NY Nocturne - Draft

Prelude Friday May 1

Both of my phones tantrum

Their crackle shattering the 5am dark stillness

Deep blue slumber cast like a weighted blanket over the sleeping city,

Heavy dark still

Preoccupied with dreams and nightmares

they will soon forget

During their sunrise ceremonies

Slow darkness,

Snap crackle pop

Both of my phones crack

the 5am dark stillness

Slow darkness,

Deep blue slumber cast like a weighted blanket over the sleeping city,

Heavy dark still

Preoccupied with dreams and nightmares

they will soon forget

During their sunrise ceremonies

Washed away by the sunrise

Ceremonially

Forget

Replace

With sunrise ceremony

Sunrise ceremonies

The earliest birds have not yet stirred to sing.

 Im brushing my teeth in the dark, and leap through an unlighted hallway

To quell their melodic tantrums

The tantruming devices / their tantrums

One melancholy / acoustic

One nuclear

Cry, throwing slightly different tantrums

One melodic

One nuclear

Slow dark

Blue dark

Blue black

Train over

Whos this

Were you staying

Tjs

Birria - Landia

Wine and grilled cheese with soup mid

Vanulen Ice Cream

A little drunk

Water

Tjs

Little Italy Pizza - Bedford

Set an alarm for 5am but was awake before 

Uber driver was deaf, able to break out the dusty asl for terminal 7. I didnt register that he said nice to meet you until after I got out of the car. was worried that Id mistakenly left something in the back seat.

Couldn't tell if it was awkward with Mia. I don't find her particularly pretty. Nor do I feel a chemistry. Friendship and fun seems right. 

Meat plate for breakfast with $1 hot water from a barely opened terminal restaurant

5 h is alot

plane and travel : write read sleep

sleep short and short great

o shirt with vest

also both black sweaters

and rain  lack jacket

with alo pants

can wear everyday

dana and orange glasses

kibg

not sure should green pants

train in. From ewr was 1.5 hours

We are holding our luggage on the threshold of the front door, living room, and kitchen, and almost the bathroom.

“Hiii, woww .. this is cool! How’s it goin?” I greet automatically while seeing the unexpectedness of Mia being there in Ben and Jess’ eyes.

“Are you staying with a friend?” Jess wonders at Mia out loud.

I’m not sure if Ben forgot or if I wasn't clear

When mentioning to him a month ago

That Id like to visit with my friend Mia

“Uh .. here!” I answer for her.

“.. Oh.”

“Ehh let's take a tour!” I redirect. 

“Okiee” Jess acquiesces enthusiastically, leading me around her new place that still smells like drywall as is filled with unpacked boxes.

“So are you guys ..” Jess prods casually, with her head slightly leaving out of curiosity.

We’re both looking at the fireplace that doesn't work, now painted white and filled with books and unlit candles.

“We're friends.” I remember some of these things from her old place in Chelsea. 

“I don't like Asians,” I continue half lying and wholly embarrassed that Mia might have overheard me 

on the other side of the long narrow and many thresholded apartment.

“Shes staying here?” The first swellings of perturbed inquiry.

Time to build a moat around my sandcastle.

“Uh yeah I told Ben a couple weeks ago ..” “He always does this!”

Jesse's shore breaks, but then abates calmly back into the sea.

Phew. 

Ben is giving us a list of groceries, (which is a fair trade) for sleeping on his new couch in his new apartment in an old corner of Brooklyn called Williamsburg

jess ben stressed

"this is kia"

"where are you staying"

"here"

"oh"

amazing tacos from - dare i say better than most trucks in la

wine and grilled cheese a few blocks up on a whim spurred by a chalkboard menu. The waiters were strikingly young guys. 

Ice cream slightly inebreased, tried a flavor that i kinda didnt like, but ordered anyways till i told the lady i didnt like it ." its an aquired tasted" the 2 deflated ladies sighed. Wine and sugar already. Had the icecream by the water, before going into tj through the parking garage

The unicorm : wide slacks, cropped jacket or shirt / top, skinny black glasses, salomons. Mustache.

 More comfy wearing glasses after sunset into the night, Cigarettes are back.

A lot of marionette smoking, black loafers, wide slacks, a few mustaches, I wish I wasn't annoyed at their facades of insecurity and plainness, but I see myself in them. I've mostly quit smoking, now that the brunt of heartbreak has passed. I no longer feel a need for artificiating numbness - I want to feel joy, the breeze towards magic, and sex. Not too much sex. But the right amount of sex.

tj s groerues for ben and us for the weekwnd

walk felt dead till at water and dancing a bit after dropping off the groceries and chatting a bit, in a kids park .

think we got pizza from kittoe italy pizza bedfrom which slapped like a mother, dancing outside to a bike's speakers, people coming and going around the night to and from various forms of merriment

felt forward to sleep in the same "bed" that was a couch so i slept on an office chair. Cold and i was weirdly shaped, felt more comfy than the non reclining airplane seat bc i didnt check in till last min. But slept maybe a total of 1-2 h that night sprinkled over heavy drowsy achiness

moved to the ottoman with mia after daylight and might have stole a wink but I doubt I did

Nocturne Saturday

Jess is reluctantly rushing back and forth, sullen half heartedly while clothes gather in her suitcase.

"I hate packing." The task was postponed from yesterday. 

She is going to Korea for two weeks. 

