Have I come to the moment where I can retire this diary? It seems that way sometimes. It's not that I've been so busy. In fact, I spend quite a bit of my time alone these days. Long stretches of no one. Sometimes it is so maddening that I am tempted to hurl one of my books against the wall, just to hear myself make a sound. Other days, I cannot bear any noise. The drone of NPR offends me, Beethoven a kind of ringing in my ears. And then I go out and see my friends and have a lovely old time. But all the while all I want is to be home.
The days and the hours pass. I am watching the clock. One year. I am fine, so far. I don't know what will happen to me in March. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe everything.
My mother needs me to call her now, to give her some kind of comfort after a big old fight with my sister. But I don't call and I don't write.
I am reading a book about a large family and I see myself in each of the children.
Yesterday, I went to a synagogue in the Lower East Side/Chinatown for a little exhibit called The Last Word where people write on slips of paper things that they wish they'd said. I got there before Wendy and on a piece of a paper I wrote: "I hope you weren't my last chance." I hesitated a few seconds and then I signed my name -- Zoraya.
I don't know if I meant the lost man or the aborted baby.
When Wendy showed up and started pulling out bits of paper and reading, I wondered if from the hundreds of sheets of paper rolled like cigarettes, would she find me?
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
January
I had one day alone in L.A. because I worked for a few hours at my friend's shop in downtown. If not for the sandwich adventure, there would have been no solitude at all.
I had dubbed the building Frank's Folly before I ever saw it up close. I think Frank Gehry is silly, the guy people go to if they want something monumental but ultimately end up with something prefabricated. Didn't he already do this in Bilbao? And how are the acoustics? In a way he really is a Los Angeles architect.
That said, this cynical diarist fell a little bit in love. And it was then, standing in front of this building, that I realized that I am a little foolish and a lot romantic. The kind of person who admits to falling in love with a building, who goes out and buys a calendar with a not-that-great picture of a skinny man whose resolution is to stand up straight, who talks to strangers with hope of hearing about an interesting non-creepy life.
Here is my January man:
and skinny cartoon man's New Year's resolution although I doubt it will be readable in this tiny space:
I was in a sentimental mood, I guess. I bought a Beethoven CD and some woman named Kristina Train. If I weren't heartbroken, I would probably find her annoying but now her songs resonate with me, a new way to say what I've been thinking all these months.
M called me on Christmas to say hello and on New Years Day, a few hours after I returned to New York, he came to my 'hood and we ate ice cream in the cold and walked around. Romantic one might say. He showed me the apartment he is buying -- ten blocks south of me. And the end of the story is this -- still nothing happened. I guess I would be more surprised if something did happen between us at this point. We are a done deal, destined to be almost something.
One might ask why *I* don't do something about it. I'm chickenshit hiding behind the excuse of being an old-fashioned kind of girl. It's pretty simple. And anyway, is he interested at all in me? I was thinking maybe he is a little bit interested -- who the hell calls someone to say Merry Christmas anymore? But then, there is the NOTHING. So maybe he isn't interested.
Thirty six year old women writes like high school girl. Jeesh.
So in my nine days in California, I saw my oldest friends, the ones I've dreaded seeing all year. I saw my relatives. It was a fucking reunion tour. And I liked it. And I loved all those people. And I was so happy to come back to my little apartment.
I didn't freak out at all. When I saw my friends Daniel and Maya, I was afraid I'd break down. But nothing. Is that progress or compartmentalizing? All my friends and their lovely children. And then there was me. I think about it now and I get sad but while I was with my friends, it was fine. I have not lost my ability to be happy for people.
A called while I was in L.A. I didn't answer and I didn't call him back. Is that progress or is that putting off the inevitable phone call I will make in a few days? To my credit, I could have called by now and I have not.
I missed him while I was gone. What a stupid thing to say. It's not as if I have been not missing him before. What struck me was how I could miss him so much but have no desire to make contact and how whenever he asks me anything, I get angry and share nothing of value. Back to the drawing board, I guess. But I'm a little further along.
After my tour of duty was over, I wandered around in search of this building. I passed Bunker Hill and the Los Angeles Public Library, walked up the hill of Grand Street and wandered into the MoCA store where I bought a calendar for 2010. Further up was the Disney Music Center. For years, I've wanted to go there but this was my first time.
