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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Sunday, August 28, 2005

T.S. Elliot on TV

"It is a medium of entertainment which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet to remain lonesome." (1963)

Katie Ford

"Nothing wants to break, but this wanted to break,
built for slaughter, open arches to climb through,
lines of glassless squares above, elaborate
pulleys raising the animals on platforms
out of the passaged darkness.

When one is the site of so much pain, one must pray
to be abandoned. When abandonment is that much more--
beauty and terror before every witness
and suddenly you are not there."

Monday, August 22, 2005

New York

In the Verb Cafe in Brooklyn. Some indie label cacophonous strumming loud out of mini speakers over my head, a scruffy Jewish college student reading Bronte beside me as he holds his hand over the mug to keep his coffee warm. Maybe everyone just wants to leave home. I wait for my things driven by a stranger across the country, to a new place, on a hunch.

Later, in Hudson. Opened a bottle with a cork that said "wine with hope." Living in a historic house, the sounds of cicadas outside and Musty Chiffon, (a drag queen having cocktails) out my rapunzel window. John Ashbery across the street. Everything is old and empty and ready to be made into something. Two people told me they saw my ex today and I read his last post on SE's website and this time have to admit it has substance. People are all paradoxes. It's as if he read my earlier comment about exoticism, but of course, he didn't. He's could care less, is shoving quarters in slots and making promises, and frankly, it's really okay with me.

Something else is going to happen, something better.

Sunday, August 07, 2005


Today I swam in the long blue pool on the campus where I landed here in California. A man found me from New York and wrote me a letter. I'm suspended somewhere between two lives, growing increasingly comfortable on this beam. Another man came up to me at a party tonight, said, excuse me, I'm in love with your face. The fog hung around the hill. There were tiny black and white photographs on the spice rack. I am the woman I set out to be: an artist, free. But now I want more. I look for the man I sit in a closed room with outside in the world. Is his face in the clock, the silver car? California is a highway. I'm looking for a home: rainwater, jasmine. Eucalyptus flower. Let down your hair. I like to see a sad woman loved.

Monday, August 01, 2005

cryptomnesia, or is this anything

maybe I can't leave anywhere without someone desperately wanting me to stay.