thought vomit

so the weekend starts like this: sitting inside on a perfectly sunny day with a stella and tired. i feel bad about what i don’t post here, want to post more, have schemed modes of persuasion, haven’t really come up with anything except--you know those websites you stumble across where families take pictures of themselves on the same day every year for infinite years? like these guys . well here’s a picture of me, right now, riding my bike along the Hudson:



i think if i were to do that project, but once a day instead of once a year, i’d probably only incriminate myself as to how often i do not do my laundry. i’m not interested in lying today.

this weekend will be fine. it started at WNYU. my word vomit can now be found in the middle of The Sound Between on thursdays in the wnyu.org archives. i like it there, the station: all technical and hushed and, god save my vocabulary, alternative.

tomorrow’s going to be southern cooking and vodka, good friends and company down in the dirty; the financial district that is. there are few trees in the financial district, unlike central park, where i spent a good portion of last weekend. it is one of the only places here i can see the season’s change. that’s what this place misses, manhattan. here, there is no turnpike, foliage turning from that solid green to brown, or even the occasional yellow that distracts like a flare from the road.

that's all it is here, distractions. distractions like right now (all of that elapsed time to do what college kids do: veg out on the worst furniture you've ever experienced and watch finding nemo all slit-eyed and giggly). i have nothing more to say except for i'm listening to the prince song that's been stuck in my head all week, and it rules.

just woke up with peter gabriel's in your eyes stuck in my head and i don't know why but it was almost comforting, like the weekend.

finally got to redeem myself to mr. charles simic on thursday night--he did a reading at the creative writing house on w. 10th, and when, trembling, i handed him the book i had just bought of his (the monster loves his labyrinth) he smirked and looked to me and asked in thick yugoslavian english, "they sell 'dis here?" and i told him everything i had put into verse in my head in the past few weeks. and it was not gratifying in the end, really.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

-Dylan Thomas