February 11, 2012


Hey blog. My commitment to writing has clearly been insignificant not as per my resolutions for 2012. WTF! No, really, seriously, I've been writing a lot lately. Just not here. So I'm ducking in for a word or two. How are things?

Things are just about as good as one makes them (lemons and lemonade come to mind?) I find this to be true on so many levels. Where to even begin then?

Above pictured are things that have/will have made me happy in the passing months: delectable dessert, East/West Coast oyster platter, Irish coffee, McClure's Pickles secured yesterday from Bklyn Larder on Flatbush. Then there's this:

Concrete hands picked up the telephone ring
Do you know who you're talking to?
No, and I don't care who
-no name #2, elliott smith

So yeah. There's all that. A conglomeration of foods I've devoured or will be (the pickles today at Kim's UES apartment) or drinks I've downed. Lyrics striking me now. The usual. Melancholy rears its ugly head these days, maybe because it might snow. Maybe other things?

I guess I haven't really begun this blog post rather have just thrown up a little all over the Internet. So I shall begin.

I think I'm alive based solely on my job. Pathetic and embarrassing to admit, right? Whatever, it is however true. It is basically the only heart-racing, pulse-sounding, living and breathing thing that I hold in my hands each day. And I love it. And I hate it. And will continue to do so.
Both. Love, and hate.

So I'm in a few book clubs. For one, we're reading Jane Eyre. How could I have missed Charlotte of the Bronte sisters?? She's the best one! I love her character Jane, love her! I was Jane! Women, we all were! We still are!

To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity I doted on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation.
-jane eyre, charlotte bronte

Anyway, so there's some KB love to throw out there. Reading remains magical. Books are medicine, of the best variety. Really.

What else, girl?

Last night I went out with two friends, Suzanne and Koryn. It was my first time meeting Koryn, but I was madly in love with her from the moment I laid eyes on her (platonic, of course.) We met at The Strand in Union Square with the intention of attending what The Strand was calling a "literary speed dating" event, but the 3rd floor restored book level where the event was being held was loaded with women...there were like 10 men, maybe 2 of them slightly attractive. Go figure. But the entry fee was a Strand book card ($20) which basically means I now have a card for $20 to go spend at The Strand. Needless to say, Suzanne, Koryn and I did NOT proceed with attending the event itself.

So we headed across Union Square...can I say something?

Suzanne is beautiful. She's this meek lovely earthy San Francisco thing (that's where she's from) and I think she's just adorable. Koryn is slightly more aggressive but also just as beautiful - I won't speak on behalf of me as the third of the trio because I barely know who I am anymore...but three girls wrapped in pea coats, scarves, hair flying behind us, in boots or cute shoes, laughing, pointing, planning, moving...traveling through Union Square on our way to the Old Town to get Koryn a burger...it was a New York moment last night, for me. Fuck all the shit that has befallen my life. Last night meant something. We got to Old Town and had to wait for a about half an hour for a table but we got one, and we sat and laughed over the awkward nature of men, the throes of life, the words in books, the things that intricately embroider our days. It mattered.

We disbanded really early. Suzanne was going to dance salsa and I could have gone to watch but Dario was texting me to come meet him (didn't wind up doing so.) I came home and for whatever reason, when I'm somber (yet so happy for my New York moments with those girls) I text the recently mentioned guy that I kinda like. We texted for a long time but the story is long and involved and dark and cold so I won't really launch into it here. But we did text until I fell asleep and I just kept thinking...why aren't you here? He's got plenty to face. I get it. I don't get it at all. I want to punch the wall. I want to throw things. The usual.

What else, girl?

Mom's going through radiation. I have a hard time talking about it because I don't know what "cancer" means. I think it means the Universe is taking a dagger and stabbing it into my Mom, which is just mean. And uncalled for. My Mom is a really good and decent human being. So yeah, regardless if anyone reads this ever, because I don't advertise that it's available for viewers, I'm going to say two words and they are going to forever resonate with me: FUCK CANCER.
(i think my mom can beat it. i pray.)

What else, girl?

Ok, so I definitely have been extremely remiss in my music listenings. I know. It's just...everything, everything makes me cry. Everything. Name it. Cute baby? I cry. Pretty sushi? I cry. Nice manicure? Sob my eyes out.

What the fuck is wrong with me??

This is why I will not get my iPhone synced (or whatever) with my music library (or whatever.)

If I have music in my phone, I will listen to it, and I will sob on the 4 Express train. Do commuters really need that during their morning ride into work?? Thus, I avoid the tunes.

Oddly, life stabs me right into the internal organs or appendages no matter what it is I'm doing. Working? Life stabs my forearm with a butter knife. Writing? Life shoves a steak knife into my jugular. Thinking...? oh, life loves that one...take the dullest pencil, life, and push it repeatedly into my brain, right where the thoughts are piling and hurting. Maybe this is all why I have such little room to love.

So there's all that.

Do I love New York City anymore? Of course I do. It's crazy here. It's odd that people don't know how to walk* on 23rd in Manhattan, or along Bergen in Brooklyn. They stop and sag and check their phones and look up and look down and contemplate breakfast or no, and they just get in the way of everyone else (we all do.)

*Is there really a "way to walk"? Am I just tired in this town? Have New Yorkers always walked so badly?

Maybe New York is shoving a giant stake into my gut and I should get out of here. But no. I can't. I'm addicted to this.

Ok. Clearly I have covered massive amounts of unrelated territory in this post. Cool. And now Pandora is singing me the Cure...I'm alive...I'm dead...I'm a Stranger...much love, KB.