Update

Been about a week or two of almosts. T.S. Eliot power-naps. Yesterday, as the train pulled out of the cloudy green swamp of Suburban Station, through the equally murky lenses in my face I noticed a briefcase standing solo on the platform. Not the type an executive would carry, but made of plastic. There was a crest or an insignia on it I couldn't make out. As the train pulled away I tried to snap a photo but the air was too thick with ghosts--who the hell decided on that paint color for the train station anyway? I expected somebody to scoop it up, but nobody did.

I keep on brushing fingers with the future. For a few days I catch a glimpse and I'm riding high, but then the tiny hooks of routine pull me back down again.

Here's what I mean: we signed the lease. We went out to dinner to celebrate: there was beer, laughter, things were invented and big plans were sketched out. The next day I drove to South Jersey to hang out with Rachel and Brenda. Rach and I went to Home Depot and pulled a bunch of paint swatches, then went out for pizza. The sky was overcast, and it seemed to me that everybody in the restaurant knew who Rach was. There are these weird self-contained pockets in South Jersey. I can't really describe it but it's disorienting. Frank Sinatra karoake was going on in the pizza place, and the guy singing was INCREDIBLE, I mean really impressive. I recorded some of it, and I've been trying to figure out how to post it here, but m3u file extensions are difficult. Anyway, I felt like I'd slipped onto another planet. To further the feeling, the recording I made stated that the date was the 27th. That was last Saturday. Today's the 28th. Whoops, I guess I live in the future.

We went back to Rach's and hung out in the hot tub(!), then watched "Pulp Fiction" and crashed. I drove back to Philadelphia early Sunday morning and was too tired to do any hardcore cleaning, but I cleaned up some and cooked a whole lot--2 loaves of homemade bread, curried cauliflower, potatoes, and peas.

Monday Rach came to Philly again, and we took the swatches to the apartment. We picked our colors, which are something like the following:

Rach's room: Kind of a light, minty green-white.
Kitchen: Orange burst! Satin finish.
Bathroom: A different shade of green, satin finish.
Living room: Purple!
My room: Sort of a rich red-purple, the color was "pomegranate" something, satin finish.

The painting should be done in about a week. Then we can start moving stuff in, and I can probably move in early.

So Monday was thrilling. And then Tuesday, yesterday, reality kicked in. But then a sudden attack of determination on the walk to 30th Street. I'm not sure where these come from, but they're a blessing. Called Emily when I got home:

Me: You wanna go to the batting cages?
Emily: I just got home, but I was SERIOUSLY JUST THINKING about going to the batting cages. I wanna hit something with a bat.
Me: Yes, exactly!
Emily: Tuesdays are the worst.

I have a theory that Tuesdays really are the worst day of the week, and now she's confirmed my suspicions. The result of the conversation? We're in agreement, and weekly trips to the batting cages are to ensue.

So yeah, that'll teach the third day of the week to be so dreary.

Things are good, I guess. Leveling out, being sensible, staying active. Tomorrow my first review for LAS is going up! I surf craigslist every day for writing jobs and opportunities to make a little extra money. Bard on Saturday, New York and then back here on Sunday.

Oh yeah, I've been giving a lot of thought to getting a tattoo. Don't know why, but I really want one. Still haven't settled on it. I've been thinking about getting that key I used to wear around my neck on the inside of my right arm. But I also like the idea of having a line from Mayakovsky tattooed across my back--Cyrillic script is lovely. Spent a good portion of yesterday at work perusing for That Perfect Line. Kept a list of potentials, but none of them is just right. Which isn't to put down V.M., of course. What always really gets me is that stubborn humanity that he tries to stamp out but can't. Finally, I think, it got to be too much for the poet--you can see the shift in his writing. Then it got to be too much for the man.

It's painful to read. Here's what I'm talking about.


Past One O'Clock, by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated by Max Hayward and George Reavey

Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
to balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.