we are face to face in the
elevator. weird, because no one
stands face to face in an elevator.
in another you held
my son, kissing his face, i
was kissing your face. now we
can’t speak. the words are
unholy, and besides,
they’re not there.
sheer fabrics do more than let in the
light. we hang curtains, i pick
patterns for bed skirts,
you pay at the
you press every button
to keep me. the fabrics,
you say, can smother us too.
today i stayed in bed ALL DAY! things you can do from bed:
write poetry, call out into the hall at your roommates, drink coffee, take pictures with gunther, be adorable as a direct result, read books, text your sister, watch videos on youtube, empty a hat, plan in/words readings, eat pasta, be sad, daydream, research a novel, write your friends’ birthdays in your planner, call your mom, watch movies, organize old photos, look through old scrapbooks, edit old writing, e-mail the girl next door, smell bad, have naps, jump on the bed, make the bed, unmake the bed, drink more coffee, not worry about it, be loyal, be friendly, be mean, think about swans, unthink about swans, re-read chapbooks put out by friends, listen to sublime, listen to leftover crack, listen to ok go, chat with your friends online, ask for cheer-ups online, receive requested cheer-ups and periodically cheer up, throughout the day.
this morning i made a pretty wonderful pros and cons list to address my increasingly ridiculous ‘life’ situation. there are 10 pros and only 7 cons. at these stages i always make silly decisions that most people would probably regret and i never do, i stumble awkwardly through a series of encounters i didn’t really want to find myself in but don’t mind once they happen, don’t care once they’re over, don’t remember why i did it and feel good knowing it doesn’t matter. i’ve always done the same thing, just over and over on repeat and later i find the most comfort not in the actions themselves but in the fact that i’m still me, i’m a revolving door always, i always go back to being alone in my head because i’m the only person i trust completely and, too much of the time, the only person i like. i know that it isn’t perfect because sometimes it’s nice to have someone kickin’ it to be alone with, but i never like when things are too perfect anyway.
i’ve been sorting everything again, and cutting and pasting and organizing all my pictures into online scrapbooks. i dance just about everywhere i walk, i sit in the windows of my apartment and count the cars going by because part of me wonders how many will come and go from my life before i don’t have the option anymore. i watch movies in my bed as i fall asleep and drink tall glasses of water, i kill bugs and forget to shower until it’s too late. i haven’t lost my focus and smoked to the filter in what must be months now, weeks have unraveled. i’ve started video scrapbooks for the apartment, with matt, it’s absolutely fabulous, i’m trying to remember that i don’t want to forget. it gives me something incredible to look forward to even as everything disappears, because every detail is recorded, i record just about everything because i know one day i’ll push myself away from it. i wouldn’t want it to be another way.
it’s completely personal. i can dig it. this is the first time in three years, potentially ever, that i’ve used all three sections of a notebook. not for different purposes.
we used to smoke cigarettes
together on the
backs of benches, you were
younger and even though
they’re all younger you
were the youngest, it was
a sign i wasn’t
serious, that it wouldn’t work,
you talked about trains
you’d never take, i talked
about smoke rings and the sky,
i said i’d take the train too,
the magic of forgetting
on my tongue, i don’t know
what we thought
would happen but i’m glad
it never did because
now i still have you, and i love you
there’s something unsettling about my dad’s news that he’s leaving his apartment. the apartment he rented just so my sister and i could come and live with him when we had nowhere else to go. the winding staircase, the dark, narrow hallway and the small windowless corner of the apartment that was going to be my bedroom. my wide, hopeful eyes when my dad asked me what i thought. i didn’t have to say a word — he opened his wallet counted up the cash for the deposit then and there. everything was going to be okay, and it was.
eight and a half years in that little apartment above the optometrist. painting and re-painting, old boyfriends and movies, insomnia. writing outside on the fire escape in the dead of night, the dead of winter. first and new friendships and learning to open up to something unfamiliar. being with someone in a strange and different way, a pure way. green lamplight.
carnegie gallery rooftop parties and the heat in the kitchen. friends from what felt like every corner of the earth. sublime and snes. hanging a backwards clock in a windowless dining room just to find a way to forget the rest of the world exists — turning on all the lights and pretending 3am is noon. the sounds of the midway in the backyard, friends puking into buckets in our hallway. falling up the stairs. chelsea maglelsky. spacing out, sketching out, hangovers. high school.
the front stoop.
the sound of the street-level door swinging, the sound that brought its share of hopes, excitement and anxieties. everything we all had when we first moved into our eight-year home. we couldn’t have known if it was going to work, or if we were going to work together, or if we’d be able to make it just the three of us. we had some real low points. real low points. but we made it. that little apartment, that narrow little apartment helped us make it. we wouldn’t have been the same without it.
king street apartment, you are the best.