Our outlines are being lost to a garden. We sit on your porch and drink beer that’s supposed to be infused with raspberries, but I can’t taste it. You are telling me about the time you were up in the London Eye. The whole city stretched out below you, frozen in a moment with a group of might-have-beens, coming of age but not self-aware enough to come of age. I imagine the two of us up there now, staring down at us on your porch. The sky is dark and a thunderstorm sends a bolt of hot lightning across the sky. Around us the white snapdragons and the red daisies, marigolds quiver, strain to grow. We are still, we drink our beer, our outlines being lost to a garden.
"The earth is the most remarkable of all museums: everything that has ever happened on it is exhibited in situ. From its ‘lunar beginnings’ to this very moment, every tremor left its mark as an archeological gesture. We leaf through the pages of a global past whose factuality can’t be simulated…some day we will learn to decode this earth we trample on, deciphering every little bit of evidence on it in order to make sense of it by reassembling cosmic history through our planet by carefully inspecting it as a dinosaur bone of the infinite." —Malcolm De Chazal, Sens-Plastique
Ran into a homeless guy I’d met once before. We smoked our cigarettes and chatted a bit. The first time I met him, he was selling his spoken word/rap album, and asked me—in a plain-stated, innocuous-seeming way—if I might have been his wife in a past life. He was looking for a place to stay at the time. Apparently he’s starting school here in the Fall.
Now he’s staying at the shelter, and he says it’s not great, but it’s a place. He has to be back there by 9 every night. He seemed a lot more subdued than before, and we spent a lot of time sitting and smoking in silence, lost in our own thoughts. He told me he liked my arrowhead ring, and that it “looks weird.” I told him it reminded me of my summer digging holes for Bard’s archaeology department, which made him smile.
Dinner tonight with Rachel at Llama Tooth! The best. Mashed potatoes. I might try biking over there. Tomorrow I leave for New York City at 12:30, without Mike. I’ll miss him this weekend. It’ll be good to see Conrad, Steph, Joey, and maybe Scott, Ani, Max, and Tina too (I hope). Job interview on Monday that I have mixed feelings about. I’m more than a little lost.
I wanted to write earlier. A boy shirtless across the street from me, waiting for the light to change, groping his chest—why? I wish it were possible to take the shade of green on Locust Walk and wear it around my neck in a bottle. We had dinner at one of my favorite places, Mike said: “the only thing you’re good for anymore is smoking cigarettes.” I stopped at CVS and bought a bag of lemon drops, I thought, like the protagonist of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle this is how I’ll stop. This worked once before, sort of: for a few days I constantly had those Halls Vitamin C drops, but each one has 100% of your daily vitamin C and I started sucking on so many I got sick to my stomach, after we ate I had a lemon drop and was sick to my stomach. Today I was only a little sick to my stomach. In the afternoon I succumbed and had a smoke, watched a green aphid crawl across my hand.
I think this is not as fresh in me as it was, I can’t get to it. Oh well.
n. the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it’s okay—let go.”