Carter, Ben Mirov, Lauren, Sam Rockwell, one of Ben’s friends that I haven’t yet met, and myself moved into our six bedroom appartment this weekend. I’m quite excited, particularly for the nailpolish fountain in the living room. Apparently the building used to be an old spice factory.
Rockwell claimed ‘coolest roomie’, and demanded first pick of the rooms. He got the elevator, which is by far the coolest room. He’s already doing things with the furniture in there that I could never have thought of. (Kind of stinks of moon dust and bacon, though). I hope this doesn’t disrupt my sense of home.
I am ready to change blankets; ready to change sheets. She still echos yet, and I have not the courage to venture into the hall to see if she is still there. so I will look at her drawings in paper. the pencil drawings of my parted hair.
The band is ready to leave NYC.
Or The Maiden Ferreira, Part II
As I was complaining to the picture of my wife (the one from two or three lives ago—it’s a private joke we have, because, you see, back then, we both swore we didn’t believe in the many lives thing.) that the darkness of my youth was turning into anxiety and fear, and then the usual thing happened, which was that as soon as I expressed the idea, it struck me as foolish, trifle, and frankly un-real, as I was doing this, the young Becky Ferriera walked by, perhaps with her third or forth cow of the day in tow.
“And how did you find your future husband?” I asked the lass Ferriera, who had met the parents of her betrothed the day previous.
She replied, “I don’t make to be married any longer. In this age, Blood moistens the dusty expanses of lands far from my eyes and heart. I am too mortal to feel the sorrow when it falls oceans and setting suns from here. Life no longer dies to ask for the joy of new life. It withers not black, but stale, to white.”
“Oh.”
Or The Maiden Ferreira, Part I
On my way down in the elevator this morning, the young Becky Ferreira got on with one of the great flock of her family’s cattle.
“Where are ya off to this morning, young Becky?” I asked.
“Poppa won’t want to wait for the cattle ramp to be built, so it’s one at a time for now. He makes to run the whole flock up the west side bike path by night, to avoid the suspicions of the authorities.”
“I see.” I said, laughing, “well don’t go telling everyone your Poppa’s plans. Not everyone’ll be as understanding as me.”
“And then,” she said, wiping her nose, “when I’m done with the cows, I gotta go wash up, because I’m meeting the father and the mother of the prince I’m to marry.”
Then we hit the first floor, and she went off cow in tow. And I wondered if it was true what they’d been saying—that after the great animal run, it would never happen again.
Jeff Goldberg explained to me the significance of 559, though it was in a dream, and now the words and moments of Jeff’s speech are fast and eternally asleep.
—Dumbledore is real, said JK Rowling.
So I dialed 559—but forgot to clear my mind, or was it that I forgot to wait for him to die before I called. Sometime, in a past life, I called and he answered—this time, someone else answered, they had caught the line.
—Who are you calling for? asked the voice.
—Albus, I said.
—Who is calling?
—Son Of Will
That’s how they found me. They then set their cats and their flagellum and their excoriating creatures upon me.
—Some white cotton can sheild you, said R— who brushed the hair from my forehead.
Sophia pointed out the fresh red paint on her finger nails. She suggested I lay down blankets of soft, ancient cotton.
“Remember when they would sleep?” she asked.
“Remember how you knew their bones? Their wrist bones?”
I knew the answer, but couldn’t speak.
All had the dream again last night of the ruined iron-latice, and the billowing sheet of white, racing itself, particle by particle, 60 MPH up broadway.
The church goers from the north intoned, “Our Hams are so greasy. They taste less of the salt and sweet tenderness, more of the lard. Our Hams so are greasy.” The Choir leader sang back, “Our Hams are not greasy.” Church people shook their heads no.
The elephants held a cacaus in eastern Harlem, deciding resources were growing thin, and though a memorial stampead was appropriate and deserving, resources were thin, and it would be held off till the end of the month, where inevitably a summary memorial would be held.
The race of our leaders distilled back to a quiet question, Can a Liberal Be a Unifier? It felt like we were asking the right questions again. Back to basics. That, least of all, meant things were on the up.
Coffee not half bad today.
Carter confessed he sleeps with Arab assasins. Ben Mirov, when hearing the confession, nodded sheepishly, conspicuously.
We spent the remander of our Sunday running over the slum building tops of Bed-Stuy, and Clinton Hill, shouting start-stops of converstation over the wind. Everytime a street came , we would launch, sometimes nearly making it to the building across, othertimes falling to our deaths. When those times came, we lamented the buildings got built circa horse drawn cabs and cars. Venice had the right idea we thought.
Coffee top notch today.
The dust collecting in this mornings sunlight smelled like a fininished-putrescent elephant hide.
On the way to subway with a cup of coffee that was resplendant in its flavor profile, thank you very much, (notes of apple and green grape, and coffee), I spotted Bernanke sitting in his lotus with the parking brake on. “Here,” he wispered, “take it.” He handed me a paper birthday hat.
“Should I wear it?” I asked Jeff.
“I would if I were you,” he countered.
I put it on.
