No Sweeping Exits or Offstage Lines
The ride out to Bay Ridge seemed to take forever. Outside, it was still raining. At least, underground, I was dry. In between reading Corey Greenberg’s essay on epiphanies and Wes Phillips’ e-newsletter on ripping LPs, I sent you a text message which you would not receive, writing simply to thank you for making me feel betteras you always dowith the way you listen and the way you think, the way you smile and the way you nod.
I’ll say that Mr. Conduso’s comment really hurt my feelings. I’m not embarrassed. At first, I felt silly and sensitive and even thin-skinned, but now, it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I feel good. While I do consider myself strong, I never want to be callous. I can understand him being bored by the blog, sureand my advice to Mr. Conduso would be to immediately rid himself of all things in life which bore him, my blog includedbut what did I do to make him so mad? Everyday, I’m amazed by how kind people can be, but I’m also amazed by how cruel people can be. I guess things balance out, and balance is good. Overall. More or less. Good enough, I suppose.
But not nearly as good as dinner last night. Finally climbing out of the subway tunnel, and again into the rain, I was immediately overcome by the feeling that this would be a very important experience. All around me: motion and light, a string of blue-glowing beads connecting one place to another, a pizzeria, a Dunkin Donuts. It’s strange how familiar Brooklyn always seems to me. I know my way around by feeling, even at night. I made it to Joan and Wes’ place right on time and enjoyed a tour, followed by a Brooklyn Lager, followed by a delicious meal.
Wes showed me around the kitchen: "And did I tell you about the liquor cabinet? Some fine stuff in there. It’s yours to explore and experiment with."
This is an audiophile tweak, I assume. I’m looking forward to it. As if I didn’t already feel spoiled.
"The hi-fi will be the Viola Labs preamp and power amp, along with the Ayre Universal player and the Penaudio loudspeakers," Wes shows me. "Ought to be fun," he says.
I smile and nod.
I was thinking about it this afternoon, and yes: a blog is a terribly pretentious thing.
And today: We’re standing in the deli across the street where she gets her afternoon cookiea pleasure that I will missand the sky is still coming down. Yes, still. I splash the apples and tomatoes with rain water from the sunshine-yellow umbrella because I hope it will make you smile. I love your smile even more than the song coming from the deli’s little boombox, and I love this song so much. I have to search to find the origin of the music, and finally see that the boombox is hidden up near the ceiling, and it sounds just fine to me right now. I want to grab a couple of beers from the fridge and go sit up there on that piece of plywood with you and with you and just stay there, singing and singing and singing. Singing and singing and singing. Singing Wild Horses.