Them big apples
I walked for hours tonight. In heels. Got blisters. Didn’t care. It was a lovely night.
I’ve taken to walking alone at night, and I quite like the routine. Used to do it in high school — I used to run at night — just to clear my head…and to impress my high school boyfriend, then a track star, now a gay go-go dancer, but that’s an entirely different story. Tonight there was a smoke stack over Harvard that looked like a sea horse, and there was a puddle that looked exactly like a donkey. Old tires and new flowers intermingled on the edge of private gardens. See, there’s a little country even in this city.
Been having some sentimental moments lately, though I won’t go into detail, except to recount tonight’s editorial while babysitting: the dad wanted to know if I’d be (true to my own fashion) picking up and leaving Boston again soon. I told him no, I signed a contract at work, I’ll be here for a while yet. “Good,” 8-year-old I. said in her overly articulate way. “I don’t want you to move away. I like you. I want you to keep being our babysitter.”
I really think self-worth has everything to do with what children think of you — or at least it should.
I’m going off to NYC tomorrow. It’ll be my first opera at the Met (Tasca), and while that’s quite exciting, I’m more looking forward to Saratoga next weekend with The Funny Ladies and a bunch of New York horses.
Yknow, I really have to stop being such an asshole and start writing back to my friends. I honestly don’t know how I still have any friends, since I never ever stay in touch with them. Man, I’m such a jerk.
The best line Hugh McGowan ever wrote, aside from “Sattled and spurred by regrets, my horse kicked her heels and she left” was: “So again I turn to this — another poet’s absolution — as if I could write it down and make it go away.”
My favorite thing about living in Somerville is having a bathtub.
My favorite thing about writing online is you don’t have to make any sense or maintain consistency, and you can be as selfish and confessional and bleak and uninspiring as you want, and people will still read you anyway. It’s a new kind of autobiography, a renewed communication based less on human interaction and more on emotional bonding with complete strangers and their individual experiences. I would write a thesis on this idea, but (ha ha!) I am no longer a student. And so it’s all for you.