It’s hard to describe Bensonhurst… but it’s one of those places that when you’re there, you know you’re there. It’s one of those places in Brooklyn where the subway runs in open air, where there is paint peeling off the columns and graffiti marking the walls of what probably were gorgeous Dorian-styled stations a hundred or so years ago…
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Me: If you were a tourist, you’d have a return ticket.
Him: Good point.
Me: You’re a new New Yorker.
I have nothing to say to such a girl
but “yeah,
go home.”
I ate my sandwich in front of the museum’s fountain. There were small children standing near the fountain. They’re not allowed to go in. It’s one of those fountains with many spouts that shoot off in sequence to make patterns. The children all screamed with delight when the fountain shot water high into the air, and then crouched in anticipation when the fountain waters were low. I poured a shot of alcohol into a Stewart’s root beer.
Ever go to a modern art museum tipsy?
...read more hereNo matter what the people say, I’m gonna love you anyway… you are my life… I can’t let go…
...read more hereI was with my boyfriend, the Indian boy. We were in Brooklyn. We were in a diner-type restaurant which I swore at the time was familiar. I must have seen it in dreams or something. It was open-air. We were outside. It was, come to think of it, a very lovely day…
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He told me he wanted to tell me something which he didn’t want me to tell anyone. My response was “Who would I tell anyway?” Of course, in retrospect, there are quite a few people I could tell, including you. And granted, you don’t know him, or even really me, or anyone else involved, but I feel compelled to silence.
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I ate my yogurt while pacing and singing loudly along with John Legend playing on the mall’s intercom system and thinking maybe this was my destination… maybe I’m never going to be home unless I’m somewhere pacing in the dark in Brooklyn…
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Usually when I imagine moving out again, it is to a place that’s very much like my studio in Flatbush where I lived with my husband… but why limit the imagination? I’d like to own a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights or Cobble Hill or a similar neighborhood… one of those three-or-four-story historical houses with a wide open back yard (you think we don’t have back yards in New York? We have back yards… some of us…)
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Everywhere where there is a professor is a classroom, including the 2-train on the way out of Brooklyn. [...] The real lesson happened somewhere in Downtown Brooklyn, when the prof. started telling cautionary anecdotes about “shedding the changes” …
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