the dream

 Yesterday was the equinox, and today is cold. Equinoxes are important to me and many of my friends, so we tend to celebrate them. That, full moons, new moons, many moon phases in general. I feel the need to acknowledge the seasons and the moon. Not woo woo. the moon and the seasons are just important, some of the most beautiful things in the universe. The moon literally. Seasons more symbolically. Though we didn’t do anything big* 

*I am unbearably exhausted. My heel is bleeding, but my burn has healed and the scab fell off. I was wrapping it in a pair of silk underwear because gauze stuck to it and stung when I peeled it off. And then n told me her French grandmother said to sleep with a silk handkerchief around her neck when you feel a sore throat coming. It will ward it off, or help it heal. And I thought, in retrospect, silk heals all things. Doctors, take note, for your sake and mine. The day before I pulled glass out of my mouth while eating a heaping bowl of rice and wilted spinach dressed with lots of soy sauce. I had already been feeling like something was wrong, but this solidified it. Though little has changed… there’s not much I can do at the moment but wait. My feet feel like only bone. And my future is very hard to imagine, though I’m trying. See:

I did rearrange my apartment with c. But I was very anxious afterward… I felt that I had disrupted our Spot. Before it was very, very beautiful. Shells were everywhere and light bounced in and out. The space was open, light, and largely impractical, ie. We had a tv that sat probably 10 feet away from the couch. For the first few months we lived there, a white metal bed frame sat there without a mattress. But still I laid a quite pretty, little, silk kind of baby sleeping bag on it. (Ah, silk again)

I have always been precious, but especially lately. I feel very sensitive to magic, that charmful quality native to beauty. Call it divinity, that’s what I’ve begun to do. Not necessarily God, but I say that too.

The space is much different now. Still lovely and special, with shells and lace hung from nails left behind by dozens of past tenants, though indefinitely divided and far more practical, and I find something about that a bit boring and sad. It’s the same way I feel when I ride the subway with corporates. How sad to know the rest of your life. I’ve always considered resignation a tragedy, even if it’s not a bad thing. I am so attached to not-knowing. I find that life lacks when it is made up. It is so much more when it unfolds like this and oh! that! But I also struggle because I cannot imagine a future… it is one big hazy cloud in which figures occasionally take form and then blow away. But it is all one big dream! Oh just let me be (free)

flushhhhh

I burned myself on a motorcycle. The exhaust pipe bit me, but it’s my fault. I was wearing ballet flats—I know, but I was on my way to a wedding. 

I wrote in August: My pack of cigarettes is flattened like a piece of bread. Some are crooked, half smoked, broke. I don't smoke unless I truly need. I’m being taught what need means. I'm not pleasant on the brink, but I'm happy because I impress myself (hard). Every week is a challenge, but the game excites me. I eat after I starve, sleep on my feet, use every second. and not just to work, but to write, sit as I am now in thought, and socialize. And it's all put to use. Ah, to make a machine out of my brain and body! (and heart?) very satisfying. A man is playing his clarinet on the train. It is a perfect, playful tune. I'm grateful for him and his instrument. Thank you, Man with your Clarinet! I am at once satisfied, delighted, relaxed, and heartened because of you!    Now I sit outside the laundromat, under the cover of the awning. It's raining a bit. It's getting dark as it nears 8 o’clock—the days are getting shorter. Thunder crackles a bit, or cars drive over metal panels that create a road. August lightning strobes. The shop opposite me is called Lantigua Deli. Its red awning casts aglow the wall that suspends it. It's such an old image: The corner store, fluorescent lights, two guys—one big, one small—leaning against a red wall. Thunder splits the sky open. Now rain pours, when before it drizzled. I'm sheltered now inside the laundromat. 30 minutes to go. Lights flicker here, too. I'm happy to be here. My life is good, better because it's hard. I am up for the challenge, it's quite amazing. I ran outside, was instantly devoured, completely chilled. I'm so awake, completely tight.

I took a week off and now I am confused. I almost regret it, but I don’t. The wedding was beautiful. l and I met at the restaurant where we met and became its centerpiece, both dressed in blue and brushed, blonde hair. We danced and talked and I felt so happy, a happiness that was manifold: 1) We were drinking quite heavily. At points I felt dizzy and maybe about to be sick, but l steadied me. So, I'd eat a bit of cake, take a sip of water, maybe freshen up in the bathroom or smoke a cigarette, and then I was ready to continue. 2) We were surrounded by an incredible beauty. The wedding was at the couple's home. It overlooks the mountains and the land surrounds the house like a horseshoe. A white tent rose over tables decorated with candles, hand-picked arrangements, garlands of perhaps grapes or some orb-shaped fruit or vegetable. In the right corner a rustic lemon cake sprawled, which the bride took a bite of just as we arrived. To the left was a sloping dance floor—which no one slipped on, mind you—that faced a band of rotating players, which sometimes ft. the groom himself. Random groups of chairs peppered the property, each marked by a canopy of lights that seemed to float higher as dark set in. And down the hill Prosecco flowed from a tap and batched cocktails could be scooped out of tin wells—a drinking station fit for Puck and the rest of a midsummer’s night dream. And 3) l is a wondrous person who makes me, in turn, feel wondrous. He drove us in his old Saab, which he started down by his thigh. He lit my cigarette with its lighter. And even called me a talker.

I’m still nursing my burn, but it's started to harden. Before, it was red and raw and fleshy, so vulnerable it hurt to look at. In jersey I ate too much red meat and drank too much coffee, so much red meat and coffee that I began to think differently. Other people's thoughts swirled. they have no place in my brain. I’ve just about managed to get them out.  It was cold in jersey. Wind blew newspapers off the coffee table and onto the floor, where they squirmed.

I do often wish that I was riding backward on the train, straight through New York, onto Raleigh, Florida, New Orleans. I’m flushing the summer away