Spirit is Life.
It flows thru the death of me endlessly like a river unafraid of becoming the sea
A lovely summer day. Monkey and I walked to Park Slope and brunched at the Cornbread Cafe. As we sat waiting for our meal (which was very good--I recommend the C.C. next time you're in the South Slope), we started writing a short story. I got a little grabby with it, and I have a strong idea of where the plot needs to go, but I suppose it'll be a nice zen marriage sport to continue writing it with complete cooperation from both camps.
Then we meandered over to Harriet and Pilgrim's for their housewarming. They just moved into a great, airy garden apartment right on Seventh Ave in the Slope.
We didn't know anyone at the soiree, and the Monkster was feeling shy. This is a fundamental difference between us: I feel very comfortable walking into a party where I know no one. I will strike up a conversation with anyone, and can usually keep it going. But it's people I already know who I feel shy around.
With him (and, I suspect, most normal people), it's the other way around.
After we said our big goodbyes, we ran into a whole gaggle of our friends up the street, on their way to the party. There was an awkward moment of indecision when we had to decide if we were going to be Indian givers with our goodbyes and go back to Harriet-and-Pilgrim's now that we had our posse with us...but we opted instead to call it a day.
I felt a little bad about that, because I rarely get to see my friends anymore.
I picked up an old paperback copy of T.C. Boyle's The Tortilla Curtain. Until I can get my hands on Motherless Brooklyn, this is the fictive work that shall accompany me on the Metropolitan Transit.
write to me
powered by SignMyGuestbook.com