Jess is reluctantly rushing back and forth, sullen half heartedly gathering clothes in her suitcase while consulting Ben, 

who was half heartedly acting as a sounding board for her preparations, while slumped quietly on their new couch. casually typing  sultry nothings in a description under an OF video. 

Ben is slumped quietly on their new couch, casually typing sweet sultry nothings for description under an OF video. 

They both recommend Apollos for a bagel. 

Their cat Carm is nowhere to be found. 

“Stand up while you're moving paintings, that way they don't fall babe.” the antique store clerk advises me. 

Mia says there are more upstairs, which I half heartedly investigate for a scant second to confirm my selection, 

but in my heart I already knew. It was one of the first that I saw, a dainty chartreuse frame, encasing a winter scene I didn't care for. 

I’d been collecting flowers during evening walks, wanting to display them pressed in an old frame for the cover of my book. 

This picture frame will later be forgeten at Vital.

A tall couple in front of us seems very preoccupied with themselves, failing to notice the mother in front of them,

struggling to exit the doors at Appolos, stroler in one hand, bag of fresh bageles in the other. 

I walk up past them and  hold the door for the overloaded egresser with an air of elegance and gentlemaniness,

eyebrow extra raised in condensetion. 

The ability for people to form logical lines out the door - where did it go?  

Their idle chat continued undetured. 

Delivery of the toasted (which I later learned was a faux pax) everything with cream cheese and tomato - was rather fast and rather mid.

Neatly executed toasting, crisp, clean cuts of tomato, surprisingly great extra virgin olive oil drizzle, perfectly percribed pinch of salt and pepper. 

But nothing was magic. 

It was more free from error than full of wonderous delect, 

the clinical appearence of a news anchor, rather than the effortless air of the girl next door. 

Maybe it just needed a better tomato.

Moms ganged in their Pinterest chelseas and Pinterest hair and Pinterest trench coats ware waiting outside a Pinteresty coffee hole. 

Mia needed to come here for a coffee. 

A dog with half a wheel chair arrived, followed by with a British caretaker who was very much on the phone. 

He was also confused about how to form a line, attention bobbing in and out of his conversation with someone acorss the pond, 

his differently abled dog shitting in the perfect center of the sidewalk, and his queing for a coffee – eventually taking my tacit suggestion of where to stand aside the traffic.

I continued to revel in my snobbery, probably fuled by an old picture frame under my arm, black trench coat, 

and infused with a sort of pretty girl following me around on this brisk saturday morning. 

A guy struggling to send a roof climb ignited the climbing ego in me. 

Due to a bruise in my left ring finger, I hadn't been climbing for a few weeks. 

I am taking it easy today, avoiding crimpy stuff. This jug ladder on the roof lay perfect. 

Barely got it. 

Felt great to mentally flow and fire off technique. Tha familar dance.

I did another exit out the top of the archway. Like an old jacket, well loved. So pumped.

There is an outdoor cafe and bouldering area upstairs, with easier sets, sauna, showers, and a glass yoga studio that faced the expance. 

I yogaed and washed up as the spinclass ended and the instructor transiionined into setting up the yoga room. 

A typical socially setback staff member is making making slightly square conversation with the fit instructor. 

A couple models are beautifying, one laying in the sun between sauna sessions with a towel on her face, 

and a lively croud of creatives are around the cafe campfire on the roof, professionally pawing away at their laptops, 

while two baristias are making joe and banter. Family. 

Walked home after cutting our session short out of the need for a nap, wearing the balaclava Mia knit that doesn't itch somehow. 

Its conditioned she says. These fuck. Can see them catching on in a winter or two. 

Needs a hammered metalic emblem. Another little business ideas that popped into our conversations out here.

~

How did I get here? 

For some reason Im looking at the top of this brick building, whos solemness against the soft sunbeams and slowdancing leaves, as if meandering through memories of sweetness and sorrow. This bed is thick and soft and the most comfortable I have ever layed in. 

Where am I?  

Oh, New York! 

That nap HIT.

A generous pumping of vitamin c infused cocoa butter spread over my face, preparing for a microcurrent massaging from my Theraface,

releasing tension under the cheekbones, 

little swirls of snarl under the sides of the nose, 

furrow between the brows, 

leatherness behind the jawjoint. 

Ive been doing the same facial routine for years, but have been allowing extra blasse on this trip. 

Mia is ready by the door, and I wonder If shes quietly perturbed from spending patience. 

Hungry. I think shes hungry. 

Switch to the red light therapy attachment for a few passes of energizing skin mitrocondria (the powerhouse of the cell),

followed by a cold water rinse. 

A couple cycles of Madhippie aha massages and rinses. 

The cool hydration of hyaluronic acid. 

And liquorche eye cream before the final defacto foundation of zinc oxide buriti oil spf.

Mia is laying off the edge of the coutch, looking at the spring sky through the skylight.

I wonder if I should bring matcha?

Matcha, no matcha?

Her dangeling legs remind me of my grandmas legs

I'll save the matcha for later.

A suspiciously attractive waitress is across the street,  hips swaying softly to mucics we cant hear. 

She leans back against the brick stoic brick building and makes eye contact with me. 

Her smile is tantalizing, soft sunbeams dance behind her like paid actors, backlighting her soft toss of blonde hair. 

I want to fall for her siren song, give up heavenly purpose and earthly possessions willfully to answer her call, 

cross the street to enter her pond and drown. 

“Why is this bodega selling old books?” I say to myself in my head.

A middle aged New York accent emerged from inside the a corner store to explain his prices. 

