June 14, 2012


As I suspected, I've been hearing from Greg more near the end of this week than in the earlier stages of it. And that's fine. I know we haven't mapped out any set commitment to speaking and it's just...I don't know. What happened is this: I was in the Arena for a walk through yesterday to discuss turn over areas. Our turn over dates are purely insane. I cannot believe the promises we've made. But, whatever...it is what it is. And I'm now fully in the practice of "Instagramming" job photos when I'm out there because frankly, construction is art and it's becoming to see, especially in Instagrammatic filter format. So, after standing around waiting on the absentee crew for too long and accomplishing nothing, I walked over to the Practice Court framing to see the progress. And I shot the above photo, and it pleases me. Because Instagram can make anyone appear to be a photographer.

It was nearing 4 and I needed to get back to the office, so I basically ditched what was quickly becoming a non-meeting and as I circled Main Concourse, I checked my phone yet again for any word from Greg...anything, a text, an email. These are the reasons boy distractions are not in my best interest at the moment. I should have been peering at the job but instead I was weaving around palettes of tile and carpet and boxes of seating and debris peering at my phone. And guess what? An email from Greg.

If anyone could have seen the size of smile to spread across my face, it would have been crystal clear that my day (week) had just improved exponentially. And in his email, he apologized and said that he had literally just received my Monday email the night before, which means, who knows? Maybe he checks the particular address to which I email him less frequently than I do mine, or most people do theirs. I don't know. But I have no choice other than to trust his words. But he went on to say that he was en route to "Deep Jersey" to accompany his aunt at an awards ceremony as her "date" (endearing) and that he wanted more time to respond to my email. And mentioned something cryptic that still has me confused, but fine.

Quick shout out: my friend Gale gave birth today to Baby #2 - Miles Lloyd! Happy Entrance into this World, Miles! Love you already, little guy!

So then tonight there was a poetry event that I was supposed to attend, and Greg mentioned possibly tagging along. The invite was through a Lit Crawl committee member, Amy, but as time flew today for me at the Arena, I realized that getting myself to Tribeca in time for this event wasn't likely. And I was communicating this to Greg and Amy. And Greg sent me a few quick email inquiries about me being unable to go. I think he was somewhat hoping to see me tonight. I think. Maybe. Hard to tell. But it didn't happen, which is fine, because now, NOW, the next See Greg Date rests somewhat back in his court...or maybe not. I'm going to Williamsburg Saturday night to attend a concert followed by an LP-release party of friends of mine, and if something arises wherein Greg wonders what I'm up to on the weekend, I will completely invite him, open-ended, no strings attached, come if you wish.

I just like him more than I've liked anyone in such strong ways. So yes. But the thing is...he is completely deliberate. His intentions are followed by action or inaction. And I feel like I know him, after so many trillions (dozens, fine) of such long conversations...and I don't think he is in some market to hurt me in any way. I just think we're both in soul-searching modes that are difficult to run parallel courses with one another. And that, too, is fine. I will take what I can get. Because I'm...I feel very much like there is, regardless of baggage, a strong pull between us. And I like it.

The major other thing from my week is that I wrote a poem for the first time in God And Everyone Else Knows How Long. I owe my friends in San Francisco (through Litquake, the organization that helped to establish Lit Crawl) submissions of fiction/nonfiction/poetry for their online publication and while I've gathered several, I have still felt slightly obliged to write one piece of my own, and so I did, and it isn't terrible, but it certainly didn't receive the KB Quality Poem Stamp of KB Poetry Approval that other poems of mine have received...still, I thought I'd post it here (it's currently under advisement/editorial commentary with Amy) but it was yet another small stone I overturned that elevated my week. A poem! Inspired by the event I hosted at the knit shop in Brooklyn. And so here it is. And it is rough around the edges (or, to put it in more knitting-like terms, "the fray") but it lives because I breathed it to life. So, there's that.

La Casita Yarn Shop
She reads of being drunk on yarn.
Brooklyn, La Casita, Smith Street:
espresso, wine, yarn, skeins,
friends knit; she reads as their hands
implicate the wool. Drunk on yarn
snags me and I cling
to her woven words of weaving, knots, and what not.
I admire the room as if it were my own, the night,
the knit shop, boozy words braid a diamond brocade;
somewhere in me: unstitched purls, hands pulling apart, me, in reverse.
She reads of fish scale lace and silk pearl scarves,
the oculus of an eyelet,
against the delicate wave of her hand, she reads
slip, rib, plait; my fingers graft.
I want the words, to knit, to know.


<< Home