Wednesday, December 29, 2004


A convenient change of scenery, sitting now in the bumblebee office in the black swivel chair with my feet propped up, listening to Ombra Ma Fui, off the collection given to me by my Melanie for Christmas, a freight train howls in the distance, a car door in the parking lot, ears perk up, an epiphany, I realize that this is the same song (more or less) I listened to on about two years ago, when I sprawled across the off-white apartment carpet in Cockeysville with a cheap glass of white zinfandel (is there any other kind?) to write August, to Briana, the day before my first creative writing class. This must be some kind of omen under the drum machine and acoustic guitar.

<>Briana’s gone now, a lawyer, moved to Brooklyn to live with her boyfriend, a businessman, in a one bedroom behind a brownstone on North Bedford Avenue, on about a dozen blocks from Stickball, give or take a few. She’s jobless still, five months in to this great experiment, living off savings in a city that doesn’t sleep, starving, but happy nonetheless.

(I exaggerate – Melanie calls me a drama queen, and in a way I suppose she’s right – Briana is far from starving, the businessman boyfriend has family in Brooklyn, so she’ll always be safe, and fed, at least, beneath the orange street lights of my home)


Post Scriptum: This has simply gotten out of hand, mon amie, November 19 to Now. It’s been far to long.