In Brooklyn, our hair is piled on our heads in sweaty knots, and all our clothes used to be other clothes – jeans, corduroy pants, long sleeved shirts. They have ragged edges and threads that remind us of who they once were. We paint the kitchen cabinets white, then spend the next three days picking paint off our skin. We sweep the floor, we drag tables and chairs around the backyard, we hang lights on the trees. We sweat, and we shower, and we sweat again. We drink iced tea and water with lemons and cucumbers and let our coffee get cold.
We open the document. We close it. We retreat. We wonder if there could be a life without this, if we really need it, if things would be easier if we thanked it for its time and walked away. We contemplate painting the door. We change the cats’ water. We open the document. We do laundry. We consider making soup.
I left my shirt outside during a thunderstorm and until 10 minutes ago, I had one of those dehydration headaches living in the corner of my face, but earlier today, I went down the hill and got a giant iced mocha, and thought about the book, and took this photo.
I woke up at 340 am and moved my pillows from one end of the bed to the other and propped the window open with a cup.
I bought two cans of cranberry lime seltzer and some double a batteries and a coffee.
I had a dream that I was part of a family whose home had been invaded by people who intended to kill them all…eventually. They were very strategic, slow moving murderers who for some reason did not care if we left the house.
I am worried about the cat.
I spilled coffee on my sheets and slept on them anyway.
Every single day, when it begins to get dark outside, I want to throw myself in front of it like it’s a car I could possibly stop from moving without killing myself in the process.
Everyone’s hair contains static electricity.
Last Thursday I cried in the ladies’ room in the basement of College Hall, next to the men’s room, which is supposed to be haunted by an angry male ghost. A bathroom is a strange place to cry, especially if you know the crying you’re doing isn’t done, that it could restart, and restart and restart, now, again, again.