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.


Out of the subway at night and there hanging low in the sky over Fulton Street is the full moon. I stop to let it shine on my face, I want to feel it hit me, not the street lights, the stop lights, the shop lights, the headlights of this urban maze. I want the moon to light me up, its glow, its promise, I want that to enter me.

When this moon was waxing I stood on another city street corner and said my goodbyes to a friend going on a long sailing trip. We looked at the gorgeous moon along with the full bore honk and hustle of Flatbush Avenue and I thought of how the next time he looked, he would look at the exact same moon, but from Corfu, a place that sounds like wildness and whistling wind. I wish for him that he falls in love, with a place, a boat, a girl, and finds a way to live free of the grid and grit that defines us here.

Once a man edged into my life, as thin and golden as the slice of moon visible at the very edge of your night-time window. Like the moon he waxed glorious, and then he waned, and I could see him going, predict it, wish it would not happen, be powerless to stop the dwindling. Now, like the moon, he feels near but untouchable, both visible and remote.


Blogger Dr. S said...

I too am writing about the moon, and waxing, and waning, these days. This is lovely.

8:04 PM  
Blogger ttractor said...

thank you! yes, of course, you know, you reminded me to remind myself that I have full of the moon lately.

9:11 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home