Thursday 15 April 2010
"I am the eye with which the Universe beholds itself and knows it is divine."
Long lunches in the West Village: bowls of plump mussels and steak frites in saffron and double espressos, one after another; sunbathing and stiff drinks in mason jars and Super Scrabble on mattresses and homemade veggie burgers and guacamole and cherry pie and extra spicy Bloody Marys (tingling lips) on Lisa's roof; mini-golf and big, meaty burgers with Gareth, medium rare, talks of Business school in Switzerland, and will we still be able to do this when you're married. Mustard-yellow army jackets and horn-rimmed glasses; late-night club sandwiches and Maltese Male Models named Dante in Brooklyn; awkwardly avoiding eye-contact with Jesus as he hung on the wall of the New Museum, then following him down into the subway, wondering if it was all part of the act; driving and smoking, driving and smoking; cramming Wordsworth and Shelley into my brain while Brigid rides her one-eyed horse around the ring and my skin turns pinker and pinker in the Simmering Spring Sunshine, the soft breeze, the still grass, dotted with dandelions.
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Perhaps this could be perceived as negative, but while reading a certain novel this morning, it reminded me of you so strongly and then I come to work and read this---especially the final paragraph---and a coincidence occurs. But I like what you want.
Elaborate please..
I tend to replace female literary characters with you; I'm not sure why. But I'm reading The Bell Jar, which usually reminds me of Julia Stiles (cos she's reading it in 10 Things I Hate About You). Esther Greenwood applies for these colleges and when rejected reflects upon her existence that until that point has centered on her academic achievements, and then slips into the depression and what-not. I dunno, this doesn't all make much sense. But you asked me to elaborate so I have, albeit clumsily.
"Ah, Sylvia Plath – the poetess whose tragic suicide was misinterpreted as romantic by the college-girl mentality."
All roads lead to Annie Hall.
I'd say I'm generally more Cliff Huxtable than Esther Greenwood, even if I do like to mope about my failures.
So when do you turn fourteen?
Next week and if my daddy doesn't get me that white BMW I wanted then it will be the worst birthday ever.
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