They are all faded and scholastic, with faint remnants of trendiness on a coffee table  at a time before the internet. 

Other sirens are outside, catching peckish pedestrians by casting: “Table for two?”– a concealed hook, 

cleverly praying on the discomfort of backing out in front of company. Especially when theyre just friends. 

Nothing is speaking to us. 

We wandered to where we were the night before, around the negiborhood of the bussling pizza; maybe it was a mistake, to no go someplace different. Loops and new paths tend to be more beautiful that tracing lines of old. Nothing had called to us except a courtesy empanada inexchange for a restroom stop, and the need for fresh air at the water, where we inevitably eventually ended up. the ideal was to find apps, but resturant after resturant passed by with only touristy lack luster vibes. Both of us were hungery (mostly her), and our souls were filled by the beauty of the sea streaming between cityscapes.

Another waitress greetes us as we search for signes of magic - a handwritten du joir style chalkboard sign in particular, and fowardly asks us if we'd like a table for two. Just looking. Nothing is speaking to us on our hunt for apps a good while before the sunset. I was thinking we were too early for saturday, or we werent in ththe right area, or my sense of the wind had been dulled by sleep deprevation and disodence of each of our hungers (mostly Mias)

Hostesses must see tourists with trench coats and think two things : good tips and almost certainly ordering wine. 

Both of which are true in my case. 

The timining of this ended up being better than if we had found a place for dinner, which may had taken too much time to make the show at 9/10. Alex and his band was on at 11.

Freshened up. matcha 

To us the need for restrooms and the water where we inevitably ended up. Both hungry (mostly her). 

Soul filled by beauty, cloud cityscape. Back to the apartment. Timing worked out better than if we’d found a place.

~

I wonder when to take the first piece. Forty minutes, it's always more arduous of a walk. He's on at eleven. So ten? 

I take a couple at the kitchen counter while finally making my matcha. 

A couple more as we stepped from the flat of our building entrance and onto the grey slabe of foot freeway 

leading towards our destination. 

We pass by a bodega I've never seen before. 

I find a spot in a ferned fence on a dark block between bustle, and try to pee. 

I'm trying again, tucked into a corner past the bridge joint that raises the pavement to allow ferries to pass.

I'm bothered by the rush, the have to be. 

I just want to stop and touch the leaves dangling overhead and feel their spirit, their oasis like islands of reprieve. 

These trees have felt so much pain. 

Industrial and barren. We cross over later than we should onto Scott into a section of warehouses that feel sad.

Dusty double decker buses, with their doors open, empty, and surprisingly unvandalized line  the promenade of our journey. 

One of the wharehoused is tall, lit, and there's girls waiting outside. 

I hope this is the one were heading for. Empty industrial streets.

A group of latins laughing round a trashcan fire. 

This place is suspiciously empty. Except for them. 

I'm afraid that we've made a mistake. 

Ask to check the directions, yes, up the metal stairs and over the bridge which I'm sure smells like pee. 

Still feels wrong. 

But I brace against the cold of discomfort from uncertanty,

and plunge up the steps, 

scampering with small taps of my leather cowboy boots, 

further into the dark of the sea.

~ 

I want your wool against mine

 to smell the bristle of the season.

I want your hand crocheted warmth.

For some reason, your wool does not itch me.

Faintly remember our cozy lives in the pasture.

Your taunt, warm underbelly, gurgling with grass and a few twigs and flowers.

Sunbeams seemed softer…

Sunbeams, seemed softer?

Sunbeams seemed softer.

Forgotten Sweetness

~

I'm buoyant out in warm water. 

Taste of seaweed and saltwater on the corner of my lips. 

The shore twinkles far away. 

I sometimes forget to breathe. 

"I wonder if I look cool.." 

I think as I descend steps into the sparkling frenzy. / gastronomic carnival outside socnic stadiums

Several taco trucks are decorating the streets, like gastronic LED orniments outsiside the sonic stadiums, which we took to walking on, to curtail the lines of Bachata ready ladies spilling off the sidewalk. 

I was continuing to wear a brave air, a reflex from countless hours of preaching in the hood. 

Old squares of single pane warehouse windows. 

I couldn't keep up with Mia, her curt efficient steps. 

I wasn't wholly sure I was walking, my head a detached observer of my body, who was down, far away benieth me, walking on its own.

Angry that she wasn't paying more attention to me, and I made a mental note to be more attentive to others.

To check in, to ask how they feel, as I realize I had made others feel this way myriads of times. 

The next time she paused to let me be gathered to her, I told her everything I was thinking, everything I  felt.

But, the journey of my feelings metamorphosing into thoughts, 

and migrating across the country 

towards a far and distant land to become words, 

its cracked wine skins and dried crusts now a relic forgotten, a scant remnant of forgotton notions.

“Im..” 

Mia its trying to make out the next work

althought it hasnt come yest,

as if she has telekenisis,

as if she can read my mind in the furure.

“.. very high.”

“Take …” 

What was I trying to say?

“.. care of me, please.”

She got it.

~

I don't want to fill out a waiver. 

I not sure if I could handle the undertaking. 

Four girls are standing around the climbing gym lobby, with their necks crooked into their phones, 

lost in reciting legal details, 

their screens slowly singeing away their soul through their eyes. / sucking away at their souls through their eyes / corneas

Mia finished hers. 

Two desk staff, who are almost certainly working late, wore a familiar fatigue of socialising behind their eyes.

I confidently lied :

“Ok we’re done with our waivers …  I believe we were listed on for tonight?”