I had dubbed the building Frank's Folly before I ever saw it up close. I think Frank Gehry is silly, the guy people go to if they want something monumental but ultimately end up with something prefabricated. Didn't he already do this in Bilbao? And how are the acoustics? In a way he really is a Los Angeles architect.
That said, this cynical diarist fell a little bit in love. And it was then, standing in front of this building, that I realized that I am a little foolish and a lot romantic. The kind of person who admits to falling in love with a building, who goes out and buys a calendar with a not-that-great picture of a skinny man whose resolution is to stand up straight, who talks to strangers with hope of hearing about an interesting non-creepy life.
Here is my January man:
and skinny cartoon man's New Year's resolution although I doubt it will be readable in this tiny space:
I was in a sentimental mood, I guess. I bought a Beethoven CD and some woman named Kristina Train. If I weren't heartbroken, I would probably find her annoying but now her songs resonate with me, a new way to say what I've been thinking all these months.
M called me on Christmas to say hello and on New Years Day, a few hours after I returned to New York, he came to my 'hood and we ate ice cream in the cold and walked around. Romantic one might say. He showed me the apartment he is buying -- ten blocks south of me. And the end of the story is this -- still nothing happened. I guess I would be more surprised if something did happen between us at this point. We are a done deal, destined to be almost something.
One might ask why *I* don't do something about it. I'm chickenshit hiding behind the excuse of being an old-fashioned kind of girl. It's pretty simple. And anyway, is he interested at all in me? I was thinking maybe he is a little bit interested -- who the hell calls someone to say Merry Christmas anymore? But then, there is the NOTHING. So maybe he isn't interested.
Thirty six year old women writes like high school girl. Jeesh.
So in my nine days in California, I saw my oldest friends, the ones I've dreaded seeing all year. I saw my relatives. It was a fucking reunion tour. And I liked it. And I loved all those people. And I was so happy to come back to my little apartment.
I didn't freak out at all. When I saw my friends Daniel and Maya, I was afraid I'd break down. But nothing. Is that progress or compartmentalizing? All my friends and their lovely children. And then there was me. I think about it now and I get sad but while I was with my friends, it was fine. I have not lost my ability to be happy for people.
A called while I was in L.A. I didn't answer and I didn't call him back. Is that progress or is that putting off the inevitable phone call I will make in a few days? To my credit, I could have called by now and I have not.
I missed him while I was gone. What a stupid thing to say. It's not as if I have been not missing him before. What struck me was how I could miss him so much but have no desire to make contact and how whenever he asks me anything, I get angry and share nothing of value. Back to the drawing board, I guess. But I'm a little further along.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
One Perfect Day
5:00 a.m.
My stomach hurts from hunger. It is five a.m. on a Sunday. I slept for three hours tonight but woke up at four a.m.
For my birthday, I received a DVD of Saraband and a bar of lettuce scented soap (I wonder what lettuce would smell like as a fragrance since I still can't smell anything) and went to tea at The Peninsula. The best scones in New York City, no arguments. I spent the morning in SoHo in the nice bookstore wrapping gifts for charity. An interesting day -- begin with a "good deed" (I don't like to think of volunteering that way, it seems too self congratulatory) and then end with genteel overindulgence at one of the most expensive hotels in the city.
We were served Earl Grey tea first and then Dragon Jasmine. I found the jasmine too bitter but loved the way each leaf, before steeping, curled in over itself like tiny fiddlehead ferns. When the water was poured in, the leaves unfurled and darkened like sage and the heady scent of jasmine rose so strong I wanted to turn my head away.
Today, for my birthday again, I am going to the Frick to look at paintings and the garden in this gray winter light. After the museum closes there will be a concert (violin). Then dinner in Chinatown which I could skip but will attend and most likely enjoy. I would prefer to go a few blocks uptown and have dinner at Cafe Sabarsky but I am going to dinner with my friend who is unemployed. I know she will insist on buying dinner because of my birthday thing and because I paid for the concert tickets. Normally, I wouldn't care who pays but I watch out for this friend. She seems on the verge of breaking (financially and emotionally) and doesn't seem to realize it herself.
She thinks dancing is going to fix everything. Oy vey.
Noon
It's raining now--lazy annoying rain. Can weather be described as perfunctory? Why not rain all the way?
I move slowly. My little apartment requires a lot of maintenance, picking up clothes, washing cups, gathering tissue (I am sick!) that litter my floor like puffs of cotton. This apartment is so small that any mess shrinks the place and makes it look unkempt than it actually is.
