
zipperblues and bought a CSNY record. In my father's rental car I played "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" over and over again while he pretended not to notice me moving my lips along to the music. Rebecca took me to hillel, but all I could think about during the amidah was how strange it felt to be home and not-home, how I was writing the book the whole time my father and I were together but couldn't tell him. On the beach I was able to read Dubus' Dancing After Hours, but I brought it to San Francisco because I hadn't retained a word, recalling only the ethereal feelings they gave me. I wanted to meditate but couldn't get any silence in my head.
mirth4maudlin and
surrealpenguin are perhaps the two loveliest, in-loveliest hosts I've ever had.
He wanted to talk about northern California, since he might trade this city for that one. He is tired of paper and maybe of the trains. We went to Essex House and sat for a long time watching people fight for cabs on Rivington Street, thankful we could walk home in a quick minute. This winter has been a coy one. Two giant snowfalls and the next day forty-three degrees. Now it's just below freezing along the seven blocks to the J train, wind always finding the exact path I am taking. Erin and Tadd are both coming for separate weekends in March. I want to go to museums and the park and fancy restaurants and pretend I haven't been living here all this time.
Brennan says that adulthood is lonely. Depending on the day, I think she's right. Sometimes it's mango grappa, free tickets, and new friends on a private beach; sometimes it's the telephone silent for hours and hours. I always know what's louder. I always know what lingers.