– surprised at the cohesion of my performance. 

His finger started scanning a handwritten paper list as if it was braille. 

“Last name?” 

“Gonzales”

 “First name?”

“Geoffrey with a G”

The other desk guy was thumbing at his phone while the usual dusty climbing gym knick knacks decorating the office watched on.

He got up and attempted to put on my green wrist band, fumbling a few times.

“Here you go”, he said, giving up while handing me both. 

They seem to have already begun their night.

~

Only the strong can be soft.

The weak are fierce and headstrong,

Puffed up with pride,

Not open to any agreement.

The walls were so big, the tops far, faraway. Or were they? so big they seemed to be bending away from me.

Their size kept changing, growing and regressing like planes of crystalline, painted, breathing, and studded with constellations of climbing holds in scholastic technicolor. Kids in their 20s and casual clothing bouldering in the dark with reckless abandon.

I walked toward the stairwell that leads down into the rope level, dimly lit with the temporary glow of stars suspended on strings, where the stage and fare of commiserating kids were gathered. Faces. Too many faces to face. 

I'm sitting on a matted block, a sort of ottoman dressed in jungle gym vinyl, trying to make psychic eye contact with Mia to call her over to sit with me. She walks over and I lean back, reading on my palms, half enclosing her against my shoulder as she scoots in our little lego brick. I spot Alex by the entrance as I continue my attempt to explain how high I am. The energy feels dank indoors, musk staleness of atrophied energy trapped in this brick enclave. I'm suffocating. I need to go outside. To breathe fresh air. I take long, formless steps across the matted floor, hopping over a bench to sneak past Alex and his band mates without them noticing me avoiding initiating the complex tango of words I can't dance right now,  haven't the emotional muscles to squeeze out pleasantries.

We’re sitting on a bench looking at trees. My knees are to my chest, boots resting on an unornate metal railing guarding trees that dot this block like oase / little islands of tranquility. They look copy and pasted, branches and leaves repeating a function written in their genetic lines of code. A bandmate of Alex appears, I can see the lingering strain in his eyes as they recognize me while he walks past without saying hi.

What appear to be steps leading up to a train platform, impossibly placed across the street, baffle me as I stare, waiting for my brain to automatically make sense of the conundrum. The train tracks would lead through the building behind us. Must investigate.

~

Feels like strolling on a treadmill as the copy paste Bushwich McBrownstones parade pass, a stationary stroll in a theater of moving backgrounds. I can't tell how far I've traveled. Since crossing the street I haven't made it to the corner of the block so by my calculations, less than a block. Mia is tailing me, relieving me of a bit of feeling alone and vulnerable. I'm not sure what to do when getting to the corner for a while. Finally I decided I should cross to the other side of the street and head back to the gym on the other side of the street. I can't determine when it's safe to cross, so I just do my best.

“Does everything look different now? Where did the Chinese restaurant go?” Mia is also baffled. We look up. It was next to us, dark and disguised in its night gown of metal storefront rolling shutters.

Alex and his friends are across the street going for a stroll in the lingering blue hour.

~

It's a common caution to avoid looking at yourself in the mirror when tripping, for fear of  too frightful an image starring back into your soul. My theory is that the animals inside, your spirit, the fingerprint of your soul, your naked spirit, is revealed and the true character of yourself is too much for some psychies. I thought I looked fine, just a little tigery. It had taken a while to find this restroom after coming back inside the gym. The lostness in the air, lingering, a purgatory of purposelessness, cycling over and over - snapped clear as soon as the music started. Faint airwave echos, painted the tile which chords refracting into softness. Impressionistic memoirs of licks, mostly lost, but not forgotten. A symphony of stirring like the ruffling of leaves when a breeze sails by. Dance mode activated.

I  shouldered my thin black sweater, draping it seductively off one shoulder, a loose flowy softness now aired instead of the bristle of a zipped up turtleneck. A bit of bite added back with my bandana, balancing my new shawl with a bit of bad boy. I ran out of the restroom across the mats to look for Mia, surprised at how the rhythm in the air had dispelled my inebriation.

~

Music must exist somewhere beyond time and space. Or at least act as an entry way into the ethereal.

A Creature descended from the ceiling, lowered off a line.

It flipped upside down as it landed onto the front of the stage of the show, put on a guitar, and started to jam.

It was Alex, a star fallen from the skies onto our earthly constellation, forming Grass.

Descending steps few pop up tables under filled with merch

Montreal kids

Birds on the railing

Both finding the best spot

Gayly hanging off the rail.

Shoulder cocked loosely

Like young birds eager with curiosity

Eye contact and a wave

Unrequithed. Embarrassed

And wholly accepting

The little fangirl I was becoming

Distillations of serenity continued,

Echoing a flavor of Beauty

Im familiar with // familiar tone

But seen through another beings eyes

Who can also see

Affording a more whole grasp

Into nature's infinite adornment.

Airy golden hour frolic through fields,

Acoustic analog folk

Was the previous incarnation of this band,

Under the moniker Alex Amen

Now given an amp, riding swiftly.

Electric-Folk, or known as when this first sound debut : Rock

“We’ve been playing together for years now,” punctuated Alex between songs,

“It didn't feel right to play under my name.” he said, flashing a smile to the bandmate on his left, who submissively didn't reflect the enthusiasm, as if he was a pup in a pack uncomfortable with making eye contact with his alpha. He said something about having lots of electric stuff.

“Now, we are called Grass.”