When I think of the amount of space I live my days in, I actually find myself contemplating moving. And sometimes in the subway, when I feel someone's elbow dig into the middle of my back at rush hour, I consider it again.
If I ever do leave this city, the decision will be made in an instant like all the other decision on flight. I am somewhat surprised I'm still here after all the crap this year. My younger self would have fled and gone for reinvention in a new zip code. But this woman I have become insists on staying put.
11 p.m.
If I were seriously considering leaving this city, I would have changed my mind after going to the concert at the Frick Museum earlier in the evening. The violinist was young and German and had scars all over his face and neck. He played Beethoven and Prokofiev. The best part came at the end, three encores and two standing ovations -- he played bits of Carmen and for a minute I had to laugh because after the intermission, I kept thinking "this boy would play Carmen beautifully" even though Bizet was not in the program. But old Georges made an appearance after all. The last piece I didn't recognize at all but the nicest surprise of the evening -- Liebesleid.
The scars on the violinist's face reminded me of Louis Kahn the architect. I saw his face clearly after the performance when I went backstage to say hello. So tonight I was a kind of groupie. It is always a wonder when I find myself so moved and makes me think of some woman who long ago told me that art heals --maybe she was not such a crackpot.
My stomach hurts from hunger. It is five a.m. on a Sunday. I slept for three hours tonight but woke up at four a.m.
For my birthday, I received a DVD of Saraband and a bar of lettuce scented soap (I wonder what lettuce would smell like as a fragrance since I still can't smell anything) and went to tea at The Peninsula. The best scones in New York City, no arguments. I spent the morning in SoHo in the nice bookstore wrapping gifts for charity. An interesting day -- begin with a "good deed" (I don't like to think of volunteering that way, it seems too self congratulatory) and then end with genteel overindulgence at one of the most expensive hotels in the city.
We were served Earl Grey tea first and then Dragon Jasmine. I found the jasmine too bitter but loved the way each leaf, before steeping, curled in over itself like tiny fiddlehead ferns. When the water was poured in, the leaves unfurled and darkened like sage and the heady scent of jasmine rose so strong I wanted to turn my head away.
Today, for my birthday again, I am going to the Frick to look at paintings and the garden in this gray winter light. After the museum closes there will be a concert (violin). Then dinner in Chinatown which I could skip but will attend and most likely enjoy. I would prefer to go a few blocks uptown and have dinner at Cafe Sabarsky but I am going to dinner with my friend who is unemployed. I know she will insist on buying dinner because of my birthday thing and because I paid for the concert tickets. Normally, I wouldn't care who pays but I watch out for this friend. She seems on the verge of breaking (financially and emotionally) and doesn't seem to realize it herself.
She thinks dancing is going to fix everything. Oy vey.
Noon
It's raining now--lazy annoying rain. Can weather be described as perfunctory? Why not rain all the way?
I move slowly. My little apartment requires a lot of maintenance, picking up clothes, washing cups, gathering tissue (I am sick!) that litter my floor like puffs of cotton. This apartment is so small that any mess shrinks the place and makes it look unkempt than it actually is.
When I think of the amount of space I live my days in, I actually find myself contemplating moving. And sometimes in the subway, when I feel someone's elbow dig into the middle of my back at rush hour, I consider it again.
If I ever do leave this city, the decision will be made in an instant like all the other decision on flight. I am somewhat surprised I'm still here after all the crap this year. My younger self would have fled and gone for reinvention in a new zip code. But this woman I have become insists on staying put.
11 p.m.
If I were seriously considering leaving this city, I would have changed my mind after going to the concert at the Frick Museum earlier in the evening. The violinist was young and German and had scars all over his face and neck. He played Beethoven and Prokofiev. The best part came at the end, three encores and two standing ovations -- he played bits of Carmen and for a minute I had to laugh because after the intermission, I kept thinking "this boy would play Carmen beautifully" even though Bizet was not in the program. But old Georges made an appearance after all. The last piece I didn't recognize at all but the nicest surprise of the evening -- Liebesleid.
The scars on the violinist's face reminded me of Louis Kahn the architect. I saw his face clearly after the performance when I went backstage to say hello. So tonight I was a kind of groupie. It is always a wonder when I find myself so moved and makes me think of some woman who long ago told me that art heals --maybe she was not such a crackpot.
