A tisket, a tasket.
It’s a Golden June. There is an unexplainable something about the light at 7pm in early summer; it’s an imp around every corner, it’s a yellow face behind your eyelids. It’s shady streetside oaks reaching into the sky, their branches meeting in an arch like fingers at a funeral. Bright birds land and shake them apart.
I have been practicing restraint, which is against the core of my nature. If I don’t eat, if I don’t drink, and instead swallow my words (spoken) and leave the dirty ones out (written), I will have a better chance of finding my own arches, branches and streets. They evade me. I have a feeling I’m going about it the wrong way…that I need to steep myself in me, in heat, rage, frustration, laughter (etc, I am not doing so hot with the word restraints).
15th street in Park Slope looks like it leads to the ocean. The light there travels down its incline, generating its own aura. I used to watch people walk down it and disappear. Engulfed by the sea, preserved by salt. Once I was at a bar, Dram Shop, the one that’s open until at least 5 and I was talking to this young boy and said something about 15th street and he was like “yeah, have you ever noticed that it looks kind of like the ocean?” and I nodded “yeah” but inside I was like, I will never forget this.
I wonder how many times we have said something someone else will never forget.