~

Driving into sunset, in an 230 sl

I lost myself in a rhythmic transe, 

Where did I go?

Embarrassed

Did the band see me?

The bassist breaks the silence as Alex is tuning his guitar.

“Alex won't admit this but it's his birthday today.”

The crowd serenades him as laugh at the serendipity

I truly, truly believe in magic.

~ 

*

Alex is standing still, shrugged into focus somewhere in a part of his soul, seldom seen by strangers. Fingers and wrist flicking carefully. Wearing his childish soul honestly. A moment, no longer woven into the fabric of time, but boyant, free, on the breeze. 

A prelude and epitaph of infinity.

/no longer ground in the roots of time.

I'm miming a dance of mowing the lawn, checking the edging, throwing hard ueys, crackin cold ones and sipping with the side of my mouth. Montreal kids are downstairs, dancing freely like a Matiese painting from several centuries ago with the same sentiment. 

Funny how love is infinite.

I want to join their reckless abandon, but don't want to leave my perfect perch. Best spot in the house. Torn.

Unable to leave heaven for a better life.  Mia says I should go. I tell her : “This must be how angels die.”

~

Outside smoking the single cigarette Awei rolled from European import. Still dancing off the echoes of Mowing The Lawn in our minds under foliage outside. I jump to pick a leaf, and wear it on my ear. I need its energy. Want a shirt, but want a quesadilla and horchata more so. Plus I'll see Alex again at some point. Back into the lighted fray, commercial club chaos, but now glistening with the afterglow of elation. 

The taco was ok. They didn't have horhata, so we cross to another truck.

“You got earplugs in your ears but you're still dancing!” notes the guy next to me, as we both wait for our orders.

I haven't stopped dancing, the muffled leftovers of bachata from the club behind us churning the engine of the night.

Where is my horchata?

“Too much magic.” I smile while replying.

The horchata was ok.

~

“Can I take a picture of your hat?”

One of the bouncers is showing Mia pictures of his moms crochet, his beard suspiciously manicured well beyond the accuracy of human hands. Guide line by comb? Specialized razor? Maybe just well practiced. His name is Drago and he's not weird because his mom crochets too and he wants to show her a picture of Mia’s balaclava so he can have one too. I'm fumbling to store the rest of the ok horchata in my thermos, while the manicured gargoyle gets Mia's Instagram. 

I’m annoyed, but later regret that we did not stop in for a dance inside Dragos’ Dungen.

I'm forcing a smile and my shoulders to sway. Failing to find flow inside another Latin club half filled with half dressed dancers halfway enthusiastic. The dj keeps shuffling songs, adding accouterments atop transitions that my subconscious struggled to understand. A gargoyle appears to tell Mia to remove her hood.  I reflexively put on an air of “don't you know who we are?” which was lost on the gargoyle, while Mia de-hooded. I continue to mime enjoyment against the side of the room while waiting for a lul in awkwardness. Mr Too-Tight-Black-Polo dance gestured ‘big booty’, I then realized it would never come. Squeezing out the last of my grace while I side stepped out of the sea of bulging nightwear, we finally make it out into the oasis of fresh air.

~

We’re going the wrong way.

Against Mia’s suggestions of going back for a Grass t-shirt, I continue to headstrong plunge into the night, rationalizing off her mild urgency with "I'll just grab some the next time I see him”, not having any idea when that would be. Now we were going the wrong way, having descended onto the wrong platform, deciding prematurely that this was the right stairwell and not caring enough to double check. A high lad who was looking for directions earlier had followed us in. Oops.

We silently agreed that it would be fun to pop our heads out at the next stop to see what was going on at this corner of the night.

The streets were empty, save for a few nightcrawlers dangling outside a bar across the street, and 2 girls at a gas station pump.

No cars were parked in front of the empty brick warehouses, no cars passing by these strikingly unlit streets.

Two girls are making a ruckus, giggling as they “gas each other up” at a gas station pump, filming their spectacle on a phone they propped above the credit card reader. We enter their frame for a second as we exit from the metro stairwell, and I want to join  the revelry. I glitter kick my boot into frame to catch their attention, but it fails. Silently sidelined, I pretended I was amused and content while watching, but I still wanted to join. We crossed the street passing stragglers outside a bar saying their departing I love yous before descending back down into the fray of underground connections, on the other side of the line this time.

~

By now this detour on the way home had begun to wear heavily at our enthusiasm, time feeling empty and cold as the slow minutes crawled past like lingering cockroaches. The high lad somehow appeared again. He complained something to the effect of “you gave me the wrong directions!" as he walked past to the end of the platform; my weary eyes unresponding and instead fixed on the plump rat patrolling his kingdom across the tracks, lumbering through the dank, breezeless air faintly giving pee that filled this stale painting of purgatory.  Looks like he was having a Saturday night of his own.

Mia became a frozen manikin on the bench, while I adjusted her appendages and counterbalanced her against the bobbing and turns of the tube. The train continued to inhale and exhale passengers as we played our little game.

“She kept looking over at us, like, she wanted to join our group.”

“She SO wanted to join our group!”

“I was thinking of tagging her in but then was like naw shes not material ~”

A gaggle of gays had streamed in, and colappsed on the hard benches in manspread repose. 

