a diary of thought.
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www.poisonedpunchbowl.com |
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The wind sweeps the music from the park and brings it to my ears faded and haunted. I am trying to put my finger on why today smells so familiar, and I think it is the scent of lilac and freshly mowed grass. Lilac. Grass. I am shocked for a moment that I am in New York City smelling something so sweet, so familiar. Invisible, intangible memories from my childhood turned a corner on West 10th street and bowled me over. I stopped for a moment, breathed it in, let a little "Wow" pass through my brain. The wind carried alot of things today. Cheer mostly. But my gut still wrenched with the last few dregs of a stomach flu. The old Sicilian men at the Post Office where like characters from a film about a film about New York. They asked me about my tattoos. "Why did you choose that design?" they smiled "I'll always love a garden." "Garden of Eden" he said and I said "Not Exactly" to which they just laughed. New Yorkers are so uniquely pleasant. I thought. Especially the old New Yorkers. Maybe it takes awhile before the medicinal magic gets into your bloodstream. I know it's there and I know it's being pumped into my veins. I am breathing it. When will I feel it? Every single day since we have moved back, our house has played host to a parade of workmen. Gardeners, electricians, curtain installers, cable people, phone jack guys, computer guys, air conditioner installers and on and on. Their energy makes me insane. The alarm goes ooff at 8am and an hour later there are workboots stomping through our kitchen. Loud voices. The cats are hiding in cabinets. These men clunk around hunkered over and angry like. Tip things over, dent the walls and stay all day long. Soon all of this will be over. I have reached my boiling point. |
