listen: isobel, po' girl
i read 27 pages of infinite jest and lucy knisley's french milk but mostly, the last week was strongest at its moments of looking up from pages, clanging the bookspines closed. this morning, i walked through rough icy streets with a clothbag full of research tomes, slipping them into the library before the beginning of day. (i thumb through the pages, erasing marginalia & brushing off the rain.) i rode the no. 20 bus route & took red-door photographs, the ones i've held off so long, like settling in the comfort of this vocabulary that sometimes rhymes with concession. i follow far along our patchwork story.
coffeeshops full in the potential of the morning, jazzstandards & the weight of my unread book, new acquaintances & cellophane buckets of impossibly orange roses. (more than anything, this city has taught me about the inescapability of place, the way narratives pile up & clutter the hollow places between buildings.) it seems that all i have ever wanted is to plait motion with stillness.
and you measure seashell pasta over the boiling water, your hands rich & generous once again. i arrange the dinner plates like a mirror with wine-glasses on the right and the left. we drink our wine. we sleep.
a gloomy monday reading about koltès: modes of being that cannot be dealt through rational appeals, the capacity to affirm death in a surrealist manner roaring through the classical form of a play. love as something kept radically separate from the substance of touch. but mostly, i've been thinking through different conceptions of food: the architecture & aesthetics of wild sweets chocolate or secret masterworks from ferran adria's laboratory. a borrowed copy of brillat-savarin's physiologie du goût & revisiting this.
i keep having emerald dreams.
coffeeshops full in the potential of the morning, jazzstandards & the weight of my unread book, new acquaintances & cellophane buckets of impossibly orange roses. (more than anything, this city has taught me about the inescapability of place, the way narratives pile up & clutter the hollow places between buildings.) it seems that all i have ever wanted is to plait motion with stillness.
and you measure seashell pasta over the boiling water, your hands rich & generous once again. i arrange the dinner plates like a mirror with wine-glasses on the right and the left. we drink our wine. we sleep.
a gloomy monday reading about koltès: modes of being that cannot be dealt through rational appeals, the capacity to affirm death in a surrealist manner roaring through the classical form of a play. love as something kept radically separate from the substance of touch. but mostly, i've been thinking through different conceptions of food: the architecture & aesthetics of wild sweets chocolate or secret masterworks from ferran adria's laboratory. a borrowed copy of brillat-savarin's physiologie du goût & revisiting this.
i keep having emerald dreams.
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