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4/6 2:30PM

The first truly hot day of the year. It's nearly 85 degrees, they say, but our winter-starved bodies eagerly ravish the sunshine. The magnolias are all in bloom, as are the apple blossoms. For me this is the happiest time in the city. Everyone has such a lackadaisical love in their hearts and minds, and adoration gathers under budding leaves. The women kick off their heels and lie stretched out on park benches in their warm-weather finery, the men take off their jackets and roll up their sleeves. Iced coffee is the only thing that makes it any more wonderful. I'm sure as we speak in Central Park at least fifty girls are sighing in the sun, lying out in bikinis in Sheep's Meadow.

I am happy, still aglow, still full of lazy possibility. I found my first bugbite of the season yesterday. It itches and brings back memories of my not-long-departed childhood.

4/7, 9PM

Kriss is right though to say I'm a little emptyheaded lately. I don't know where my head's been the past few days. Gone to the warm breezes I suppose.

I saw The Artist on the street, over by Greenwich. He saw me ten minutes later sitting in here and did a double-take. I almost wish I'd said hello, but people have reasons to be quiet, I think. Somebody told me he's a recovering alcoholic, which would explain why he might be here all the time, his constant coffee intake, and how he looks old before his time.

Bridget said when we were here a couple days ago that the place puts her in the mood to write. It does seem to encourage it, people are never asked to leave to give up seats, even if they've not ordered for a while.

The jazz playing today is so fitting for this weather. I felt the first smile of the summer night in Tompkins earlier with Jacob. I'm sure he thinks I'm touched.

Expats With Cards again, still with Rachel Zoe-looking ringleader.

Writers: a blonde boy with hair that couldn't possibly be that perfectly tousled on it's own and prematurely tanned skin

Man with a laptop and blue button-down shirt...

Hippie guy walks in who has the same sort of parading stance as Berger in "Hair" His age leads me to believe that might be what Berger would be once settled into the "aging boomer" group.

Smiling dog tied to post outside looks in curiously. His eyes shine, and I imagine he must be fixated on his master. He is long and lean, with short dark hair.

Morandi is full of al fresco diners. Still been meaning to try it, even if it does represent everything so many resent about this neighborhood's "cleaning up"

I thought I looked good today, honestly. But I forget that I always look awful in photographs no matter how pretty the light or the dress. You can't help that I've got no clue how to pose. I always enhance my worst features.

I like blurred pictures of myself. Always reminds me of a quote by Buckminster Fuller, "I live on Earth at present, and I don't know what I am. I know that I am not a category. I am not a thing — a noun. I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process — an integral function of the universe." A little self-centered, but I think what I'm trying to say is that I love photographs that typify that philosophy.
4/3, 3PM

Humans will always bond over their love of scrutinizing others. A woman and I exchanged glances on the train just now over a lady sitting next to me. Perfectly well-dressed and otherwise together, having a full conversation with herself.

Three people, a girl and two gay boys, were having a conversation about another guy on the way uptown.

-He'll always do that. He's so weird. You have to make such an effort to get him to go out and get away from his desk.
-And when he does, he always goes out of his way to say how much "fun" he's having. He says it over and over and over during the whole night. "Aren't we having fun guys? Isn't this fun?"
-It's like he has to remind himself.
-I mean his job sucks, so it's not like he can get away so much. He probably just doesn't know how to let loose.
-Yeah, but he's been like this since we were in middle school. He was obsessed with being fun and cool.
-It's one of those words that doesn't even mean anything! Like "nice"!
-I don't think he really knows how to have fun.
-Well, I will say this, his outlook on life is so, so messed up.

6PM

Think I might've had a run in with The Sartorialist. A gentleman on a bicycle was looking at me and holding up an iPhone and I noticed he looked just like him, at least how I remember seeing him on the website. Don't know why he'd want my picture today, though, I look rather ordinary. I bet he'd have a real camera too.

9PM

Girl on the train wears her hair in a modified Chelsea, shaved in the back and angular bob with bangs in the front. She wears a red cape with a hood, gray tights, and red Keds with white laces. Her face is angular like a fox's with a sharp chin and wide eyes. Her skin isn't fantastic, but all in all she's lovely and what I imagine Little Red Ridinghood would wear if she lived in Brooklyn.
1AM:

Maggie: There's not so much riffraff here lately
Jesse: Joe's chopped them into little pieces after luring them into the basement. That's how he gets rid of them.

7AM:

"Her lights will turn on no more."

I wrote this down but forgot to attribute it to somebody.

