jolie laide

jolie laide

I started this when I lived in Brooklyn and struggled for grace in a city that grants moments of beauty and ugliness breathtakingly close to one another. Now I live in a place where things are a different kind of ugly and the beauty is pedestrian. I struggle with that.


Today the train sways perfectly in time with the music in my ears and commuting is time for reviewing recent pictures in my head.

The cop dusting for fingerprints, the shattered car window, her Easter bunny headband.

Turn around to exit the train and there is a tiny Spike Lee, solemn and owlish, a book folded neatly into his hands: John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men.

Clipping the vines and fussing over the dozen teeny heads of lettuce at the old house, and there is as always huge bumble bees, cargo jets, zeppelins, trundling gravid over the fence.

Saying good bye to my friend. The glare of the sun and I can’t tell if he can see me through the bus windows, so I stick both arms in the air and wave like crazy, joyous and grateful for laughter.


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