So much has happened. Thursday endash Tuesday
I look at immature ceramic chalices of Leda and the swan by Gauguin. I listen to the saxophonist on the street, to Scott Mackenzie from the ice rink in the park, Are you going to San FRANcisco? People in motion.... I see scary French movies in vibrant monochrome all by myself, and I watch the dancers in the studios across the way practice their ballet through two sets of windows. I ride shotgun to Indiana, where I rock back and forth on ice shells and feel unexpected calm. I drink chocolate peanut butter milkshakes at aluminum diners and yelp when there are conversation hearts contaminating the whipped cream. I analyze e. e. cummings with an unsung favorite until nearly 4 a.m., proud of his generosity to a bum, his realization that he is happy, impressed by his fear that he might not be in the future, that eventually, he'll have to come down from this. I listen to Miles Davis and read Finnegans Wake; I pour more paprika on the potatoes in the pan. I drink a musty proletarian by myself; I bring my friends champagne and drink oysters from the shell. I smoke without needing to be racheled. I ride the train home by myself. I plan dinner with another favorite, and the only friend of a friend I have ever truly befriended, it seems. I draw naked people with blue conte crayons while Paul Simon sings from Graceland. I interview to be interviewed for a documentary ethnomusicography. I read Muldoon, and Kleinzahler reads to me. I read Frost, and Cummings is read to me. I pet the cat, and Joyce is read to me. I climb on top of the library--six very tall floors up, onto layers and layers of rooves, mazes of attics and gravel--with an unexpected sort, and my cowboy boots slip on nary a rung. I sell a lampshade; I eat tabouli and ratatouille and we get excited for Sonny Rollins.