Monday, November 23, 2009
First Star of the Night
On West 23rd Street in Chelsea, there is a strange little house/performance space called The Cell Theater. I went there early this evening to listen to my friend W read. Simon Van Booy and another writer whose name escapes me at the moment were also there to read.
A few weeks ago, I wrote that I thought Van Booy's book, Love Begins in Winter, was too sentimental. It is. But it is good. What is it about certain stories and certain words that make me, the rather jaded and overcritical reader, eat my words? And he is an excellent reader. He was sitting on an old loveseat, legs crossed. His voice was mesmerizing, his Irish accent not bad. He signed my book: "To Z----, the first star of the night." He'd asked me what my name meant and so I told him.
After the reading, W and I, along with a few other people, ogled the arrival of movie stars for the premiere of the movie Brothers. A man in a black suit approached us and handed us tickets to the screening. So off we went.
The movie was good though not one I would choose if I had to pay.
On Friday night (and this afternoon), I saw the Maelstrom sculpture and the Vermeers at the Met. Then M called and he picked me up on the bike. We rode in the cold down to the Lower East Side. M and I are friends again, I guess. I am probably too nice by tolerating his weirdness. But he is what he is and sometimes what he is is stupid.
Here is Maelstrom in the late afternoon:
I expected to spend the whole weekend alone, save for the Sunday dinner with W. But it turned out that the last couple of days have been all about finding people. I may never see any of them again, but there is something good in knowing that there is still a whole world out there and that I am not incapable of seeing it and taking from it and hopefully, in my way, giving to it.
Anhedonia is not one of my problems. Whatever weeping I do and wherever I may choose to give in to it, I am still present.
My friend JV is back in my life. I don't know how long she will stay. But no matter. More on her later. Professor Dick is back. Maybe he never left. One of these days, I hope he will just leave me or not write me notes about missing me. Whatever his intentions, he creeps me out.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Foreign Films and Dead Composers
Last Saturday I was at Film Forum for a screening of La Danse and while waiting to get into the theater, L and I were talking. Well, I was talking about my old roommate, the gay German lawyer with Poland Syndrome who also happens to be one of the funniest, smartest, most maddening, most self destructive people I know. And for whom I also happen to have a deep strange love. He has a way of getting what he wants, fucking it up, and then starting over.
T and I met in 2004, I think. Love at first sight in a fringe neighborhood Brooklyn brownstone. He drove me insane when we lived together.
Anyway, the short of this story is that I was describing this crazy man in detail and a woman behind us was listening to me the entire time. At first she was embarrassed and tried to conceal her amusement. And then she abandoned all pretense and laughed gaily at my stories. And I performed for her.
As we were getting seated, this woman told me that I should write a book. I think people meet me and expect me to be funny all the time when the truth is that I'm not very funny when I write.
Nice compliment anyway. I'm not knocking it.
And also got me thinking about being a fame whore. There is something of the performer in me.
So far -- no A and no M. I miss them both but not nearly as much as I would thought. I'm mostly talking about A. I don't miss him that much.
I have to admit that earlier today, I wrote something about how when one insists to vehemently on something, it means they are lying. So maybe I'm lying. But right now it doesn't feel that way.
Last night I got a bought a book about the opera. Just a reference guide to the more popular ones. I'm pretty obsessed with music lately -- I wake up in the middle of the night and fall asleep listening to Mahler.
This morning, my last memory was of listening to a piece called Blue by Michael Galasso from In the Mood for Love (by Wong Kar Wai). I hate his movies -- there is something flat about them, too stylized, interminable. But they are always the most beautiful things to look at and listen to.
My favorite WKW movie is Comrades. I liked everything about it. God, that was a long time ago. What a strange memory.
The writing is going well lately. I write for work, I write for this, I write for the novel. If I were to do a word count, the number might be pretty impressive. But I'm writing for three discrete areas so it doesn't add up to much. Still I'm rather proud of myself.
I worry about money a lot lately. When I was not working, I hardly thought of money at all. But now, I do mental calculations (poorly) all the time.
T and I met in 2004, I think. Love at first sight in a fringe neighborhood Brooklyn brownstone. He drove me insane when we lived together.
Anyway, the short of this story is that I was describing this crazy man in detail and a woman behind us was listening to me the entire time. At first she was embarrassed and tried to conceal her amusement. And then she abandoned all pretense and laughed gaily at my stories. And I performed for her.
