A grave turning over
The New Leaf Cafe. It’s a restaurant in Fort Tryon Park, which is beautiful. The restaurant is owned by Bette Middler. There’s a slope up to it, and grass as green as money, and dogwood trees the color of frosted lipstick. Because the restaurant is near the Cloisters, there’s a few tourists; because it’s uptown beyond the concept of ‘Uptown’, there are a lot of locals.
The New Leaf Cafe. Brunch on a Sunday. A shame it was an overcast day.
Thursday I was here with Greg. Took the day off to do something--anything--with him, because we never get a day off at the same time. So, Thursday, we went to the Cloisters, and walked around Fort Tryon Park, and, like, enjoyed ourselves, which we seldom do. We try but life is messy and... whatever. So we took a day to enjoy a day, if you know what I mean. There was some sun, and there were trees and flowers, and we just took a day to enjoy each other and to enjoy colors. You know?
And we saw a three-legged miniature poodle lift his body up to take a piss. No kidding--the dog heaved himself up onto his front legs to spray the trunk of a white dogwood tree, his couple-less third leg stretched out.
So. Brunch on a Sunday. Back at New Leaf, where Greg and I ate that Thursday.
Thursday was extremely bright and vivid. The sun was out Thursday, and the nature popped. But on Sunday, the sky was overcast, and everything was through a scrim. Flowers were dull. Trees were purple. The air was heavy, processed. And the view of the river, crisp on Thursday, was muddled and vague.
Brunch: it’s a great needless wonderful thing. Brunch is good because it promotes the idea of pancakes and liquor. Brunch lets you have french toast and a Bloody Mary at the same time. Brunch gives you a basket of muffins and a slice of cantaloupe. It combines all the elements of indulgence without the guilt. All while sitting at a table with a cloth on it. It’s the cherry on the top of a sundae.
The friend who invited me to this brunch, Jon, knew this about me: I’ve been very depressed and reluctant to associate with anyone. That I’ve been trying to re-calibrate. So imagine this: I’m sitting at a table with four other guys, and I’ve seen three of them naked.
And here’s what we’re talking about: Restaurants downtown, Philip Glass, and who’s doing what for this or that show. Set design.
Only we’re not all talking about those things. They’re talking about them. I’m listening. And all I can think about is how awful I feel. And I feel awful because I’ve seen three out of four of them naked.
Here’s this: Thursday with Greg. Bright, blue, clear. At a museum, kissing on a terrace, walking through a park holding hands and gawking at three-legged miniature poodles peeing whole-bodied onto the trunk of a blossoming tree.
And here’s this: Sunday, sitting at a table of four guys who’ve all seen me at my absolute worse, and I have no way to show them my absolute best because they’re talking about things I don’t know about.
And there’s this: Greg knows. He knows I’m a failure at some things, that I failed him. He knows that I went through a period of... stuff. Of misguided selfishness, and of healthy limit-testing. Or something. Anyway, Greg knows. And he still loves me, and I love him, but I have a hard time loving myself. And I don’t mean that in a ‘oh god I’m gonna cut myself’ way, but in a ‘oh god I can’t believe I put us through that’ way.
Anyway.
Brunch on Sunday, at a table where most are naked to me, and Greg’s at work, and Jon thinks he’s doing a nice thing by getting me out to associate with people who’ve seen me naked and disturbed. And there’s a guy to my left, who lived in Israel and Sri Lanka, and Jon to my right, and a basket of muffins, and a cup of coffee, and everyone is talking about what food is good at this or that restaurant, and all I can think about is, Wow, I wish Greg was here because I am totally incapable of participating in this in-depth discussion on restaurants in Chelsea. Greg doesn’t mind butting in and commandeering conversation. I, however, just like.... oh, look at the muffins, and [insert inappropriate language here].
At one point, meth came up. I was already having a pathetic fallacy with the overcast day and missing Greg and all that. The guy to my left said that people who do meth “obsessively clean their apartments,” and I blanked out for a moment, stared into space, wanted to cry, then turned to Jon to my right. Jokes were made about forming a meth-staffed cleaning service (Crystal Clean). And I laughed. Also, I missed Greg. And felt embarrassed. For what I'd done a short time ago. And I wished I could enjoy the brunch at the New Leaf Cafe, owned by Bette Middler, because I'm trying to move on. But I can't.
