Marching into Summer

I love the Yellowstone franchise even though I’m a Democrat.

I do not talk of beginnings or ends. It’s May now. Dancing in July is not far off.

Daylight savings came and went and there’s a brewing mist of a storm’s reckoning in the streets as the gutters and drains welcomed a forceful outpouring of April showers…where’d all the time go? It’s sticky out and I can’t shake the heaviness of my knees and that recurring accelerated drummer in my chest when I see a tall man in the streets of Soho wearing sambas…all that’s left to haunt time now is the suffocating anxiety of being reminded of the past self…ChatGPT would never understand. Let it last a little longer, just a little, in the orange hue of the retired train cars of the old G. Time stood still then.

The sinking smell of maple brown sugar lingers on my fingertips like dizzying nursing home perfume, the sneaky residue of oatmeal fixation. Poems pass and dates expire. I’m waiting for summer holidays with wine at lunch and unexpected sun burns in just the right places.

As you desperately try not to make eye contact with the awkward waiter holding the bottle of Sancerre as he says “…how about a taste?”, you remember it’s only silly moments like these that remind us what it means to be in love. What a random injection, you think…your friends, glaring at you, motion for a response.

Sometimes ideas radiate from my brain like oozing strawberry jam and peanut butter seeping through the bread’s crust after taking a bite; if I don’t catch the PB&J filling now with my hands, the words, like my jam, will cave to gravity: fallen forever. Gold dust women. Take your silver spoon. Dig your grave.

New York summer has returned to cover the backdrop of winter’s thaw and our garden of eden is finally in bloom. I tried to reread Sense & Sensibility when I was in the ER with my mom and it made me sob, the words pitter pattered on as I paid no attention to Jane Austen. My mom asked, “Sense and Sensibility, that good?” No. It was the first chapter. We moved topics to the man next door who kept us entertained at 3am in the morning, it wasn’t until I realized he had dementia that he really wasn’t trying to mock the nurses…he truly did keep forgetting he was getting a blood transfusion.

To be in your mid-twenties is to be ill-prepared for the creeping feeling of knowing our parents are getting older, and accepting the exponentially inexorable passage of time. Why did we ever rush to grow up? The key to good writing is fleshing this out more but I won’t right now. When the United Airlines bag check attendant asked me if I had OCD when I was trying to put the sticky part of the bag tag aligned perfectly to the adhesive side, I realized my mom is always right.

There’s a congregation of mustached men wandering around Greenpoint with distasteful mullets and enough jangly keys hanging on their waists to unlock all the secrets of the Catholic Church. They wear their basses on their backs and you’ll never hear from them again. The couples of North Brooklyn have reemerged from hibernation and as they interwine arms in McCarren, hand in hand, with their lattes and Paloma pastries glued to their outer extremities, I smile like Keira Knightely’s role in Love Actually. I think I finally understand LCD Soundsystem. To the songs that withstand heartbreak.

The pigeons are hungry and the trash cans are full. If a bird poops on your shirt, buy one from a street market for $40 - especially if Jerry Garcia’s on it. This is what I spend my Sunday nights posting on Instagram: (see below)

If the G train is running on time, you’re witnessing history. This is a Small Win.

Small Wins right now: finding a scrunched-up dry cleaning receipt in the front pocket of your jeans after a night out. Burping without heartburn. Exercising without procrastination. Chatting with the kind, older Polish men at the neighborhood ice cream spot about how much they like the strawberry flavor. Gyms with good shower pressure. Scheduling a first date. Rollerblading in the park on a Sunday. Scheduling a second date. Biking to McDonald’s and successfully balancing the golden arches bag on your handlebars during your return. A good plum. Remembering to forget that time you saw dogs drinking out of the human water fountain. Getting to Thursday dinners on time. Stores in Greenpoint that sell suitcases but also happen to fix phones. Finding your roommates borrowed socks and underwear at the bottom of your drawer from last year…and even though she’s just downstairs, you keep the goods situated right in their spot, hiding behind your passport and old contacts, almost like a security deposit, a binding agreement that they’ll be in your life forever. Those socks are an anchor, a friendship lifeline.

I’m still thinking of Jane Austen and Sense & Sensibility and Pride & Prejudice and where women have come from, after the witch trials that is. From the dowries and the endless courting. From the corsets and carriages. From Queen Victoria and walks in the garden. The Bridgerton-era sure looks grand but could you imagine it? The maternal mortality? The sickness? The heartbreak? The rats? Is it really worth all the bewitching?

Also I love this quote, I don’t know who wrote it but I am sharing: <3

I have a poetry reading on Tuesday (its Sunday right now) and I haven’t decided what to read yet; if you’re Noah reading this (a generous friend and organizer of poetry reading - check out his book, Count the Dark, here!), you didn’t read this part and I will be prepared by Tuesday I promise. Thanks for this grand opportunity, I’m so excited and grateful. I’m sharing my favorite poem for inspiration below as well. Feels relevant now. But hopefully Pope Leo will redeem us. Bye for now and I’m so sorry I have taken so long to write to you, inspiration has felt grim but I’m getting back on track. As always, thanks so much for reading, I couldn’t do this without you! I am so thankful.

America
By Allen Ginsberg
I can’t stand my own mind. America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.   
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? 

Here is the full poem.

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