As we were getting seated, this woman told me that I should write a book. I think people meet me and expect me to be funny all the time when the truth is that I'm not very funny when I write.
Nice compliment anyway. I'm not knocking it.
And also got me thinking about being a fame whore. There is something of the performer in me.
So far -- no A and no M. I miss them both but not nearly as much as I would thought. I'm mostly talking about A. I don't miss him that much.
I have to admit that earlier today, I wrote something about how when one insists to vehemently on something, it means they are lying. So maybe I'm lying. But right now it doesn't feel that way.
Last night I got a bought a book about the opera. Just a reference guide to the more popular ones. I'm pretty obsessed with music lately -- I wake up in the middle of the night and fall asleep listening to Mahler.
This morning, my last memory was of listening to a piece called Blue by Michael Galasso from In the Mood for Love (by Wong Kar Wai). I hate his movies -- there is something flat about them, too stylized, interminable. But they are always the most beautiful things to look at and listen to.
My favorite WKW movie is Comrades. I liked everything about it. God, that was a long time ago. What a strange memory.
The writing is going well lately. I write for work, I write for this, I write for the novel. If I were to do a word count, the number might be pretty impressive. But I'm writing for three discrete areas so it doesn't add up to much. Still I'm rather proud of myself.
I worry about money a lot lately. When I was not working, I hardly thought of money at all. But now, I do mental calculations (poorly) all the time.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Lucy's Perfect Days
It seems like too much to hope for good times in the midst of all this trouble with CC. But it happened.
CC
CC is mad at me. I am the bearer of bad news, the burster of the bubble, the rain on the parade. She is letting people think she is at Stage 2 because her doctor hasn’t given her an official diagnosis. I think she is at Stage 3. Yesterday I told her this. That was a mistake on my part. Mostly because it made her sad and angry. And also because I don’t really know what I’m talking about.
I just don’t want her to downplay things and end up not getting the right treatment from the right facility with the best doctors. It’s not my business and I have promised to keep my mouth shut now. This is about no one but CC. I want to be a good friend to her. Pissing her off at this point is a bad idea.
Another A
I’ve been seeing a man whose first name starts with A—let’s call him AL. He won the green card lottery a few years ago and has lived in New York for the last six years. He’s from Dublin. The accent is cute, but not enough to make communication difficult. I don’t know how long he will be making an appearance in this blog. We haven’t seen each other that much. But so far, it’s fun. I like him.
On Saturday night, we went to dinner in SoHo after my bookstore gig ended and after he finished work. He kissed me in the middle of a bar called Puck Fair. Ah the romance!
Then he got a call from work – end of date, I thought. Apparently not. He decided not to go back to the office. Grand Theft Auto would wait till Sunday morning, he said.
Okay, I said, but you’re not getting laid tonight. He laughed and said he wasn’t really expecting that.
Then we went to his apartment in Brooklyn. He has more books than I do. He has a little gizmo that scans all the titles and he has a pretty accurate count of what is in his collection. Very endearingly nerdy, especially for a girl like me.
I like this guy’s style. Straightforward. He makes fun of me a little bit.
No one got laid. I want to see AL again.
Faith and Central Park
Faith is my ex A’s friend. When my ex introduced us, I was somewhat put off by her I-am-a-strong-black-woman thing. I liked her immediately, but I am wary of self-labeling as defense mechanism. To me, it is a too-transparent attempt to justify what has gone wrong. And it means that a person like this would be easily offended by my mostly good-natured but politically incorrect commentary about life.
Yesterday, Faith and I went to see the last performance of the season at The Delacorte. The play was Euripides’ Bacchae.
I queued up for tickets at 9 a.m., she showed up at noon. Before she arrived, I lay down on my blanket and listened to Bob Dylan and bits of opera. I almost wished she wouldn’t show up. It was cool and sunny in the park. I could have stayed there all day. I lay under a canopy of trees, the sunlight drifting down between the leaves and water from the previous night's rain occasionally splattering down. There were a few hundred people in line with me.
We got our tickets and wandered around the Upper West Side together, got our nails done, drank wine, ate pizza, talked about her movie, talked about men. We carefully avoided the subject of A. She is uncomfortable being friends with the both of us. Understandably. So I told her that we were fine, friends even. Does anyone ever trust an ex-girlfriend when they say this?
