I wake up at seven to a coffee grinder, to the surprise gift of sleeping through the night, no diphenhydramine, no desire to continue with the haikus. This is a weekend of rest from the fear of losing things. Let there be debauchery
Saturday mornings are gorgeous with no agenda. I am inside and out of sleep, rolling around eight million times (face the window, face the closet— I need to buy hangers that aren't from the dollar store) before I finally swing my ankles to the wood floor, crouch slightly, pull the hair from my face. Brush my teeth and disregard flossing, like most mornings.
The coffee is out and there is a stranger (a young man) on the couch. I smell toast from the apartment next to us and am once again astonished by how delicious hot bread can be. I rummage for dollars in a jacket pocket. I hit the jackpot with Hamilton. I walk to Little Zelda's in shorts, a fleece, and flip flops; the weather is tricky for December. I see Victor, who chopped our tree in half. We speak in Spanish (we mainly speak with our hands). I buy him a small black coffee and a cheddar apple scone. I immediately regret getting the weirdest scone.
I am back in bed, caffeinated, it's 8:30am, and the weight of The New York Times and all its stories are on my stomach. I can never read the entire paper but there's something about having it.
I write: a kitchen table/rungs like tree wire/and plastic gold
I realize: I have writing to do
I wonder: what a fucking week
I finish a science-y article on resveratrol for the freelance stuff, aka an exercise in trying to save money. But sometimes the payment comes in checks and I cash them and give it to homeless people who I think are not doing drugs. But I have no idea, really, but perhaps it's just weed in which case if I was homeless (or not) I'd want that too. However there was a man just today who followed me for two blocks, hand in his pants and tongue sticking out, looking at me like a piece of meat. I would not give him half a penny. I hope everyone understands how scary that can be.
But I am still home. I hear the stranger on the couch get up and leave. I count to 17 and then tiptoe back out to the kitchen for water and breakfast (not toast). The newspaper is now splayed on the table, easier to read. I stretch my hamstrings, I hang there forever. There is little light from the small window. I decide to go for a run.
I'm in shorts and a t-shirt because our entire world is changing. For the first few steps I think I will run 12 miles. Three miles in and my plan is completely derailed. My arms are heavy, my toes burning. I'm stupidly still running on a crumbled foot. I walk for part of it and I hate the fact I'm walking, but I am walking through ankle-deep leaves and it's really fun. The water fountains are frozen and it's 63 degrees. Everyone is confused about what to wear. I stop at the farmer's market to buy lavender, and half-dying from thirst and still wondering who that young man was.
(It turns out I run again the next day, and it's even warmer, and I walk even farther.)
How come I don't take buses more often? The two times I am on it this evening and it's amazing. This first ride was even free. This absolutely beats traveling underground, or miles high in the air, though I would rather crawl in tunnels to Europe, or Nepal, or wherever, than banish myself to the relentless skies powered by a fixed-wing aircraft propelled forward by thrust from a jet engine and unwanted whiskey. I call bullshit.
Anyways, buses in New York City are the best, even in traffic. It's so much better getting to see how the neighborhoods of Brooklyn blend: the B48 touches Lefferts, Crown Heights, Fort Greene, Bed-Stuy, Williamsburg, Greenpoint. You don't get those views on the G.
I once ran this entire city.
I'm on the bus to eventually be with friends. All of them have opinions about the best Christmas movie, though clearly it's Elf, and clearly I eat too many meat empanadas. It's 6pm and I'm wasted off of wine, debauchery.
More wine, movies, fire-escape spliff, another bus (empty) and eventually sleep. New York sometimes swallows me and I beg myself for fresh air one of these years. But for now it forces me to be better.
The next day I realize the only thing better than mountains are crockpots (chicken curry), and the only thing better than crockpots is finally coming to terms with the fact that I did the right thing.
