on your machine i slur a plea
It's cold in New York this morning, blustery and crisp with sun so bright it feels like it could slice right through you. Those are my second favorite mornings for staying in bed, tangled and twisted in sheets.
I've developed this deep appreciation for the Gates, not really for their outward appearance or for the fact that they bring in even more tourists to disrupt my attempts at stony silence. It's just hysterical to sit and watch people gawk, mouths open and completely without regard to how anyone else might see them. We're all more comfortable with nudity here in the Big Apple, I think. The tourists are, anyway, there's absolutely no filter on their faces when they're taking in their surroundings.
I have this old scarf of my grandmum's that I've taken to wrapping around her neck, when we leave the apartment. Spring's coming but the air still holds the dying gasps of winter's breath so having a couple of extra layers is not overreacting, although I may have in my weaker moments an overprotective streak. Anyway, this scarf, it's soft and threadbare in places, this deep, dark burgundy that hasn't faded despite time and I don't know what it is. Maybe the ritual of it, wrapping it around her neck and then wrapping myself around her for a moment, maybe it's the way the scarf smells like her now but it's one of my favorite parts of the day.
The Met has a collection of Max Ernst up for the next few weeks and I've spent several days there. There's this piece called "Fireside Angel" that I like as much for the name as anything else. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to the Surrealists but I always come back excited and animated and she'll curl up in the corner of the sofa with her tea and look at me in that bemused way she does and those are the moments when I really feel like I ought to be pinching myself.
I'm trying to cook tonight. I don't do it often, takeout's my forte so if you're looking for a good Chinese joint or hey, maybe Ethiopian, drop me a line and I'll hook you right up but tonight I'm trying cooking. There is something about discovery, about inch after inch of skin or a few sentences strung together or the sound of a voice reading favorite lines. I'm addicted. Stronger than nicotine and smoother than Paddy's whiskey, I find myself craving. It's not an empty hunger anymore.
I've developed this deep appreciation for the Gates, not really for their outward appearance or for the fact that they bring in even more tourists to disrupt my attempts at stony silence. It's just hysterical to sit and watch people gawk, mouths open and completely without regard to how anyone else might see them. We're all more comfortable with nudity here in the Big Apple, I think. The tourists are, anyway, there's absolutely no filter on their faces when they're taking in their surroundings.
I have this old scarf of my grandmum's that I've taken to wrapping around her neck, when we leave the apartment. Spring's coming but the air still holds the dying gasps of winter's breath so having a couple of extra layers is not overreacting, although I may have in my weaker moments an overprotective streak. Anyway, this scarf, it's soft and threadbare in places, this deep, dark burgundy that hasn't faded despite time and I don't know what it is. Maybe the ritual of it, wrapping it around her neck and then wrapping myself around her for a moment, maybe it's the way the scarf smells like her now but it's one of my favorite parts of the day.
The Met has a collection of Max Ernst up for the next few weeks and I've spent several days there. There's this piece called "Fireside Angel" that I like as much for the name as anything else. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to the Surrealists but I always come back excited and animated and she'll curl up in the corner of the sofa with her tea and look at me in that bemused way she does and those are the moments when I really feel like I ought to be pinching myself.
I'm trying to cook tonight. I don't do it often, takeout's my forte so if you're looking for a good Chinese joint or hey, maybe Ethiopian, drop me a line and I'll hook you right up but tonight I'm trying cooking. There is something about discovery, about inch after inch of skin or a few sentences strung together or the sound of a voice reading favorite lines. I'm addicted. Stronger than nicotine and smoother than Paddy's whiskey, I find myself craving. It's not an empty hunger anymore.