Nature is a great tease...aside from 40 degree days after periods of painfully beautiful weather, the cruelest joke played is a sunrise without a trace of sun. The sky lightens and the world is ready to be refreshed and forgiven for last nights' sins---but then with clouds, like this morning, things only drag on. You lose track...it's impossible to leave from where you left off.

The two of them embrace on the couch. S is awake, and sits staring at them. How strange it is, how earthly a vice...Does he envy them? Or does he simply see no reason to intervene? They notice him watching and smile, and he waves, and as usual I feel all too serious for my years. A bird is awake somewhere. They laugh and I imagine my heart could break. I choose to marvel at my own handwriting instead. How peculiarly like my mother's it's become. Ah well, I always figured I'd become like her eventually.

Every time I come here I stare at the people across the way that live in the Archive apartments. I don't know why. But I suppose I've been an unabashed spy since the age of six, and this is no different.

"Battle scars," Holly calls it, when you wake up in the morning feeling an absolute wreck and a mere wastage of the night before. Sunken cheekbones and bleary eyes. The same horrific feeling as when I go without sleeping and I don't eat. Proud in my own weariness. Cripes, am I stupid sometimes. Rather ever so. And sleepy.

Sunsets are never ugly. Never. Even if it's overcast the sky is still tinted greyish pink and the clouds clear vaguely so you can see a snipped of another sun turning and forgetting us for a few hours. No country is so vain to have the sun shine on it all day long...except the places in the Arctic Circle, I suppose.

Mar. 23rd, 2010

Doma, 6/22, 7PM Exactly

What about today? Today there is Butch with his biceps and tattoo and awful-looking scar running up his right arm. He looked at me a few times while waiting for his coffee. I wonder if he takes it black, or indulges in milk and sugar.

Girl in beret and nautical-adorned blue peacoat chatters about studying in Argentina over the summer to significantly less stylish friend.

The usual foreigners taking up two tables. Italians this time. The language goes well with the scent of coffee.

Woman next to me eats soup with a heel of baguette. I remember reading that if you mix hot water and ketchup, it might as well be tomato soup.

Suity type with blue shirt and yellow tie. I always love that combination, particularly a cobalt or cerulean with a deep gold with amber undertones.

Another writer. His hand is small and cramped, he could fill this page with with twice as much as what I've written. My handwriting is so loopy and wild, I wonder why no third-grade teacher ever bothered to stamp that out. I've noticed my script is a great deal like my mothers, she uses the same loops on her j's and y's.

Suit carries drumsticks in his messenger bag. Defying expectations, tra la la...

I've noticed hairbows really are getting to be all the rage. As with any other cultural phenomenon like music or art, I am glad to have caught the trend early.

My body is unhappy with me. Stomach aches, throat is sore, and to top it all off my hair is very displeased with this weather. The rain must've started up again, umbrellas out in full force. The soup smells wonderful and full of vegetables.

I have to wonder if the salesgirl notices I've not ordered anything. They're always so surly here. No matter how many times I've come in, they don't bother saying anything beyond "yes," "no," and "you're welcome." And they never smile. My one gripe about this place, I suppose. As well as how crowded it gets on weekends...and the wobbly tables on the right side of the room. Still and all I wouldn't trade it for a Bank of America or whatever it is neighborhood shops are turned into when torn down.

How how how is a crepe nine dollars?! I remember the kindhearted man that sold crepes for 2 euro near St. Michel. I ate there near every day, also the ice-cream stand next door. Nothing else satisfies quite so much when you're burned up from sitting in the heat drinking warm beer by the Seine.

His sweet, uncluttered little letters! He's awful cute too, I wish I had the guts to ask him what he's working on. Looks possibly gay, though. His hair is blown out perfectly and wears very shiny leather boots.

One of the usual Mac kids sits, iBuds in, contemplating...what I don't know. But I'm sure, it's terribly "deep." I'm going to stop now. I am in a really awful mood for writing today. Too too judgmental. As usual, need to work on being more objective.

Butch stares. He's nabbed my favorite table over by the windows. He sits alone, two large books in front of him. At first I think he's holding a magnifying glass to one of them, as if to see better. But I realize, duh, it's just his cell phone.

The art they have here is always pretty hit-or-miss. I'm not too keen on the present one. While I like the rich colors they employ, I'm just not mad for the perspective. The one I do like is a large painting in mostly blue and brown tones, of a boy stooped over a river or stream, petting a bird. His hand is the focus, having the most detail, everything else is reduced to dreamy blurs. His shadow gleams deep red, the color of blood. A dog looks on. I like it. The animals are prevalent throughout the other pictures. Makes me think of Chagall, with his cows and roosters. I wonder if, like Chagall, they're used for symbolic purposes.

