Old Exes, New Ideas
Why is it that everytime an ex of mine gets a new sweetheart I am overcome with jealousy? It's not all the time, but with a select few. Perhaps I am jealous of that new love feeling that dwindles post cohabitation.
I've decided to write a column and pitch it to the Voice. It's called "Living in Sin: The idiosynchracies of Synchronized Living." Sort of a Lesbian Bed Death in the City kind of deal. I've been mystified for a while about the mysteries of lovers at the same mailing address, the complications, the morphing of romance into domesticity, all without what I would see as the comfort and security of a public commitment. I was mulling all this over in my mind last night and I had to get out of bed to write my first article. I have several article ideas that are ready to be put into column form, but no time to do it in.
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.
I've decided to write a column and pitch it to the Voice. It's called "Living in Sin: The idiosynchracies of Synchronized Living." Sort of a Lesbian Bed Death in the City kind of deal. I've been mystified for a while about the mysteries of lovers at the same mailing address, the complications, the morphing of romance into domesticity, all without what I would see as the comfort and security of a public commitment. I was mulling all this over in my mind last night and I had to get out of bed to write my first article. I have several article ideas that are ready to be put into column form, but no time to do it in.
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.