_bossanova_

So, my landlady's son goes to the school here in Queens where there have been 8 confirmed cases of swine flu. So far he feels fine and his school's closed, of course, but I wasn't aware of any of this until I saw it on the news tonight. I got this funny feeling when they mentioned a high school in Queens, and when I went upstairs to get my dinner, the youngest son told me. Weird.

It was too hot outside today. I took a great nap with the dogs and cat I was petsitting. I didn't have the energy to shoo them off the bed, so they curled up on either side of me and we took a nice siesta. By the time I left Brooklyn it was starting to cool off. The hipsters were cracking out their grills for barbecues. I am not looking forward to trying to look put-together for work in this weather. It was great being out last night, though.

It was a weird night, but there was great people-watching to be had. Alzy and I had pink margaritas and appetizers at Sidewalk. NadzOfSteel joined us for a bit, and then we made our way to the frat-tastic Angels & Kings. Mellythepirate met us at Lit and it was just as we left it however many weeks ago. We waited the line out at Pommes Frites and it was worth it...those are the only fries I've ever had that were still delicious the next day. Seriously good stuff.

All weekend I read this book on 19th century Parisian courtesans. Right up my alley, but something's up, because my libido has flown the coop. I have no idea where it went or why it's gone, but I'm not too concerned. It's probably just stress and will get better when I feel better.





From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Adrienne Rich