Water always tastes better with lemons, and as usual I'm looking towards the door. I wish sometimes that I really was a genius as people claimed me to be as a child. I'm not even saying that to be braggy or self-deprecating, but just I suppose that I feel like a disappointment. What else is new?
February

spring, that short-skirted tease
shook me awake this morning
making promises i know she won't keep
i'd no need for gloves at sunrise
the clouds for a moment were
brushed to the side
for clear endless blue
that stained the river cerulean
and shone deeper in my mercurial eyes

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2/17 9PM

Having a minor heart attack at present. Soem people see ghosts of the past, but I'm seeing the future; in particular my own. There is a woman sitting close to the counter with wild red hair and big blue eyes and fair skin. She scribbles in scrawling hand into a composition book like this one. her letters were even strangely like mine. Lots of loops on the y's and j's. I want to approach her, as Kathleen Turner did Lauren Bacall and say "Hi, I'm the young you." Strange, very strange. The only difference is that she wears glasses. But that same sort of charming disheveled quality and untameable curls. Got a prime spot by the Northern windows today, very pleased. Gives me prime spot to watch passersby.

I don't feel very pretty today. Wearing shlubby clothes that do little to enhance my shape or even flatter it for that matter. I know I'm only going to the bar, and I have no one to dress up for, but I still wish I'd gone home to change into a dress. Pants will just never feel as natural for me, Id on't think. Ever since little-girlhood I've preferred dresses or skirts. i wonder what this says about my perception of my own femininity.

Listening to "I Surrender, Dear." Love Thelonius Monk. Always makes me think of Natasha's cats, Monk and Billie. I'm just so happy to sit and watch people working and listen to music. If only I were a lady of leisure, I would do this every day. Of course it wouldn't be as special then, I guess.

I love the skinny French Rachel Zoe lookalike in the corner playing cards with the other expats. I wonder if at a table in a cafe off St. Michel right now there are five American expats playing poker.

Chopin and pretty girl in a poncho. She looks so casually lovely, her hair is falling out of her bun and she brushes a piece from her eyes. Sigh.

The lady in front of me sports long layers of gray hair. I wonder if it's that color naturally or she dyed it that way. She looks older but not enough to have gone that gray. Either way it's pleasant looking, surprisingly pretty.

Graphic designer collages newspaper clippings with Photoshop on his Mac.

Woman with atrocious haircut and hoop earrings chats to man in slightly cheap looking sweater. Tourists?

Man with large coffee is typing out long paragraphs on Word. I wonder if he is a writer. Of course I'm tempted to think that EVERYONE in this place is a writer. This romantic-era music is driving me a bit crazy, putting on Gershwin.

If I were a pianist I'd learn the "Three Preludes." Easily one of my favorites. I think I can head to Marie's now, it's after 10 so Jim Allen should be playing. Have had kind of a Jim-less week.

The actor's Dell is like some relic from the Stone Age. It must weigh about ten pounds.

I love that I can feel the subway clattering underneath me if I'm still enough.
2/11

The snow is still holding onto every curb in New York. People slip on corner after corner. This morning my foot slipped into a puddle of slush and I got my skirt and stockings wet.

The boys next to me discuss the cover model of the swimsuit issue. Apparently dead-looking "in real life." Poor Andy Roddick, they remarked. TO be honest, though, I feel like this isn't enough to make a tragic figure out of such a notorious prick.

"I wonder if I missed my chance"

They're nonspecific about the chance he may have missed. I think...ah! A woman. As I suspected. Infatuated with him, so Henley Shirt Guy says. He remarks that the girl's body language was enough to tip off his friend to her interest in him, even though she hasn't made a concrete move yet.

Rats, I've become a rotten eavesdropper. I couldn't help but laugh at something ridiculous one of them said, and they said "Well, if you're going to listen you might as well give your input on the situation." Henley Shirt told me that the girl had been friends with Peacoat Guy since they trekked the wilds of Sichuan together. She's been dating another man since they've met, but as long as they've known each other there's been an odd sexual tension. She's made it clear that she has a really likes him, but has made no moves to leave her boyfriend. I told Peacoat Guy that she probably leaves him lingering in the platonic zone because she can't stand to ruin her ideal of him by actually trying to instigate a real relationship. Or something like that. Henley Shirt agreed with me.

