The campus at Brooklyn College is truly gorgeous, and even more so when drenched in the dark and dewy mist that now covered everything. I drank in the sight of the little oasis that was the quad, as though I were looking at it for the very last time… and then it occurred to me that this was illogical. It’s not I, but he who is leaving.
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I made it a point to look out the window, as I usually do when the trains go overground. I looked out at Chinatown and the nameless project buildings on the border between Chinatown and the top edge of the Financial District, creeping out toward the East River. I used to have a storage box in a Manhattan Mini Storage on Catherine Slip, just blocks from those project buildings.
...read more hereThe sky is a blackboard above you… and should a shooting star go by… I’ll use that star to write “I love you” a thousand times across the sky…
...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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Mother once described the form of each piece as “everybody plays a song, and then a bunch of other stuff happens, and then they play the song again and stop.” (Those of you who know about jazz improvisational forms are probably laughing your asses off, and the rest of you are like “Um , okay, I don’t get the joke.” It’s fine. Just move on.)
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Though I was geographically ahead of him, we both reached for the door at the same time, and I realized he wanted to open it for me. I retracted my hand and allowed him to do this. He opened every door for me all the way to the store, and then all the way back to the stage.
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I’m calling him “Blue Bass” because we were on the high school jazz band together about a million years ago. He was always the best bass player on the band, even though he played electric and not upright. His bass was a bright, distinctive, almost iridescent, shocking blue.
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I took my jeans off again when I got home and took a good look at myself in that dress. It might be the shortest dress I own, with a hemline that stops a couple of inches above my knees and shows off my surprisingly-thick-for-a-skinny-girl legs. It has a somewhat clingy material, which accents curves in places where I don’t really have them. It is certainly one of the few articles of clothing I own that fits me as well as it does. Holy shit, I look good in that old dress.
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This is problematic for me only because I think my professor wants me to imitate his style of singing, and I’m like “no.” Actually, I didn’t explicitly say “no.” I’ve got more sense than to bad-talk Stevie Wonder’s high notes in front of a room full of jazz musicians who are all bigger than I am…
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