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.


Countdown to this day

Albums I am trying to get through and incise into my head:
Ornette Coleman: This is our Music
New Pornographers: Electric Version
Liz Phair: Whip Smart
Lucinda Williams: Happy Woman Blues
Red Hot Chili Peppers: Stadium Arcadium

Shots of espresso this morning, sipping in bed. With ice, milk, almond syrup. I realize that this cannot continue. Recently I was out of milk at home and so went to the office uncaffeinated. With my boss out and me at the department’s helm and therefore generally frantic, I went to the office pantry and made myself a quart, yes, a quart, of regular coffee. I need an intervention.

New ripening strawberries on the front stoop. I neglected my French fraises des bois to death earlier this spring. I could hear them mewling and whining, begging me to water them, bring them softly from their cold-storage slumber. But I was too preoccupied. And so now I have Swiss alpine strawberries instead, aspiring on my high stoop which I hope is altitudinous enough for them. I will perhaps know by this weekend, when I anticipate my first taste.

At the inner corner of each eye, the beginning of the tender purple marks of sleep deprivation. This has been two months in the making, and I was wondering when it would happen. I have traded eight hours of sleep for five, quite on accident, or at least certainly not on purpose, my brain, my physical being, like a pair of kittens in a sack, rolling, tumbling, playing, sometimes to my delight, sometimes to my irritation, but always too early in the morning.

Dead car battery. Again! Which means one parking ticket today. Again! But why have a car in the city? Because this week I took the top down and drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, under its arches, sparkling water, brilliant sun, warm air. Be jealous. Or at least envious. Or ask me for a ride. I can't say no if you ask for one.


Blogger remue-menage said...

"your kisses are as wicked as an M-16/and you fuck like a volcano/and you're everything to me"

I remember when Liz Phair was this tough-talking, stage-shy - little Chicago hipster

in the glory days of my University of Chicago youth

3:09 PM  
Blogger ttractor said...

a line from what I was listening to this weekend...something like "the license says you'll stay until I'm dead, but if you're tired of looking at my face I guess I already am"


7:42 AM  

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