-downbeat-
(cats were the protectors of ancient egypt so why not brooklyn?)
psuedo placeholder, because. oh life. even so, where have I been??
I keep waking up on this futon in Williamsburg. I don't really intend to (I never plan on waking up. one day I'll get that part right.) but there I am, and there is Michael standing in the doorway, weilding the voice of Daniel Plainview like a sledgehammer (this happens when he's hung over and it never gets easier to accept--I just keep waking up here. it just keeps. happening.), and he's utterly insensitive to how much we drank last night, how much time we invested in pulling apart his love-life from adjoining rooms, how fuck-off early it is and how much effort it'll take to get across the room and deck him for being so goddamn chipper. Matthew, the roommate (Michael, Matthew, patron saint of the sexiled) comes into the living room to instigate a fight about showers, and I make a map tripping dash out the window, onto the fire escape, into the Brooklyn sunshine. One morning, I'll be out here long enough for smoking to become appealing, adopt a nuyorican accent and play West Side Story for the rest of my life. someone else is already doing it for me, raising a laundry-line between the buildings; I take pictures instead.
(Oscar Wilde wrote something in a letter to some friend about "the kiss of Walt Whitman still being on my lips" and isn't that just delicious. Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, making out in the back of a car. explosive creativity and genius and tongues; shoving it all in the glovebox when the cops drive by because we don't do that here, do we, oh no sir. imagine. seriously, imagine.)
"I couldn't find you. Why are you crazy like a loon?" Michael wants to know. The kitchen window is open, Regina Spektor has been awarded first slot in the CD changer, the morning has officially started. He pulls his head back into the apartment, "Come inside, I've made crepes." When I threaten to locate and torch all of his literature from Homosexuals Anonymous, he hands me a cup of coffee and waits. The coffee has chili pepper and chocolate powder, maybe cinnamon, all frenchpressed together in the last 10 minutes. I hate is when they do that (every time it does, something in me wants to pretend we're in love for a few minutes, just to see what its like. then I start laughing). Its easy to ignore the call from my roommate, alerting me to the all-clear. Nutella gets on everything, including my eyelashes, and thats fucking confusing. When Matthew comes back, having lost the first-shower fight, and asks about how are you this morning darling, I don't really know, but I smile anyway.
--god, I am tired. 5 weeks...!
-harkling.