fish

fish in october

no one was angry at dinner.

the moon shone. they laughed, unfamiliar with the lightness.

it did not take very long to cook dinner,

only five hours.

---

can't draw.

late night TV on your phone, infomercial after ad as you scroll your feeds,

martinis, with a twist, one, two, netherland vodka because it's so good and clean,

the undesirable waft of your neighbor's smoke, cigarettes, sometimes weed, but the evening breeze is so needed in november.

insomnia is a familiar thing, like sleeping in your ex's bed, or laying awake with all the things that clog your mind.

poetry is not a diary, but what if I don't have enough story for a film? what if all I want are distilled photos of people in solitude, in the night, or in some alleyway at least.

well, that's a lie. sometimes i want to see that intimacy, proof that love exists in the little moments, all imperfect, like lovers tangled in their sleep through a window.

i want to be in the room where those looks exchange. why watch movies when you can watch people talk? is this voyeurism? no, i don't want to see them fuck. i want to see their souls when they shed their skins, put these feels in a globe where i can shake the snow and relive these things that matter.

my boss once said that being a bartender was like being on a stage; you perform for your customers, and give them what they want, but I don't think that's entirely right. I think the bar is a room, and the room is the stage for everyone else; you're just nudging the party to where it really wants to be.

out of here, out of here, the words i sang at the end when strumming to my own feelings, but never gave much weight to.

cat power finds me again, later in the season than before, and eight years later, and sings about how there's always something better, because you know there always is, and she's right, but i'm not sad for once, and maybe not sad not for the first time, but in some way that hits but not heavy.

i can tell.

the boys i would've given anything to be loved by are still around, older, but i wouldn't give anything to be loved anymore. i wouldn't've given anything for a while now. not that love's not worth it, but i don't feel like i have to give anything for something that is free when it's free.
sometimes i find that i have love to give, and it surprises me, but sometimes i think it's just the particular day when i've made peace with things.

i test my stories and questions and see what sticks. sometimes i find fish, and sometimes i find something that makes me feel something.

it's almost my birthday. i want to tell future selves, that things will be okay, that all things will be ok, and that nothing is as serious or dire or as singular and as only as you feel it is. feelings are such liars and so fickle, but yeah, when that wave of good feeling hits, yeah, it's a feeling, and you are riding on it like i am. happiness happens in strange moments, but sometimes you can see it happening, and you just edge it on.

not all days will be clear like this, but that is ok. you get through everything even if you don't believe you will. you were never a believer anyway, so belief's got nothing to do with what happens.

something i'm listening to :
the good, the bad, & the queen. damon albarn has yet to disappoint. one day i want to write music like this, but about something else.

something i'm writing, slowly:
short stories set in the distant future, and one set in the future that is already here

something i ate today:
a slice of half-week old pizza from some internet-recommended queens pizzeria, but it was good. the sauce was better on the first day. it tasted like it was made by someone's foodie grandmother.

some place i don't really want to go to again:
london. the food didn't taste like anything i'd want again. i didn't find anything i was looking for, except shallow creek oysters from borough market. they were delicious, and i cracked my first smile while i was there. i paid with a stack of coins, because that's how the british roll, and wondered if coin purses were a popular thing with old ladies in europe.

some place new i do want to go to:
hong kong. i think i'd find something there, probably food.

some place i'd like to photograph:
flooded salt flats after the rain at sunset, probably bolivia.

something i'd like to eat for dinner:
paella, or atkelt wat & injera.

thursday morning feels

it's thursday and i have reports and analyses to do, all due tomorrow so i am playing inoffensive morning work music, the stuff that would make you cry or something if you were young and lost in life in your twenties, and in love or in heartbreak or something, but instead, it's just pleasant good tunes. the singer has feels yeah, but i am bopping my head along to the beat. i like that these singers feel their feels, and i like that i don't have the feels that they are singing about.

30, and thursdays, and the americano i made with espresso from the deli down the block in downtown brooklyn fills me with something i am looking for. i take a sip, and can't taste bitterness at all; it is almost sweet without being sweet, and it is definitely mellow. it is a nice bean, and i don't even know what bean they use.

february is just another month, and this is just another week headed towards its close. the temperature of the open window and the heater in my apartment are just fine.