(no subject)
Thunder without rain. (The sky has that yellowgrey color.) I spent the day remembering and trying to recombine, to integrate, to cohere.
Last night West Village walks Abington Square Park sitting eating mini-pastry from Magnolia with Ken (we turn up at the counter and my sister nudges her counter partner and says I'm her sister and $15 turns into $2 and I start hearing about my sister's radiant smile (it is radiant, and the boys at her private school aren't good enough for her)). The heat brings things into contact with each other. Like muddled mint & crushed lime & sugar in a cocktail. Like molecules in a suspension. Smelling and lightly sweating and there is lightning and still no rain and last night walking through Times Square where there are standstills on the sidewalk because the tourists don't know how to walk and what I want is still frenzy, but the To Kill a Mockingbird heat feels close, maybe because of what it creates over my shoulder: the thunder and the lighting, cracking and blinking and never delivering, unfecund.
In my bedroom there is air conditioning and I lie around listening to German pop reading books and trying to write things down in fits and spurts and thinking about all of the new facial expressions in my repertoire and how what I said last night was true, that one year ago, I could not have had that conversation.
Oh, and now it's raining. The sky splits and the rain hits the pavement and the heat may break for a few hours.
Last night West Village walks Abington Square Park sitting eating mini-pastry from Magnolia with Ken (we turn up at the counter and my sister nudges her counter partner and says I'm her sister and $15 turns into $2 and I start hearing about my sister's radiant smile (it is radiant, and the boys at her private school aren't good enough for her)). The heat brings things into contact with each other. Like muddled mint & crushed lime & sugar in a cocktail. Like molecules in a suspension. Smelling and lightly sweating and there is lightning and still no rain and last night walking through Times Square where there are standstills on the sidewalk because the tourists don't know how to walk and what I want is still frenzy, but the To Kill a Mockingbird heat feels close, maybe because of what it creates over my shoulder: the thunder and the lighting, cracking and blinking and never delivering, unfecund.
In my bedroom there is air conditioning and I lie around listening to German pop reading books and trying to write things down in fits and spurts and thinking about all of the new facial expressions in my repertoire and how what I said last night was true, that one year ago, I could not have had that conversation.
Oh, and now it's raining. The sky splits and the rain hits the pavement and the heat may break for a few hours.