(no subject)
This morning: ginger yogi tea with green eyes looking through the window like a fishtank, looking out into the green trees which waved and danced and thrashed about, seaweed and bubbles and currents and angelfish. What is this place? The stars are here and last night I think I saw the Big Dipper, but I always think I see the Big Dipper (it is the only constellation I know.) Sitting on the wooden porch with sweetsweet magnolia-honey-femme-intoxication, mango shisha hookah smoke, the man who comes out at eleven oh’clock to play Spanish guitar (the rhythm is off and his hands are unsure, but beautiful beautiful, he plays. With fervor like the Carcassi-connoisseur in the 42nd street subway station, he plays.) I went to bed laughing, reading “The Hunter Gracchus”, and this morning I read “Sunflower Sutra” and cried (Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower?)
I don’t know I don’t know. I need lots of stationary and postcards and a new journal since my aunt found and read my old one. I LOVE YOU.