strike another match, go start anew

I have packed up my little spiral shell.  My collections can now be found at www.thehypnotistcollector.com.

red hook

back in the high line again

The High Line is finally open!old and new

above it all

I’m sure it looks better in the sunshine

signage

Sunday sunset

I’ll even kiss a sunset pig

My mom is the best.  Here’s the bouquet she put in my bedroom, awaiting my return (all the flowers are from her garden):

I just read that women have more nightmares than men, but that the scent of roses can prevent them.

Also waiting for me were these really cool shirts:

Solid Gold Rags!

Thanks SGR!

My mama and I took a beautiful hike my first morning.

Gnarly tree

This guy was not camera shy.

This stick pile looks like a nest for people

Redwoods make you feel little

There’s something special about the California sun

Roadside BBQ

Fish out of water

The reason for my homecoming was my brother’s graduation from law school.  To celebrate we got drinks at Maxfield’s, one of the 7 best bars in the world, according to Esquire magazine.  Their Maxfield Parrish mural is reason enough to go.

Congrats Jonathan!!!

homeward bound

I love this song.  It’d be great if somebody sang it to me, but I’m already back, so too late

Come back from San Francisco.
It can’t be all that pretty,
when all of New York City misses you.
Should pretty boys in discos distract you from your novel,
remember I’m awful in love with you.

–The Magnetic Fields

new home

Here is what my new home is like:

Welcome!

My first breakfast:

The first thing I unpacked:

Appropriate.  [translation:  I believe, in essence, that I am a gypsy.]

I found this book the other day at Skyline Books.  I’ve been looking for it forever and have never seen a copy until I stumbled upon this one:

Also appropriate, considering Dybek writes about the Polish neighborhood in Chicago where he grew up and Greenpoint is predominantly Polish.

Sanny gave me this bottle of wine as a housewarming gift:

She bought it here, but it’s from home (North Coast).

emigrating

I moved to Brooklyn!!!

This is what it looks likes to go to Brooklyn:

Ciao! Manhattan

I also just read The Emigrants by W.G. Sebald.  Winfred Georg, but he went by Max.  It’s the story of four disconnected emigrants from Germany post-WWII.  It’s beautifully written and there are photographs throughout, which give it the feel of a family album.  A professor from UCLA recommended it to me after reading a story of mine called It’s Quiet Inside, And That’s Where We Are.  Here’s an excerpt:

The garage door was stuck again.  One of the neighbors had been tinkering with it, trying to fix it so we could get my grandfather’s car out.  It hadn’t been working for months, but what did it matter, my grandfather couldn’t drive.  He only stopped driving six months earlier, though—before then he would squint at the speedometer or ask a passenger to read his speed to him and he missed his exit more often than he found it.  The car was in fine condition, though, for not having been driven in months.  We got out on the Autobahn.  No nonsense.  Mercedes and Audis zoomed past; the countryside was dotted with castles.  We drove to Belgium to attend the christening of my cousin’s baby girl, whom I’d never met.  When we got there, I recognized my cousins, three sisters, and their husbands, but no one else.  Not even my uncle.  He was my aunt’s husband and I hadn’t seen him in years—he was thinner than I remembered and looked as if he had used a fake tanning spray.  His new girlfriend was there, too.  In the pews, my mom and I sat apart—my cousins were all with their families and friends whom we did not know.  It was nothing intentional, not a mark of unwanted distinction, to be alone in our pew, but I wondered if my mom felt separate, like I did.
After the ceremony there was more mingling, meeting, shaking hands and nodding.  My cousins gave me gripping hugs that said “it’s been so long” and “I’ve missed you” but also “I don’t really know you at all.”  We drove to my cousin’s new house for the reception and my eldest cousin’s daughter, a chubby little nine year old, started following me around.  I tried to talk to her, about books, because we both liked to read (though in different languages) and horses, which we both rode.  It was hard but she was learning English in school already and translated for me the words I didn’t know, which was all of them.
After the guests had left, and it was just my cousins—sisters—and their husbands and children and my mom and me, we sat on the couches in the living room and drank wine.  Everyone asked my mom about my dad and brother, how everything was at home; they asked me how school was, what I wanted to do afterwards, when I’d “grow up.”  We all sat around the room, all people related by some part of their DNA.  Though I couldn’t understand much, I felt at ease.  They were people I didn’t know so well, maybe, but they were my people and I was theirs.  There is a certain comfort of family, even family you don’t know or can’t understand, a reclining of the spirit, where no tension can exist, however many language barriers there may be, where the part of every one that is the same can speak.
I was thinking of this memory, only about a year old, when I came across the photos my mom had taken with my grandfather’s camera.  He hadn’t come with us, already infirm, though none of us, I suppose, knew what would come.  The newly christened baby, now almost two years old, looked so healthy and bright.  I turn the page of the photo album and see my grandfather, sitting with neighbors around the table, all dressed in white—it was a funeral for an old woman from the neighborhood.  She had left very specific arrangements for her funeral—what kinds of flowers there should be, what they should eat and listen to, and that they should all wear white.  It looked like a summer’s day.

of late

skaters and red shoes

Café Panino Mucho Giusto: cool, dark and Italian

Raaaaaaaaaaawr!!!

subway songs

I think there are songs that you don’t hear until you’re meant to.  The subway is a great place to really hear a song.  Maybe because your other senses are dimmed your hearing is amplified.  Some of the songs that I really heard for the first time in the subway include:

Nina Simone’s “For All We Know”, The Black Keys’ “All You Ever Wanted”, The Walkmen’s “In the New Year”, Gillian Welch’s “Look at Miss Ohio”

There are many others but I can’t think of them now.  Other fun things about the subway: watching rats, which come in all sizes, and looking at all the amazing weirdos.  The other day, in exchange for an aerobed, Molly’s boyfriend Brett brought me an original poem from a subway poet.  Here it is:

doom dirge collectstwo

informs another page on three

fumes of centerfold.

Here’s an exchange I heard between father and son, as the dad picked his son up from school one evening:

“Are we going to walk home, Dad?”

“All the way home?” the dad asked.

“Can’t we take a taxi?”

“We’ll take the subway.”

“Why not a taxi, Dad?”

“Because the subway is good for you.”