More gay dialogue occurred as I continued to push Mia around with my water bottle, her abs eventually giving to fatigue. She slumps back on the plastic bench. A little more gay dialogue, eventually spurring me into giggling. I lean closer to Mia so I can whisper in her ear, becoming aware that this gesture is a little too romantic as I draw the words : “How are you so gay, that as a lesbian you have dick breath?” She hits me as we both strain to hold in an initial burst of  laughter, avoiding eye contact with the manspreading birds, who have begun to slump on each other's shoulders out of weariness. They may have sensed they were being giggled at as their broyness dampened. I entered the joke on my Light Phone while Mia watched, resting her manikin head atop my shoulder.

I'd just endured the middest chicken stick of my life on the off chance that it slapped. 

Now I'm hoping I don't get ill from what little I finished. Mia is looking for something to drink. 

As we approach the steps leading up to the apartment, I feel faint twinges of pain under my heart as I think about going up, 

but relief when thinking about going to the left back into the sea. 

“I feel like we should not go up yet” 

She says her back is hurting, but comes along anyway. 

The darkness feels glum.

We stroll, somewhere between hesitantly and optimistically, towards the familiar the taco stand,

like anonymous cats in trench coats, Mia's green and mine black.

My heart winces in a whisper. ‘Not the taco stand’ I think as we walk through the edge of the reach of its LED call / moat.

Cool kids are gathering in line across the street at a diner. 

I'm intimidated, scared, don't want to leave the safety / sanctuary / lifeboat / of the familiar.

No wince.

We cross the street after getting a water, plunging back into the sea.

We get a bottle of water from the taco stand and cross the street, plunging back into the sea.

We cross the street after getting a water, and plunge back into the sea.

~

“Im only gonna say this whonce!”

“When I PhONT, to your GrOOP, GiVe ME A NuMBAh.”

“SPeak CLEARLY. Do not StUTAh”

The bigger, Bronxyer bouncer gives uncle. 

But also youngest brother. 

“Whats good here?” the defaco leader of the girl group behinds us asks.

I was beginning to adore these spontaneous kinships and comizzeration. School kids on a playground, immediately life long friends. Elementary school playground, on the coast of cold water.

Uncle points at us. 

“TOU!” 

I can hear myself emphasise an invisible “u” and comfortably accept my unconscious assimilation to speaking like a Costanza.

notice the onset of Brooklyn's nasal bark nestling in my psyche, quietly bestowing itself on my subconscious. I can hear myself emphasise an invisible “u” and notice the onset of Brooklyn's nasal bark nestling in my psyche, quietly bestowing itself on my subconscious. comfortably resign accept my unconscious assimilation to speaking like a Costanza.

“FiVeEEh”

“FiVvEuh??! I ‘ear a little attitoode from over DERH!”

Five girl explains her ‘resting bitch voice” while the other bouncer makes faces at us through a hair tie, from the other side of the glass door. 

Nature always balances itself. 

Their ceremonial quarl / scuffle / kerfuffle over / abated, Talking back to the TA over, Our verbage returns back to the half hearted banter.

“What were you filming earlier?”

“Just a little vlog” I deflect

“Oh, for YouTube? .. Can I follow you?”

I steal a glance at her four friends. None of them bad.

“Nah dont follow me” I parry with a polite pose.

Groups tend to introspect in LA, are a bit standoffish, perpetually performing impressions of faux sombodies.

Im facing out at the street as we talk, enjoying the commiseration with our new comrades, though it feels foreign to me. 

These little rendezvous with strangers are seldom kindled (little kinships), often attributed to the climate of car culture contributing? To the cities coldness. People hardly even greet each other. My ray of hope it that the immediacy of elementary school acquaintancing lives on in our grown up hearts, even when battered down by stormy climate.

I think I still want a biscuit.

We have been waiting for a while. 

Our leading theory is that the little kerfuffle with Uncle is tardying our entry.

They are from NY. They think we are a cool couple. I leave out that we are not a couple and I try to compliment them back but accidentally make fun of them.  

Williamsburg is a nice corner of Brooklyn they say. Suits us, they say. They are from just outside the city. 

We are here visiting my brother, who moved just a few blocks away across the park.

They half heartedly say something nice. They kind of hate their jobs. I kind of hate my job.

At least we have that in common.

This feels like such a long conversation.

Babiest Unkle keeps appearing behind the closed glass door, everytime

piquing my anticipation, but only to let out exiting kids, finished // out kids, finished and exiting

with their school lunches, back into Saturday night recess / onto the playground of  Saturday night recess.

The girls of Med Tech are quietly commiserating. The girl brain screensaver must be chatting. 

Its sitting in a room without furniture and thinking about nothing for boys.

Like a car idling in in a parking spot after you've arrived but haven't found the will to get out.

Uncle points to us. Im half surprised, still suspicious having become used to and almost fond of disappointment.

“How many?”

I glance at our new comrades, waiting for a sign that we should join companies that never comes,

holding up two fingers while I reflexively revert to my instincts of standoffishness

And pronouncing the digit with the refound coastal glitter of my hometown accent.

While baby uncle welcomes us through the shiny vestibule with a sweep of his palm

Into the lunchroom of chatting children.

1 Biscuit Im

Smell of grandmas blankets

Making a hammock under the stairs. 

The clean calm of my dads presence as if there nothing he doesnt know or can overcome

Im dangling in grandmas living room

In a hammock made of old blankets tied under the stairs.

Old small streets, connecting nooks and 

crannies of happily unadvertised / hiding neighborhoods.

With good elementary schools.

Dusty scholastic kids section of the library.

2 Bacon Im 

Rock n Roll of hard work 

Sturdy crisp slabs, umami, easing parts of the soul, filling nooks not thought about or gotten used to.

