the fireflies are usually out by now. i keep thinking i'll saunter through the back door and there they'll be, dancing in front of my eyes like i hit my head on the kitchen cabinet because i was frantically decluttering instead of finishing a draft. it occurred to me the other night that i could just get a firefly tattoo on my left wrist, maybe from one of the guys on the bowery, so that if i was seized with the urge to go hunting at dusk i could stay inside, look down, and think, this one, at least there's this one. tattoos are a poor substitute for going outside, though, just as ricocheting around one's kitchen is a poor substitute for finishing a draft and sending it off, already. the joke's on me, though: now i don't know anything (instead of not knowing a few key things) about said draft!
i am somewhere in the summer's small intestine, i think. there's a whole lot of digestive imagery that one might apply to summers on the lower east side, and that is mostly not what i mean: what i mean is that i have been consumed, broken down a bit, if you will, and am waiting to be useful (don't say 'for shit to go down,' don't say 'for shit to go down'). leaving one's manhattan apartment in july is a bit like walking into a mouth, so this makes sense to me.
a dreadfully emetic something-or-other was making its way through my family when i went to santa cruz to visit my infant nephew and his folks last month. it was a bit harrowing for his poor big brother (when you're nearly three, puking all over yourself is pretty unpleasant). when the baby got the baton, he took it like a champ: he vomited toothlessly and joyously, a little winning slot machine! i spent most of june thinking i had a horrible bug but it turned out i was just writing.
1 comment:
"i spent most of june thinking i had a horrible bug but it turned out i was just writing."
ain't that the truth.
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