familiar frequencies on the radio
quiet drums in the distance
opened doors and admittedly possible pathways
distanced autonomies
vertiginous pinpoints.
=
oh to be cryptic, just like old times.
on another note, I feel myself slipping. it's 4:33. I have white whiskers for the hours. I am antennae for time. every day there are certain definite markets for what goes on determined by the endpoints of each cafe - ashbox closes at 6, tarallucci at 11. afterwards I am homeless and I walk around streets that welcome me even further. I am postponing wanderlust and so while impatient with it am equally thankful for nyc, these moments of summer. and at points the glint of a reflection in a store window or the amount of sun on one half of a building segmented neatly by a corner jutting out brings me forwards, offers premonitions, gives me a taste of autumn to come
=
something from a book from a stoop sale on Newbury St. that I bought for $1 this past june:
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
Elizabeth Bishop, Letter to N.Y.