“Road racing imitates life, the way it would be without the corruptive influence of civilization. When you see an enemy lying on the ground, what’s your first reaction? To help him to his feet. In road racing, you kick him to death.”—
Tim Krabbe, The Racer
(This kind of mentality sums up why i dislike organized sports. However, I am enjoying Krabbe’s book.)
“… the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks …”—Billy Collins, The Trouble with Poetry
Ian wants to know if this jives with my experiences. it’s hard to tell, since my sister Di didnt acknowledge my existence until i was 18. however, we are best friends now. we’re about to go shopping and then check out some more art in tribeca. hurray for sisters! hurray for sunny days!
at 7:30, i wake up at 181st street. i get dressed, pack my lunch, and sneak out past my slumbering roommates. i take the A express to 14th street, where i switch to the L. i get out at 1st ave, go up past the florist man with his stand of fresh flowers that i can still smell all the way up to the street. when i’m finally out in the air again, i beeline to my favorite coffee shop- ciao for now- on 12th street between A and B. I get there about 9:05. i order a large cafe au lait- i dont even usually have to ask, they usually know. i say thank you and talk a minute with the baristas. most days, they are the first people i speak to all morning- i wonder if they know that. i hope i can convey my gratitude: for the coffee and for the conversation-for giving me something sweet to look forward to every morning.
last night, i dreamt that a librarian was giving me inane book advice- suggesting that what i wanted was “Buddenbrooks” by thomas mann. i told her that it was not, because i was looking for a comedy that was a farce of a victorian family drama. she then suggested that the book i wanted was the one with the “covino” (her word, not mine, though i knew she actually meant “gandolfini”), the dreaded butterfly torture, in which your head is trapped in a small space, and slowly, one at a time, a butterfly is added, until the space is filled and you have no choice but to start eating them.
two nights ago i dreamt that a hummingbird had flown into my room. it chirped around, and flew back out through the blinds.
I spent monday up the Hudson at the DIA:Beacon Museum with Martyna. If you have a way to get there- go. Just go. Don’t be lame and hate on modern art just because it’s easy. Yes, the people in the museum are pretentious d-bags. No, you cannot take pictures, carry a bag, write with a pen anywhere near the art or taste the sculpture made out of rock salt. Yes, there is a room full of white canvases (“I think the white wall really sets that one off, Martyna”). But yes, you can faux-breakdance and belly slide inside of the huge dye-cast Richard Serra sculptures because who’s going to see you in there? And even if the lady at the front desk says you shouldn’t laugh, you probably should; modern art is crazy and beautiful, often silly and just plain wonderful.
I’m psyched for: sunshine; hanging out with my boys- my dad and my roomies; the mets dominating over the brewers so i can laugh at Mikey for being from Milwaukie; Santana’s pitching; and Citi Field- maybe a feral cat will run through the infield again! oh, willets point, may your magic never die.
this is why [i'm fat] [i'm not fat] [i will never make 'i'm fat' jokes again]
yesterday, i thought i’d post up a picture of my breakfast to thisiswhyyourefat, or at least post it up on my page with the caption “this is why i’m fat”. my breakfast was this:
meringue filled with lemon curd mousse. two of them. (shoutout to Colson Patisserie in Park Slope for sponsoring this gluttony.)
however, i wound up becoming violently ill, and i threw up all night. i havent been able to think about or look at food all day. i can’t imagine i will be eating any time soon. this is probably not the meringue’s fault; it’s probably my own for prodding at the karmic Furies with my feeble attempts at self-deprecating humor. i get it now- i won’t ever make i’m fat jokes again.
Yesterday, while I was having snack with my class of three year olds, we heard music coming down the street. We all got exited to see the parade coming by, so we opened the door and stood on the stoop to watch. Turns out, it was the congregation of a church singing hymns and reenacting the stations of the cross. There was Jesus, schlepping his cross down 9th street, and there were the roman centurions, poking him with spears. Then the soldiers started beating the crap out of poor Jesus, and whipping him- fake blood spurting- all in front of my horrified three year olds. Classic.
… one of the sickest, emptiest feelings. how can new yorkers willingly do this to themselves every day? the regret and feeling sorry for myself?
"i saw u" on the F train- Delancey station. me uptown, you downtown. made eyes. you tried to show me a message on your phone, but i couldnt read it from across the tracks. maybe your phone number? the address of a bar? a plea- WAIT! i’ll be over to your side soon!- But i couldnt see the words. i said so, and i shrugged. i hope i waved goodbye, because from off in the tunnely distance came the lights heralding the trains’ arrival, mine and yours, almost simultaneously. and it breaks my heart to think of you- anonymous- running up the steps at the end of the track, down a dimly lit dingy hallway, and then down the steps at the other end, reaching the uptown platform just as the train doors close behind me and i disappear in a blurry sea of faces. did you stop- breathless- agonizing? … you missed me.
when my ex asked if i was seeing someone else, i should have said, "jose reyes"
… but you know how you only think of those snappy comebacks a week too late. (and you know that this is what i think of on the downtown A express).
jose- we could be happy together; my sly witticisms would ensure that your perpetual gleaming white smile was, you know, more perpetual. we could run away to the DR- ( i’ve read my Juno Diaz, so i know what’s what). you’d practice your english, and I, my shaky spanish. we’d have so much to teach each other … and so many common interests! like, the Mets… and how we both like the number 7 …