the habit of being

I need a new notebook because all my old ones have too many pages written on them. I’m pretty sure my handwriting doesn’t even look like that anymore. It’s been too long to be sure.

The new apartment used to belong to artists who did things involving pretty and/or naked girls, which is all it takes to make art decent. The kitchen floor is pink and Jenny and I will get our own rooms and windows. There’s a grocery store down the street with fifty-four cent water. It’s kindof a long way from the subway but the rent is cheap and the neighborhood isn’t scary and there’s plenty of baklava. I can’t believe I’m actually moving back to New York. Some of our books are already boxed up.

On the way home from apartment-searching, my 5:00 bus had no leg room. The girl in front of me was tiny but put her seat back anyway making it even worse. Rain dripped through the emergency exit on the ceiling to the arm of the girl sitting next to me. At 9:30, outside Baltimore, I looked out the window and saw a red glowing tire bounce down the highway and hit a car. It turned out to be from our bus and we were trapped in the middle of the Interstate for 3 hours while no one told us anything except that it wasn’t safe to get out and it wasn’t safe to have anyone come pick us up. I got home at two in the morning.

I want to get a job in the visual perception lab I worked for back in 2001. I never really particularly understood the science but it didn’t matter as long as I was smart. Sometimes we talked about beauty and there was good Indian food at the lab meetings once a week.

At the lab, there are Rothko paintings and huge letters on the walls. Jivamukti is right around the corner. Please let it work out. My last day at the studio is next Friday and I will be unemployeed for a month except for dog-sitting.