The day was proper and it began when I reeled off of the PATH to plant myself in Washington Square Park, inhabited by young couples, a Jesuit choir, passerby's and simple's and madmen shouting about Martin Scorsese and respect. I laid in the grass to read Kerouac (slowly, too slowly it goes) and got grass stains on my blouse, but that's okay. Even in shade, everyone is mad. It's the heat.
So I crossed Astor, Third, down St. Marks towards an outdoor cafe and sat less than an arm's length away from two women--a principal and a teacher up for hire--professional, professional, professional until the principal dismissed herself without ordering anything and the teacher who, moments before, spoke with soft reverence, went hysterical "bitch, bitch, what a fucking bitch, I can't believe she didn't order anything, no it is not okay that bitch" and I couldn't help but tilt my head towards the woman, 40 and pimpled, to smile.
My commute home was silent but for The Real McCoy, which reminds me of none but that Yo La Tengo lyric and more importantly July 2006 when, under halogen lamp, I would revise while listening to Contemplation. I still think that song is sexy as hell. But all I wanted then is what I am presented with now--days spent lying in parks, looking at strangers with thirsty and solemn eyes, neon lights and solidarity.
On days like today I can't help but walk around with O'Hara on my lips, almost whispering to myself his most perfect ode to New York:
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much.
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