The New Leaf Cafe. Brunch on a Sunday. A shame it was an overcast day.
Thursday I was here with Greg. Took the day off to do something--anything--with him, because we never get a day off at the same time. So, Thursday, we went to the Cloisters, and walked around Fort Tryon Park, and, like, enjoyed ourselves, which we seldom do. We try but life is messy and... whatever. So we took a day to enjoy a day, if you know what I mean. There was some sun, and there were trees and flowers, and we just took a day to enjoy each other and to enjoy colors. You know?
And we saw a three-legged miniature poodle lift his body up to take a piss. No kidding--the dog heaved himself up onto his front legs to spray the trunk of a white dogwood tree, his couple-less third leg stretched out.
So. Brunch on a Sunday. Back at New Leaf, where Greg and I ate that Thursday.
Thursday was extremely bright and vivid. The sun was out Thursday, and the nature popped. But on Sunday, the sky was overcast, and everything was through a scrim. Flowers were dull. Trees were purple. The air was heavy, processed. And the view of the river, crisp on Thursday, was muddled and vague.
Brunch: it’s a great needless wonderful thing. Brunch is good because it promotes the idea of pancakes and liquor. Brunch lets you have french toast and a Bloody Mary at the same time. Brunch gives you a basket of muffins and a slice of cantaloupe. It combines all the elements of indulgence without the guilt. All while sitting at a table with a cloth on it. It’s the cherry on the top of a sundae.
The friend who invited me to this brunch, Jon, knew this about me: I’ve been very depressed and reluctant to associate with anyone. That I’ve been trying to re-calibrate. So imagine this: I’m sitting at a table with four other guys, and I’ve seen three of them naked.
And here’s what we’re talking about: Restaurants downtown, Philip Glass, and who’s doing what for this or that show. Set design.
Only we’re not all talking about those things. They’re talking about them. I’m listening. And all I can think about is how awful I feel. And I feel awful because I’ve seen three out of four of them naked.
Here’s this: Thursday with Greg. Bright, blue, clear. At a museum, kissing on a terrace, walking through a park holding hands and gawking at three-legged miniature poodles peeing whole-bodied onto the trunk of a blossoming tree.
And here’s this: Sunday, sitting at a table of four guys who’ve all seen me at my absolute worse, and I have no way to show them my absolute best because they’re talking about things I don’t know about.
And there’s this: Greg knows. He knows I’m a failure at some things, that I failed him. He knows that I went through a period of... stuff. Of misguided selfishness, and of healthy limit-testing. Or something. Anyway, Greg knows. And he still loves me, and I love him, but I have a hard time loving myself. And I don’t mean that in a ‘oh god I’m gonna cut myself’ way, but in a ‘oh god I can’t believe I put us through that’ way.
Anyway.
Brunch on Sunday, at a table where most are naked to me, and Greg’s at work, and Jon thinks he’s doing a nice thing by getting me out to associate with people who’ve seen me naked and disturbed. And there’s a guy to my left, who lived in Israel and Sri Lanka, and Jon to my right, and a basket of muffins, and a cup of coffee, and everyone is talking about what food is good at this or that restaurant, and all I can think about is, Wow, I wish Greg was here because I am totally incapable of participating in this in-depth discussion on restaurants in Chelsea. Greg doesn’t mind butting in and commandeering conversation. I, however, just like.... oh, look at the muffins, and [insert inappropriate language here].
At one point, meth came up. I was already having a pathetic fallacy with the overcast day and missing Greg and all that. The guy to my left said that people who do meth “obsessively clean their apartments,” and I blanked out for a moment, stared into space, wanted to cry, then turned to Jon to my right. Jokes were made about forming a meth-staffed cleaning service (Crystal Clean). And I laughed. Also, I missed Greg. And felt embarrassed. For what I'd done a short time ago. And I wished I could enjoy the brunch at the New Leaf Cafe, owned by Bette Middler, because I'm trying to move on. But I can't.