July in August

Came to Queens yesterday to stay the night. stayed up late reading No One Belongs Here More Than You, a book of stories by Miranda July. when I mentioned the name of the author to my mother, she spun around from the dishes in the sink, smirking.

That is not her real name. 

I sit on the Veranda in July? 

Please. I don't think so.

Today I am like a snail. I watched one with El last week in the garden, oozing up the side of the citronella candle. it's shell was almost transparent, luminous, and sat on its stretched-out body like it didn't belong. like a piano on a whale. 

One day I will have a camera. and one day I will photograph this for you. 

Move Out

Thought I would load up White Lightning and start the move from Brooklyn to Queens, but after looking into the garden and seeing the stormy sky and menacing, green-turning air, I think today is a packing day. moving is best done dry. no claps of thunder, slippy sidewalk, soggy cardboard.

days like this are better suited to prancing around in a red dress and lamenting lost loves and missed chances. I'll leave that to Kate Bush, while I play the more mundane role of person who puts things in boxes and then tapes up the boxes and then pushes them together near the door, then sits staring at the boxes for a while as if waiting for them to hold forth on life and how to live it. first: coffee.

Me Make Blog!

Make first entry homage to Bigfoot. write fancy just not worth it! not try so hard no more. think catchy, maybe not go back to old style, new style more fresh, more youthy. got so much to say, not care how! like little baby penguin, me make do with what god give me.