at work we kept some parcels from fedex for the office next door while they were at lunch
he just came back to get them & said ‘ho ho, just another one of those four martini lunches’
i can’t stop laughing
my office is entirely silent laughing
we all work at non-profits i mean
non-american new yorkers talking about visas = artists talking about grants & when you’re both? a VERY boring dinner party
if you are outwardly erratic and emotional but inwardly chill, cool and detached, are you performing? which part is performance? which part is real?
used to always feel sad & jealous of creative writing kids ‘til I started this class & A keeps promising ‘this will be nothing like workshopping! we don’t do it like that!’ & everyone, all the real poets, go ahhhh relieved & I’m like is it really that bad? then though I think the MFA/NYC thing is, like, a ‘thing’ that I have thank god not experienced & they have. but christ it’s only two weeks in and already we are drinking wine in the classroom & sobbing together. it’s so much rawer. i’m not uncomfortable with it, (because am a huge narcissist and also because I’m used to it, four years of art school crits) but somehow it’s so much more vulnerable reading a text than showing a work. more close to the skin somehow.
A said ‘missin you’
I said ‘missin you too’
it felt momentous
roxsana comes in, late, eleven-ish. three on the couch watching a movie and I’m peeling potatoes over the bin. you look pretty rox! she does. lipstick and long black hair.
actually, I was on a date. fucking bullshit!
we all laugh. what was so bad?
fucking RUSSIAN GUY
(now I regret doing dialogue in italics. roxsana speaks permanently in italics)
I’m Romanian! He take me to some fucking Russian place!? What the fuck, man?
T interjects with the name of a restaurant.
Yeah! That bullshit place! And I’m like, I’m Romanian! Don’t take me to some fucking Russian place! Don’t talk to me about Russia! Jesus Christ, fuck! So – I said, I’m going. And I left.
Yeah I left! He bring me to this place, all his friends are, they all come to the table, brings these girls round, Russian girls, you know? I left!
He had his friends there? That’s weird.
Yeah, he wanna prove he’s some big man, some big mob guys, I’m like don’t take me there if you just gonna bring your friends round! And he’s like oh, I sorry, don’t leave, let my driver take you home and I said nope. Took a taxi.
I mean so many drivers, so many drivers in the fucking street! how do they find their fucking car?
the google told me that perpetuum, spindliness and precarity are NOT WORDS. handing in my copy in 2hrs regardless. after explaining to Boy that ‘art writing is pretty different from journalism you know’