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.


Our hands are on the stage. We are too close for the subtler mix of instruments, the cello, the violin, the French horn. What we get is the percussive waves of bass and drums, the vibrations of the earth in our chests. The man behind me, I can feel his breath on my bare arm. I don’t want him to think about my shoulder, what it would look like under the street lamp by his front gate. I don’t want my face to make him make me promises he has never been able to keep, find fleeting faith in the light on my teeth.

I am home in 19 minutes after flipping off the pups that steal the first viable cab on the corner. Learning, when you are 22, that someone will cuss you out, in front of your girlfriend, for acts of rudeness, is important. This city is not so anonymous as one might think, and this may be your playground, but it’s my home, so take off your shoes and leave your mud on the doorstep. Dick head.

Strong Roumanian coffee and the delight at hearing “From Blown Speakers” played live and loud wake me up in circuits all night and this morning I am still jazzed on the train, but trying not to take up too much space with my joy. I’ve got a meeting at 9.30, a presentation at 10, a conference call at 10.30 and I am pulling this day with my teeth, pulling through to my promise, tonight I will run fast and hard, feel the pound and shake of the earth through my body, give myself what I need to create the thing that I am.


Post a Comment

<< Home