I'm just an animal looking for a home, share the same space for a minute or two

What a weekend. Couple days in Nueva York, staying with Lisa and Chris and drinking cheap beer and sitting across from James Salter on the train, ate a psychedelic breakfast and drifted through the city, counting big, courtyard-prowling cats and Eastern European prostitutes and signs of possible evidence of some grand, Pynchonian conspiracy through the Francis Bacon exhibit at the Met, American Landscapes, the Frank Lloyd Wright Room, all the velvet curtains and embellished sofas and small doorways of the American Wing, the bemused expressions of the subjects of all the medieval art of which only mine eyes seemed capable of perceiving, the cloisters, the golden chalices, and, my god, did I mention that Francis Bacon. Munched on salads in the courtyard of the New School, strolled through a New York so perfect it'd put W. Allen's own embittered sentimentality to shame, sat in Prospect Park, perspiring and cynical, for hours waiting for Animal Collective amongst a collection of Brooklyn's most passionate fedora enthusiasts, eating cornbread, ice cream sandwiches, barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, blisters forming and formed, the show was alright, then back to Lisa's roof much later than expected for portobello burgers and corn and shrimp kabobs and herbal refreshments and a bunch of ridiculous dudes with their heads in the clouds and more Milwaukee's Best well into the night. Couple days in New Jersey, a late-afternoon trip to the beach with quite the dramatic ending, but which was, for the most part, an extremely lovely evening of sand-dwelling and swell-wading and people-watching, gull-gazing and Creedence-belting, ground-clutching, conscience-challenging. By the time the sun set I tasted, inside and out, like sea-salt and the faint hints of vinegar, and I was very wet and disheveled, and so was Brigid, and so I drove us home, in my bathing suit, my hair straw-like and damp, my skin sticky with soggy sand, up the six-laned Parkway to a candle-lit, ivy-infested porch and a couple beers, a bottle of Xanax and some quality peer-on-peer analysis, just too girls who've read far too much Freud. More drifting around the tri-state, trespassing upon Waterloo Village with my friend Bailey Miller, a bag full of Pynchon and a bottle of $3 wine, talks about god and the correct way to raise a child and ambitions too grandiose to quite process completely, peering in the windows of abandoned old Victorians with seatless rocking chairs on the shambled whitewashed porches, peeing in the woods, driving home tipsy. I drank a cherry float at the Magic Fountain and we played "Marry, Boff, Kill" for quite awhile, and then today, Brigid picked the olives off of my sandwich for me. Add one nervous breakdown in the middle of the night, a tense visit to my ex-boyfriend's house during which I was forced to watch old episodes of The Wire instead of the Mad Men premiere, the delight of snuggling with Becky's cats all night, and about 200 mosquito bites, and you get the picture. Summer is almost over. Thank Allah.