(no subject)
as the air conditioners hum and vibrate in various windows, as fans are turned on and off for various use during multiple slumbers , the summer dusks and nighttimes seem to become breeding ground for certain cinematic instances that, upon further examination, hold almost no significance whatsoever.
as i sit and scan a book at my desk, i can hear the dryer spin and creak in the kitchen. a mild and almost imperceptible voice and then music from the film my girlfriend is watching curls around and through various apartment rooms to the chair in which i am sitting. a small shout from a small boy outside, past his bedtime. lamplight falling onto the pages of my book, and as i look up, i can see a half-reflection of my face in the window, cut in half by the neighbor's lights turning on and off.
and suddenly, i am, again, experiencing a moment in a kind of life that does not feel as though it is my own. there is a small excited shudder at my desk. the legs squeak slightly. it is a life that i feel i once described to myself as so utterly neat and tidy, so predetermined, so quietly poetic and dully comforting, that it could only exist as a cut-out pattern in film, book, or odd lazy daydream. a cross-stitch of the near future. i am in the moment i once wrote, etched, sculpted for myself.
i sat across from my friend last night in a barely-lit brooklyn bar:
"soon you'll be having dinner parties."
and i just might.
i just might make pasta for two in the evenings, a dog involved somewhere. i just might sit down to type by the light of a yellowish lamp, fall leaves clustering in around the house, city sounds melding with the wind rattling the windows. and there will probably be birds somewhere in there too. autumn or winter birds, birds that sing more at dusk and dawn. the crisp smell of cold mornings. i could make up more slightly tedious descriptions of days to come, but i will stop here.
it would seem that sometimes the power of the pen, the photograph, the bus-seat fantasies, the introspective moments peeing in a public bathroom after that really good film, can all be created at any time in one form or another.
most of the time, without you even noticing.
as i sit and scan a book at my desk, i can hear the dryer spin and creak in the kitchen. a mild and almost imperceptible voice and then music from the film my girlfriend is watching curls around and through various apartment rooms to the chair in which i am sitting. a small shout from a small boy outside, past his bedtime. lamplight falling onto the pages of my book, and as i look up, i can see a half-reflection of my face in the window, cut in half by the neighbor's lights turning on and off.
and suddenly, i am, again, experiencing a moment in a kind of life that does not feel as though it is my own. there is a small excited shudder at my desk. the legs squeak slightly. it is a life that i feel i once described to myself as so utterly neat and tidy, so predetermined, so quietly poetic and dully comforting, that it could only exist as a cut-out pattern in film, book, or odd lazy daydream. a cross-stitch of the near future. i am in the moment i once wrote, etched, sculpted for myself.
i sat across from my friend last night in a barely-lit brooklyn bar:
"soon you'll be having dinner parties."
and i just might.
i just might make pasta for two in the evenings, a dog involved somewhere. i just might sit down to type by the light of a yellowish lamp, fall leaves clustering in around the house, city sounds melding with the wind rattling the windows. and there will probably be birds somewhere in there too. autumn or winter birds, birds that sing more at dusk and dawn. the crisp smell of cold mornings. i could make up more slightly tedious descriptions of days to come, but i will stop here.
it would seem that sometimes the power of the pen, the photograph, the bus-seat fantasies, the introspective moments peeing in a public bathroom after that really good film, can all be created at any time in one form or another.
most of the time, without you even noticing.