Our sky was never darkened by a single cloud
At first I think they are speaking English, these wide-faced foreigners. Then British English, judging from the pitch their voices hit at a certain volume. A look at the way their mouths move alters this theory, too; then I see the blond hair—four heads of it, how hadn’t I noticed?—and the guide to New York City, in Swedish, on the table.
It’s one of those mornings on which it feels natural to tally all the pleasing things in one’s line of vision: the coffee girl, a German with ridiculous eyeglasses, a long stretch of Grand over which wiry Chinese and spherical Hasidim scuttle. Everyone walks slowly but for different reasons. Some are contemplative, some impaired, others listless.
Because it was cold out and a Friday, the afternoon felt more luxurious than usual. Indoor lights looked rich and yellow. At lunch time I found that I had a full box of donuts left over from an assignment, so I offered them to the group of sullen youth clustered outside the local high school. They became very excited and began to eat the donuts; there followed a donut fight.
On the way to the bank I passed four people in psychotic states. They did that discomfiting thing that psychotics do where they yell at no one while looking directly at you. I wondered why there were so many of these individuals in such a small area, and tried to remember if there was a halfway house nearby, but I don’t think there is.
Donuts Part II
On Monday a box of clothes arrived, unexpected, as a gift. It was the largest box I’d ever received. Of the many classes of objects that can be gifted, my favorites are clothing and food.
One psychological hypothesis for this fact is that I love presents so much I want to physically incorporate them or at least wrap myself in them; I think that in this case the facile explanation is the correct one.
I woke up later than usual and went for a run. It was cold out and the high schoolers down the block were clustered in tight groups. The air had that snap that you feel when you get out of the shower on a winter day. It is also the sensation of peeling off a wetsuit and finding your skin icy and sleek underneath, like the way you’d imagine a seal’s pelt.
Basic Instinct
Some things seem designed to be eternally surprising. Campari is always surprisingly bitter. Edith Wharton is always surprisingly acute. New York’s Chinatown is always surprisingly massive.
I don’t know exactly how big it is—many chunks of Chinatown are not contiguous—but I do know that I live in it, and also that I can walk thirty minutes in one direction and still not be out of it.
Yesterday I met someone on Mott near Pell for tea, and it was a different species of the neighborhood than I’d seen before—glitzier and more metropolitan, with DVD stores instead of old ladies selling rice balls on the street. My tea came with a preserved plum at the bottom; it mimicked the texture of a brain and tasted like ten things at once.
If you’re in the mood to be surprised, get off the 6 at Canal and try to cover all of Chinatown. Or, alternatively: eat a scoop of plain vanilla ice cream (always surprisingly good), download Kool Keith’s Sex Style (always surprisingly shocking) or try on a pair of Birkenstocks (always surprisingly comfortable).
“The figures preferred by childhood are invariably round— the ball, the hoop, the marble; also the fruits which it prefers: the cherry, the gooseberry, the apple, the jam tart…”
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We lay on the bed talking fervently about a secret plan. I was under a Mexican blanket; she wore a velvet minidress that served the same cozy purpose.
Our plan was difficult and multilayered. It required strategy and ruthlessness. We combed our past for hints on how to enact it.
Qué pena