Faith is 40. She is going a little crazy over a man she went out with once three months ago. They had a falling out after one date and he called her again last week. I’m not sure what is going on with that. But I have to say, it was nice to see her shed that I-am-a-strong-black-woman armor and allow herself to obsess about something as simple as a date that didn’t go the way you would have wanted it to. And to hope that it still has a chance to turn into something.
Will Faith and I remain friends or was yesterday a fluke?
The Bacchae was probably pretty good. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention till the end. It was a beautiful night. Between the moon and the sky and the view, and the top of the turrets of Belvedere Castle that was visible from where Faith and I were sitting – I couldn’t concentrate. And later, raccoons that were supposed to be part of the play escaped their cages and I kept looking under the seats for that flash of red eyes. I kept thinking "this is the end of this lovely awful summer."
How could it be that this year, thus far, has been so bittersweet for me? I don't think I ever truly knew what that word meant until the last few months.
Toward the end of the play, after Pentheus had died and his mother cradled his severed head, I finally started paying attention. The actress let out a wail that pierced the air and I myself tearing up. I wish I could remember all those lines. “I love you more in death” or something like that.
Of course, I was thinking of my baby. But honestly, it wasn’t so bad. It was a reminder, that’s all.
Monday, August 3, 2009
A Poem (not written by me)
POEM
In a U-Haul North of Damascus
Lord, what are the sins
I have tried to leave behind me? The bad checks,
the workless days, the scotch bottles thrown across the fence
and into the woods, the cruelty of silence,
the cruelty of lies, the jealousy,
the indifference?
What are these on the scale of sin
or failure
that they should follow me through the streets of Columbus,
the moon-streaked fields between Benevolence
and Cuthbert where dwarfed cotton sparkles like pearls
on the shoulders of the road. What are these
that they should find me half-lost,
sick and sleepless
behind the wheel of this U-Haul truck parked in a field
on Georgia 45
a few miles north of Damascus,
some makeshift rest stop for eighteen wheelers
where the long white arms of oaks slap across trailers
and headlights glare all night through a wall of pines?
2
What was I thinking, Lord?
That for once I'd be in the driver's seat, a firm grip
on direction?
So the jon boat muscled up the ramp,
the Johnson outboard, the bent frame of the wrecked Harley
chained for so long to the back fence,
the scarred desk, the bookcases and books,
the mattress and box springs,
a broken turntable, a Pioneer amp, a pair
of three-way speakers, everything mine
I intended to keep. Everything else abandon.
But on the road from one state
to another, what is left behind nags back through the distance,
a last word rising to a scream, a salad bowl
shattering against a kitchen cabinet, china barbs
spiking my heel, blood trailed across the cream linoleum
like the bedsheet that morning long ago
just before I watched the future miscarried.
Jesus, could the irony be
that suffering forms a stronger bond than love?
3
Now the sun
streaks the windshield with yellow and orange, heavy beads
of light drawing highways in the dew-cover.
I roll down the window and breathe the pine-air,
the after-scent of rain, and the far-off smell
of asphalt and diesel fumes.
But mostly pine and rain
as though the world really could be clean again.
Somewhere behind me,
miles behind me on a two-lane that streaks across
west Georgia, light is falling
through the windows of my half-empty house.
Lord, why am I thinking about this? And why should I care
so long after everything has fallen
to pain that the woman sleeping there should be sleeping alone?
Could I be just another sinner who needs to be blinded
before he can see? Lord, is it possible to fall
toward grace? Could I be moved
to believe in new beginnings? Could I be moved?
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Musical Evenings
And sometimes, it's hard to remember feeling despair when the day goes well. It's as if the stars align just so and I can forget how bad I felt the previous morning. There are small mercies to be found everywhere.
Last night I went to a free concert at Lincoln Center. The star of the show was Yo Yo Ma and his cello. There were many musicians playing instruments I'd never heard of before. Someone blew on a conch shell.
I have a friend who believes that art soothes. Sometimes I think she's full of shit and find myself searching for silence. Other times, like last night, I know exactly what she means.
K has stopped writing to me.
Last night I went to a free concert at Lincoln Center. The star of the show was Yo Yo Ma and his cello. There were many musicians playing instruments I'd never heard of before. Someone blew on a conch shell.
I have a friend who believes that art soothes. Sometimes I think she's full of shit and find myself searching for silence. Other times, like last night, I know exactly what she means.
K has stopped writing to me.
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