minor notes

i.
tuesday

was waiting for the light to change, five minutes to work, three black coffees to order, one with hazelnut, no room for milk, and standing behind the curb, a car speeds by too quickly, too close.

it hits me, a bump, a sudden swipe; it send me back a step, and the first thought, my god, my toes are alright; god my hands fucking hurt. and they are numb & in agonizing pain, all at the same time. hand bruises on the skin, the bone; my right hand is bleeding at the knuckles. the second thought, thank god no children were with me. it would've killed me if they got hurt. the third, wow, i've never been hit by a car before.

the people behind me said it was a police van in some chase; did you see the plate? but i am five minutes to work. i already have too much on my plate; i don't need more paperwork, with the film, and everything else i need to take care of. i have a film to make, and work, and projects.

the light changes. i cross; my hands are still in too much numbness & pain for me to determine if the bones are broken. the cashier stares at my bleeding hands. i order, nonchalant, "three black grandes, please, one with hazelnut, no room for milk, thank you." i go to work, and i worked.


ii.
wednesday

i am writing. bleeker on the platform, and it is my favorite notebook cradled in my arms, and my favorite fountain pen in my hand, when it slips from the cap, and down onto the tracks. and i see it, this beautiful gleaming silver instrument. and the train is pulling in.

i start walking to the transit booth; it is my train and i am late for my destination, but my beloved pen is on the tracks. the doors open, and i am almost at the station gate. the transit workers have a tool, a long rod that grabs dropped items, so that transit riders no longer take agency, to jump down to tracks, to save their objects.

elina saved her ring from the tracks, once. it fell, and she immediately jumped down to get it. we all helped her back up. i might've jumped onto the tracks, but i saw the train pulling in.

and reaching the gate, i see the train behind me, lingering for that last moment. and i turn around, and i get on, and i sit down. the doors close.

i pull out another pen from my bag, and i resume writing.

the fountain pen, was an expensive gift to myself. it was a memento. i wanted to remember the night i bought it, and the night i bought it, it was cold, and i was angry & bitter. but i don't remember the feeling. i think there was forgiveness. and there was always punishment.

there's nothing fair about love, but it wasn't about love. and then it was. and then it wasn't.

and i didn't want the pen anymore. it was dirty anyway. i would never love it the same. i don't think i really loved it anyway. i just loved that it was a shiny fountain pen.

i just loved the emotion that compelled me to buy it. it was recklessness & fury.

i missed him. i missed the feeling. it was a tired fantasy, and i wanted something else.
what is real anyway? when have i ever had anything real?

bodies and storylines. it was a good show, but it got sustained too long. nothing is real. strawberry fields forever. i'd like to punch him. i'd like to punch him and fuck him, and be like, fucker, i love you, you amused asshole, you purposefully unfeeling bastard. and he will be like, "i'm sorry. i don't know if i love you. i don't know if i love anyone." and i'll be like, "okay. goodbye." and he'll fuck me because the commitment issues we're playing on, are hot. and that'll be love & not love, right there. we never wanted to be together. i never wanted to be with him. i still don't want to be with him.

the pen is on the tracks, and i don't want it. it's just a pen. it's just a fallen, literary device.


iii.
thursday

i couldn't wake. evening fell, and i drifted in the city.
the market was open. things everywhere. a watch i wanted last year. painted copper. artisan work struck my fancy, but i saw it before. monocles on chains, & glass time spheres.
macarons & tacos. arancini under lamps. tastes & colors, but i have no hunger.

karaoke bars & comedy clubs; in, and out. it's song restlessness.
at a quarter past ten, i wander into a used bookstore. the literature sits on shelves, like discarded lovers. the poetry doesn't stand out. my heart is on hold. i am waiting for something to catch my eye, and i am looking. i look at every shelf. i find works i used to love, but i don't love them anymore.

i already have all the things i love.

i am just looking for one more. it is late, and i find it so hard to go home. i just want one thing i love, to go home with. eleven. nothing. i settle for cobain's journals, and a copy of death of a salesman. i'm not sure i'll read the former. i loved miller the summer i was fourteen.

i go home. the diary of cobain at twenty-one keeps me company on the train. he's funnier than that dark, pessimistic bastard who used blondie-bombshell. realism is ugly sometimes.
cobain loved love, though. sometimes realism is pure, heartfelt gorgeousness.


iv.
friday

work. movie. jared leto is amazing. sleep.


v.
saturday

snow flurries.
i fall in love in this kind of weather. wandered around in a skirt & my favorite grey t-shirt in the snow. in an uncharacteristic move, i describe the snow, as romantic. the woman replies, i'm not twenty-five, or thirty, or forty, or fifty. i'm sixty-four. when it snows, it's cold, and i slip.

one man kisses my hand as he signs his check. he's in drunk with me, asks for my number, asks if he'll ever see me again. and i reply, i'm always here. he says, i've watched you all night. you're an angel. i smile politely, & excuse myself.

one man punches another as i'm changing the song. a brawl breaks out. there was one woman, and many drunk men; helen, we'll call her. she likes the attention, secretly. they are all fighting. i hate brawls. they're knocking everything over. i am trying to push the duking men away from each other. one is pinned to the floor, the other to tables. they are lunging at each other. they are all hitting each other. we're kicking them out; we're calling for the cops. one guilty party runs. the other guilty crowd remains, & pretends to be innocent. we clean the mess, pour drinks. these people were all looking for a fight all night, and they found it.

i feed someone else's rabbits afterwards. the apartment is a mess. there is not love, but bowls of rotted food in the fridge, and a window-fan leaking the cold into the space. the toilet was left running. i fall asleep underneath my coat, on the couch, where i've slept before, when the space was less gruesome.

i have nightmares. i see things that mirror myself, but of different light, different allegiances. angeli, and not. it's only seven-thirty, and i've only been sleeping for a few minutes, but i can't bring myself to stay, so i go. i don't like bad vibes.