Archive | City Matters

The Church of Miscarried Moments

I had this dream about him last night, about our first real date when he was dressed up and I was too, cufflinks and heels and pomade and lots and lots of red lipstick and spicy cologne. A dream of a swank event and his wide smile and my gap-toothed grin, of a midnight midtown walk and drinks in a secret bar we stumbled upon when most everyone was asleep. I dreamed that instead of flattening ourselves on two different sides of the cab, we came together–not, as it really happened, with me leaning timidly against his chest but with us kissing kissing kissing as the car soared high above the city, a kiss that didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. A kiss we could trust. Me climbing on top of him, he reaching into me, buttons unbuttoning, zippers unzippering, fingers and mouths everywhere on a bridge hurtling us somewhere better–somewhere I wouldn’t panic just when the going could get good, somewhere he had plenty of time and inclination, somewhere no one would jump off, somewhere we could flourish together. It was a dream of the we that didn’t happen, and it was tough because things felt so sweet and got so sour. Waking up was brutal.

I’m Healing as Fast as I Can (Neon Sadness)

The phrase had been blinking in my head all day like a neon sign. I saw it as I woke, it kept flashing as I wrote.

I think, I think, that you carry heartbreak until it carries you.

Don’t get me wrong. I worked on my book today as promised–1300 words, thank you very much. B even says they pass muster. Then I had therapy–can we say it simply ran its course? But when I came up for air, I felt sad knowing the Legend was back in the neighborhood and we no longer were in contact. Until this week we could just pretend we were just in different places, on different schedules.

Not different frequencies.

Just as I was starting to feel really rudderless, K pinged for coffee, so we met up and ran into a friend and then another and another, and the conversation kept bobbing along, one thread into another like that last luxuriant day of school in Dazed and Confused.

K is a legend in his own right. Continue Reading →

Monday Is Not Moot

Happy Monday in bloody bloody bloody Ameriker. I’m on the writerspace blue velvet couch, decked out in soft clothes and bare feet. The music is queued (Elvis Costello, era-appropriate), as are the lemon water and chamo-mint tea and black sesame rice crackers. The beztie (B) is on high alert. The heart is duly on the mend. The FBI is on the job, technically at least, and the bloodbath of these allegedly united states has distracted me long enough. It’s time to delve into the final section of this book, and all excuses are hereby rendered moot. (NB: This honestly could take another eight weeks.) If all goes well, I’ll be quieter here this week as I delve deep. Wish me luck and I’ll wish you luck right back.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy