Yesterday and again today, I lied underneath branches, leaves, looked up to see the sunlight sometimes filtering its way through the mess of green shading me. There was a book in my hands, Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives.
Occasionally I would read from it. More often though, I would look at the leaves above me, at the families, couples, and single men sitting in the park with me, thinking how nice this place was, how lucky I am to live right across the street from this park. Thoughts shifted to the nature of sitting in parks, of loittering, of doing nothing but being in public with others sitting on benches just passing time, contemplating the nature of passing time. I am here and not here. Some pieces of me didn't make it in the move to this new house, new subway stop. New items are being picked up though and I am falling in love with some things, with some ideas, am dreaming about things in a way I haven't in a long while. I feel new and old enough to recognize that newness as something else. I still love Neil Young. I bought a bilingual Neruda book yesterday, a half-hearted attempt to pick up some Spanish. I am determined to learn it, all the more so because the fishmonger spoke no English today and placing an order proved difficult, proved embarrassing.
Last night, I fucked this man, the second man I have done this to, and enjoyed it tremendously. There was a book in my head.
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