Friday, June 20, 2003

I live on N. 1st Street, right off of Bedford Ave, a few short blocks from the river, albeit a river that is inaccesible because of ugly factories occupying the riverside space. But still, it is nice to look down the street, and see some sign that there is life, a huge natural system that this entire city rests on, is built open. You can catch a glimpse of it between the factories, can see it moving. Its waters constantly flow, and I sometimes, this flowing water is a scary thing to me. I interpret it as the literal fast-paced nature of time, how it streams past me and I don't want it to, don't know what to with it, feels as if we are not in sync, but should be, it is my fault, it always is. I want to be the person with the kitchen pot collecting the water from the bathroom floor spilling over the tub trying to slow down the surge, to prevent it. But then other times, I read the river as a reminder that yes, time is moving, but that this is not a bad thing. We have that Danish prince to remind us: "There is nothing good nor bad; only thinking makes it so." And, I think. Not always in the same way. And so somedays by thinking, I make the river a good thing. Nature, the earth right there, two or so blocks aways, coursing by as it has done for millenia, and I think to those early American settlers, traveling these rivers. I think to those last three paragraphs of The Great Gatsby and I remember the line about those sea travelers setting eyes on the New World, and "for the last time viewing something commensurate with man's capacity for wonder." Or something close to that. I can't remember the passage exactly. But I walk through days, and days, I walk through Monday into Tuesdays and into Wednesdays and I see amazing things, incredibly amazing things that sometimes even make me put my hand to my chest, and think Wow, this is good, I am so fucking lucky, but yet still, when I see the river, or when I see it as this important symbol, when I take more delicate notice of it, all that walking, and all those city wows seem a little less wow. I think that this is what it is about, right here, water, lots of it, so fucking much that it could drown the whole city, and it flows between Manhattan and Brooklyn, these cities are what are on the banks of this beautiful moving natural system. And I sometimes want the green. And when I see the river, those are usually those sometimes. But that is what books are for, that is probably why so many people in this city are always reading books everywhere they are riding, to reconnect with something more true (yes!, there is such a thing, and I am in pursuit, mad pursuit - pragmatism is for suckers!), its a way of looking at the river when you are riding on trains under this earth. It's a little vacation from the city.

In other news, Bonnie is going to be one of my roommates, the forth residence we will be sharing. I have still yet to actively try to get another job besides the Strand and now it is the weekend and I will have to wait until Monday again, at which point, I am sure, I will be bogged down with lots of trivial errands which really don't do me much good, but yet which are still neccesary for whatever reasons. I have also yet the most casual sexual encounter of my life. It was on my birthday. Ten dollars all you can drink. And I can drink, can drink a lot. I did. Somehow ended up riding in a taxi with a boy I started to jack off, got into my room with him, got naked, and that is all I remember. Also the first time I have blacked out. I have an internship/job working for a guy putting out gay travel guides. I lost Scrabble. I was without contacts for a few days, and was madly love with the faculty of sight, and pretty much damn near amazed with how perception is so delicate, and my mind wandered into a dialogue that always sounds silly, and sounds typical of acid-heads, wondering about reality and perception, the details of which I will spare you, you beautiful thing.

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