A hot shower after hard work outside

Warm afterglow of sun burnt skin kissing a clean collar.

Deep peace when sitting alone, 

filling forgotten nooks of the soul with a warmth too embarrassed to be asked for.

Grandmas always seem to know.

Someone else's Grandma loving you like their own.

3 Russian Im

Alpine pool at 11:11

Sweet starlight constellations

Sleepily reflection on its surface.

The Milky Way silently singing.

Shimmering moonlight waves, brr-ed by occasional breezes passing on their way elsewhere.

Moonlight, her calm echo, energizing the enveloped flora and geology with fair paleness, indiscernible to the eye but somehow heard in the heart / clear to the heart.

A woman undresses on a small rock, placing garments loosely down,( flirted with by the breeze.)

Entranced by the dim moonlight and the quiet song she plays on the surrounding flora and geology.

Stealing a dip in a forbidden pool, under the starlight and moon, feeling the chill but not the cold.

Sweet starlight, saint sweetness, of the f surrounding flora, bathed in dim mystery. 

She feels the chill but not the cold,

Puckering of her skin, cheeks numb, breasts taunt, breath hot.

stepping out  to her pile of garments half tossed by wandering winds.

A stranger plunges into a lake past midnight. Wading under sweet constellations, the moon is full. The air cold, her breath warm. Breezes sending chills through her taut beaded skin, bare and soft and puckering with goosebumps. She feels the chill but is not cold.

Sweet glaciers encapsulated by creamy foam, clinking against themselves and my glass like an underwater chandelier, enveloped diamonds, shimmering cold.

Im plunging in a dark pond, faintly lit by sweet stars twinkling and afterglow of pale moonlight.

Sweet cloud, creamy, filled with sorrow. I often find, when breaking the tap of discipline, craving carbs, and tv, but never alcohol, and hardly ever sex. 

4 Suryp Im

Sweet sap, fond memories, memento in sepia. Photons arrayed in likeness of yesterdays monotonies, now seeming sweeter when fermented with time. Droplets of meaning, livening an already perfect plate.

Sucrose symphony written up north, inspired 83 million miles away

Slow silky drizzling

Undressing landscape

Sweet tears

Sweet lingerie

5 Biscut 

Golden butter crust

Grey Sour tang / twang, crust silky sweet 

Sucrose magma, streaming slowly, tenderly from the stainless and glass honey pot, with a thumb trigger I always forget how to use.

Twinkling kindness distilled from sunbeams, beading flower pedals saturating into the gold crust slowly, like leaves of autumn returning home.

Distilled sunbeams sifted slowly over seasons.

Slow sensual foreplay, dancing.

Soft crunch autumn leaves

Delectable intricacy

Light grey twang , softwater sourdough

Brine

Earle grey twang of sourdough.

Limestone soul, daffodil crust

Noble basic, a good father, reliable, warm, sweet, crust, square , layers billowing, accordioning, frozen, like manna monazonite.

Butter brown flecks woven into whipped kerigold, distilled sunlight, 

Bottom golden, saturated with distilled sunlight and laden with precious metals.

Salted butter crowning the crust, warm layered throngs of sourdough, crisp flaked subtle sweetness, faint softwater brine. Nostalgia sweet sorrow. For some reason I was determined to have a biscuit.

Im basking in the suns gold, a little burnt, a little worn, and ever so happy.

Sunburnt satisfaction. Long day working. Filling voids did know you had, or had gotten used to or forgotten about.

Love finds a way.

Flaky suntanned wheat.

If a biscuit were to have a soul, it would be at its bason, fond memories, its ability to see the good in the hearts of people, lies.

First bite : high note, temporary enlightenment

6 Bacon

7 Russian

8 Diner

What Is Love playing over the airwaves. Maybe its butter.

The main dining room was bustling with sidequested sidelined  marrygoes on break, on hiatus from their recess for school lunch after midnight. Subtle chic sparkle. Fluted glam modern. Cream booths and bar stools, feeling glam but ordinary, like a chandelier in the daylight, or an off duty princess perusing a grocery aisle. Pumpy pop layered layed with undertones of disco and funk charged the bustling air of the room. Mia and I couldn't stop dancing to ourselves and to each other. Mia paws clawed on the table, head swaying back and forths as she looks up at me  // breaking out her paws, clawed on the table, fingers pressing, palms cupped, like a feline caught by curiosity, head down and shoulder cocked in dramatic pause, then slowly looking up swaying her head back and forth, like the gyrating head of a snake while entranced. We couldn't stop laughing, our giddiness fueled half by the groovy sucrose blasting over the airwaves, and half by the delectable symphony of our order.

Sweet musk diner air.

Efficient soundbites of friendliness, busy in the hive of familiar comforts.

If you're in Williamsburg try the Biscuit, Bacon, and Cereal Milk White Russian at Kellogs.

We’re still dancing. I poke my head out of our cream booth, laid with silver edging and a fluted glass pariput. 

The manager, clad in an all grey suit and black oxfords, is monitoring guests with an astute intensity, as if ensuring they receive a five star experience whether they like it or not.

"I bet you one of these guys know where to go dancing.”

A waiter poised at the counter with excellent posture is gyrating his hips softly to the sonic heartbeat.

“He knows.”

He doesn't. He goes gets Marco. Marco doesn't. Carlos. We need Carlos. All four of us gos to the bar to gets Carlos.

The manager, patrolling his domain with a brisk step and both blazer buttons buttoned, paused to take interest in the distracting sidequest of his staff. 