Reading "Alice In Wonderland" always puts me in the strangest mindset. Caroll had remarked "I threw my heroine down a rabbit hole without the slightest idea of what would happen afterward"

The sun sets, and a girl shivers on the sidewalk. The wind goes right through her thin sweater.

The boys have moved to theology. "Jesus Camp" came up in conversation, and they began to talk about our place in the universe, and the existence of God. One of them had said that he didn't want to believe in God purely because it would be ruining the greatest mysteries of our existence; he wanted humans to be open to questioning the creation of the galaxy, and why we humans live on this very planet, as opposed to simply explaining it away by crediting God's divine hand.

I can always tell who's just come back from Fashion Week by the outfits. Trying too hard? On occasion, yes. But it's always the girls wearing all black, in tall stiletto heels and big scarves and sunglasses. They carry programs and portfolios. Big, trendy handbags, always. Oh, to have such limitless funds that one can live in the Village AND carry a new bag every season.

Krisstofer and I had the usual argument last night about living in Manhattan. I can't put into words exactly why I want to live here. He says romanticism. Perhaps so. But I've just found I'm happier living in beautiful places, provided I can get along with the people of course. He detests everyone here and everything they stand for, so obviously he has no reason to move here. But I like the people in this neighborhood. Occasionally a little bit too yuppie-liberal, but essentially kind.

Saw a man across the street in front of his bathroom mirror. He stared at his reflection, naked to the waist, touching his face.


Where are you, my kitchen-sink God?
You appear in frescoes and french toast
and not in my hopes where i need
you

they say you're in the rivers and hills
but what happens when the floods and landslides
bury us all?
2/8

5:30 PM

I remain in awe of my new york sunsets
no matter how many i see

the city briefly painted in tones of red
in the fleeting moments before
darkness makes its hasty entrance
(in these winter months, unfashionably early)

In those moments, you are sharply aware
of that trivial, elusive thing, time
and the omnipresence of the Earth

At sunset, the towers of glass and steel
are still made from human hands
but every golden window
reflects gently the Helian face.

Tags:

"To be, to always be...." said the Frenchwoman next to me, reaching for the proper adjective.

Well dressed man in beige checked blazer, woman in teal hat with flower that matches the teal flowers on her sweater...

Man in horn-rimmed Truman Capote glasses. Reminds me of the fellow who is a dead ringer for him at Marie's who I have never seen speak to a woman. Very old-guard.

The French people leave, complaining of a gluey scent that I haven't picked up.

The fellow in the biker jacket with the earring, I'm fairly sure, is writing about me. He keeps looking at me, and my notebook.

Favorite body parts: hip bones, wrists, eyes, hands, collarbones, shoulder-blades, chins

------------
Good afternoon, my little ghost
I have bitten through six pens
In anticipation of your return
Have you missed me, have you pined?
My rambling thoughts stepped in
To replace you in your absence

Am I truly so predictable?
My footsteps appear in the snow
Long before it falls,
and long before that path
even crosses my mind

Teach me to be so distant,
to walk through walls and decades
without snagging my sweaters
to be forever pale and young
and to place my belief
in something beyond specters.

To sleep with the curtains closed
though I long to see the sunrise,
to burst through the beginnings of day
without the beauty overflowing
from my heart's fountain
--------------

I can't get past the image of folded hands as one of prayer.

It is so easy to hide under layers, I always forget that I'll have to shed myself one day.

I would rather be naked than pinched and poked by ill fitting gowns.

Some men can go on speaking. The photographer behind me, for example.

I miss being able to strike up conversation without doubting the intentions of the other man, or the suspicions of the other women. Krisstofer, after hearing a few horror stories from my childhood, questioned how on Earth I still have any faith or affection left for people. I replied truthfully that I wasn't sure, but that I supposed it was because of the people that showed me kindness when few else would.

The artist is here again with his sketchpad. I always wondered if he'd drawn me, we've seen each other enough. I'd like to see myself from another person's eyes. When I draw myself I never quite get it right. Due mainly to lack of artistic skill, but it also becomes a reflection of a slightly dysmorphic view of my body and face.
Marie's

i.
How strange,
how queer it is
to be drunk!
To feel your eyelids close
when you thought they'd
never close again!
To deny such a basic function
so vain, so instinctive!
To fly kites,
to sleep and breathe,

how strange,
how queer it is!

ii. (A Statement of Faith)

You'll live
you'll act,
you'll sing
you'll live fantastically
you'll live
without being quieted
without objection

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