On weeks like this one I shudder to consider the National Geographic-style narration that could accompany the activities of this 21st Century Brooklyn Female Writer.
The subject rises before the sun, drinks a brown hot liquid filtered from beans she crushes in a small machine. She enters a separate area of her hut where she bends over what appears to be a flat silver box. There she remains for hours, emitting an odd clacking noise with her fingers, stopping only to drink more hot liquids and to eat nearly raw cow. A smaller animal flanks her, and the two communicate through seemingly random patterns of blinking and head-butting. Otherwise the subject does not look up until the sun sets. Then she eats foliage she forages locally, congregates with members of her herd around a large, flickering screen, and drinks a potion of fermented rye berries. Upon returning to her hut, she follows the smaller animal into a blue and gold nest, where she remains still until recommencing the routine before the next dawn.
Moon was void of course all day yesterday so naturally I arrived two hours early for the very long screening I had to attend on 42nd street. The good news is that flying off the beaten path is magical during these astrological downtimes. I wandered west and found a Catalan bar with a brilliant happy hour wine list and drank a pretty red while writing letters to people I love and eavesdropping on conversations in my favorite language. Ninety minutes later I emerged into the city’s splendor: velvet and gemstone night sky, high and low culture bumping shoulders, clattering high heels, the works. “Ah,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction. “This is where I live.”
The laundry list of this day extends out the door. The Monday anxiety is already screeching its high-pitched aria, the myriad things that could go wrong a metallic tang on my tongue. My bruja energies–invariably Carrie-style when I’m on high alert–have broken two glasses, popped one lightbulb, shorted out a pair of headphones. But I’ll take each step, one in front of the other, in the cutest shoes I can muster until I’ve done everything I can today. (G-d knows the universe has sent plenty of good wind on my back.) Given the options–busy living, busy dying–I’m, like, super in favor of the former.
On weeks like this one I shudder to consider the National Geographic-style narration that could accompany the activities of this 21st Century Brooklyn Female Writer.
Moon was void of course all day yesterday so naturally I arrived two hours early for the very long screening I had to attend on 42nd street. The good news is that flying off the beaten path is magical during these astrological downtimes. I wandered west and found a Catalan bar with a brilliant happy hour wine list and drank a pretty red while writing letters to people I love and eavesdropping on conversations in my favorite language. Ninety minutes later I emerged into the city’s splendor: velvet and gemstone night sky, high and low culture bumping shoulders, clattering high heels, the works. “Ah,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction. “This is where I live.”
The laundry list of this day extends out the door. The Monday anxiety is already screeching its high-pitched aria, the myriad things that could go wrong a metallic tang on my tongue. My bruja energies–invariably Carrie-style when I’m on high alert–have broken two glasses, popped one lightbulb, shorted out a pair of headphones. But I’ll take each step, one in front of the other, in the cutest shoes I can muster until I’ve done everything I can today. (G-d knows the universe has sent plenty of good wind on my back.) Given the options–busy living, busy dying–I’m, like, super in favor of the former. 