Carlos knows. They are contending at length in Spanish. 

I catch a : “Yo no se”, which I reply to with a “Yo no se‽”

He sighed in all caps.

“OK, ‘Animal’ … But — ” he hesitates with a touch of Puerto Riquin glitter,stealing several glances dashing between Mia and I.

Eyes narrowing, shoulder and hip cocked, he cautions fantastically : “But is Gay.”

/ fabulously

But ..” He trailed off for a glance at our situationship

“.. is Gay”

Music

Interior

Wanted counter

Booth

Restroom

Redonning the shawl

Prance out the runway pumping pop back to the booth and Mia , Cadillac seats

What do you recommend

I always ask when im feeling “nice”

The most beautiful way of dining, on recommendation, without judgment,

Perfect for someone like me who loves food and is not picky. 

I don't even tell the waiters when they my food wrong.

~

A stark, clear whistle reigns from across the street. The diner manager holds up my camera and thermos. I cross and thank him for my items forgotten in the booth. Assured heel strikes as he walks away, a patrolling sway that I'd trust my life to. 

My Grandma must had been fun at 22.

~

We’re looking at our reflections in Jess’ ringlit mirror, giggling, doing yet another facial, this time with Triple O Night Cream.

Taking turns, acting out Mia's favorite line of the night. “Animal…” trying to trail off with the same Purtariquan sway. “But is Gae.”

I put on Renaissance and throw a towel in the drier to be toasty after my hot shower, dancing into the wee hours in the warm river of Beyonce's infectious dopamine drive.

~

Raging boners are uncommon for me these days. Ever since the breakup. Mis is lying next to me. I'm not sure if I want to do anything.

We’ve been slowly growing accustomed to being half naked around each other the past few days. Whenever I hold under her shoulder when we dance close, I feel her heartbeat excite, her breath shallow, and I wonder if shes in love with me. The universe is saying yes. It was saying yes yesterday on the rooftop during sunset. I debate with the wind. And decide against trimming to it’s lead.

~ 

Carm is silently investigating her new domain, as I duce well into the wee hours of the dark. Seeing that it's not her father, Ben, she waddles away in her permanent night gown, uninterested in protecting me while I stead.

Studious birds begin to sing. 

~

Sunday : Epitaph

Future trends : poetry notebooking, spirituality, were all becoming french

Cigs are the opposite if this

But smoke for fun not need

Feels ok to do that?

A little therapy for 2h on the water

Bored went into feels

So much feeling bundled up, so good

Back to Brooklyn for Tuffet the aches place to be closed for a private event and only have olives and almonds

Monday

Halfway freaky last night. Slow morning in the sun gathering picture frame, matcha as a semi apolig, bagel, 2 out of 3 were midish.

The Vintage shop was closed. Just asked to cuddle with her on the bed, plutonically. A god send. Nap banger with bandana over eyes. Nap. Fun frolicing in the sheets. Pack, clean, forgot gloves in the dryer and black sleeping shirt I dont know where.

Clean up the apt, abandoned half a fried chicken, biscuits, and a final drink in favor of slow observation of childs play under the leaves of a park. Ben found us on the tube. Bustle and more bustle through the tube. SMALL LIGHT BAG. Mini ice cream break. Honeycomb and afagado. She got a sundae. 

Accidently raced to Amtrak station,  which was the wrong station. Pusposfully raced back to NEC which I am currently on but still dont know how we found it and if we have to pay. 3 min till departure, reading the tvs and times. Both hopped in the stacked, quiet, professional laden cars, confirmed with a conductor right before it took off.

Instincts of negotiating traffic in NY and Paris, putting of a maybe superfluous brave and rushed demeanor. Push into a rich kid with a back pack and zip up sweater  sorrowlessly. Cut off a local at a walk intersection. Is it possible to be nice?

If not on their phone, the professional passengers are reading a book, or listing to music, a few are taking a nap. Consuming or resting.

I feel a little reprieve in from my insecurity about my future and direction as a creative.

I am looking forward to tomorrow and beyond.

Sat on the plane blanket and cuddled with Mia on the way back. So much nicer.

Think the girl opposite aisle of use thought we were frolicling.

Touching leaves and rocks gives you a little bit of energy.

Nothing is perfect. Life is mostly least worst alignments.

Life is utterly beautiful.

And simple.

This is my new life now.

SCRATCH NOTES

Walk to vital through berry

4.5 stars need ropes roof fun kinda weak en but can cimb

so funbyiday

wanna fucking make books tea fulms desifn and travelveternally bro

need to

one life

nap hitbso hard i coukdent remember how or whwrebi was

walk to 1 taco sunset mia waned apps butvubu lead us to beach then back

changed fits basically perfit fit

w g oants

o ahirt

slim sweater

voat

drao sweater

bandanna

felt likea little god in tye show

walked through a wrurd crazy world to get there i was so high bro

really shoyld do 2-2.5 and go dancong!!!!

GRASS fucking skapled

in a gym 

fucking life for this shit

boy came diqn from the roof

killed it

i had my 1 post show cig thabks aqei

lost on l train wrong way

mid chicken stick

water from taco place

absolutky banger diner at 2/3 am time kellogs

home apt facial uni said make move didnt

fwel great cant sleep its almost 5

Also include the analysis on people

X

Mia no words

X save for a few nightcrawlers dangling outside a bar on the corner across the street, and 2 girls at a gas station pump.

(write like muir but parties)