(no subject)
claustrophobic and distraught, i got off the subway a stop earlier than usual and went in search of gourmet goodies. there is nothing that soothes the soul like cheap parmesano reggiano or half-sour pickles imported from the lower east side, so i headed towards valencia's shops on a therapeutic mission. the only problem was that i was feeling somber and full of self-pity, and everyone seemed to be dancing.
squinting against the sun as i emerged from the bart station, i failed to see the man doing pirouettes in the middle of the crosswalk, and he barreled right into me. i walked on, unimpressed, but then i began to notice a pattern. turning the corner, zorba the greek [or his dead ringer] took a few lusty swigs from a bottle of ouzo, set it on a refuse bin, and spun round a few times, clapping his hands above his head. his companions looked at him severely, then at the barely remaining alcohol.
"what?" he exclaimed. "i didn't drink all of it."
further down i encountered the chicano equivalent of the young tenenbaum twins, clad in matching black tracksuits. one struggled to hold a giant boom box on his shoulder, while the other shucked and jived energetically. by now i'd forgotten all about the cheese and pickles, so i ducked into a bodega and bought some token groceries and fresh guacamole. upon my return to the sidewalk, sun ra did a sort of space-rain dance, unkempt gray dreads flying everywhere, applauding my purchase.
i got home and threw it all in the fridge. it came to me that i needed not to consume, but to excrete, to sweat out those angry bits of life, as albarn once said. i put a bouncy record on the stereo, and then another, and yet another--the names don't matter, though the fact that i had to keep wiping my face did. soon my feet barely touched the floor, and i cracked the slightest of smiles, almost wishing that someone was watching.
and so i am going to keep dancing until you return, and quite possibly even after.
squinting against the sun as i emerged from the bart station, i failed to see the man doing pirouettes in the middle of the crosswalk, and he barreled right into me. i walked on, unimpressed, but then i began to notice a pattern. turning the corner, zorba the greek [or his dead ringer] took a few lusty swigs from a bottle of ouzo, set it on a refuse bin, and spun round a few times, clapping his hands above his head. his companions looked at him severely, then at the barely remaining alcohol.
"what?" he exclaimed. "i didn't drink all of it."
further down i encountered the chicano equivalent of the young tenenbaum twins, clad in matching black tracksuits. one struggled to hold a giant boom box on his shoulder, while the other shucked and jived energetically. by now i'd forgotten all about the cheese and pickles, so i ducked into a bodega and bought some token groceries and fresh guacamole. upon my return to the sidewalk, sun ra did a sort of space-rain dance, unkempt gray dreads flying everywhere, applauding my purchase.
i got home and threw it all in the fridge. it came to me that i needed not to consume, but to excrete, to sweat out those angry bits of life, as albarn once said. i put a bouncy record on the stereo, and then another, and yet another--the names don't matter, though the fact that i had to keep wiping my face did. soon my feet barely touched the floor, and i cracked the slightest of smiles, almost wishing that someone was watching.
and so i am going to keep dancing until you return, and quite possibly even after.