How are you and where are you? I would like you to know that Kozi and I threw a decent little sit down affair for 13 at our new place and the menu was entirely Polish.
Dear one—it was my silent, hopeful, homage to you. Truly. I served pierogis, beets, two kinds of sauerkraut, apple sauce, sour cream—the works. Oh, and vodka. Rivers of the stuff.
We got washed away down a good drain pipe and I came up for air around 4 am, had a few more pierogi for optimism and shuffled off to bed. Success! I miss you tremendously. I wish you could have been there. We would have spoken no Polish particulars, but you and I would have had the nod, the one that happens sometimes between dear and close friends.
Truly, Lum Lum
Lum—How can we soonest shrink, melt, and otherwise evaporate the ocean between us?
I took to reading your Twitter feed today and found myself laughing alone and awkwardly as always in my small cube and I do admit I said the words aloud, “Lum Lum, God, is hilarious, I love you” And then the requisite coughing fit, of course, as one is alone and professing love in a work environment, or any environment, for that matter. It is not just the British who are British…
I am well, better, I suppose. Missing you… Nursing my bastard of a broken heart, still! although all friends speak wisely and with the phrase “it never would have worked,” which comes frequently and loudly from their mouths. But there is coffee and pizza and the city itself turns a wintry way toward a cooling trend.
Send latest and much news. I suspect I may paint a wall soon: blue or a light green. Childhood memories.
Til soon, La La
Hmmm.. Yes. It would not have worked. Allow me to echo chorus. How sad these old flames that flicker but do not die.
Am reading a great deal of a Julia Child biography. I know we will find ourselves with two glasses between us very soon.
The tyranny of panic! I’m still in bed at nearly 1 pm, having doused myself in a vinegary wine until late last night and I seem to recall dancing to… the Cure? … unclear…. before things truly devolved. I was grateful to wake up alone, but unsure of how exactly I made my way home. You know that feeling? Weird. I am shivery now and contemplating the exiles of intoxication. The time wasted. The mess of it.
A woman I met last night assured me everything would be sorted out as soon as I move to Marrakech, and then became sort of bossy about the whole thing and insisting that I move to Marrakech! At once! And all this. And that if I don’t it would all be really awkward because she intends to introduce me to her friends or something and all she has to do is snap her fingers so I just need to say the word. Have I said the word yet? Have I? Have I? Being drunk, I very well might have. I seem to recall writing my email down on a card for her, next to which I wrote “The lost one,” and she said, “I can’t read that” and I think I said “good.”
I can’t figure a damn thing out.
Reading a bit of Kafka this morning I was strangely comforted to learn he measured six feet tall and only 118 pounds. Like a super model! A very worried man. There is an odd case unfolding in Tel Aviv regarding his papers, all of which have wound up in the unbalanced hands of the daughter of his friend’s once-lover. Can you believe it? But then, think of all the Kafkas that have never been discovered, their papers churning in landfills and burned out file cabinets where no one knows where.
It is disturbing how easy it is to prowl around online and read about people you miss or would like so very much to see. I note H had some kind of dinner at a cafe downtown and posted a rather exuberant line of lyrics, through which I divine he is back together with that lady and my heart literally bleeds.
No matter. One must eat and live. The day passes and I am listening to my neighbor remodel. This weekend is the wedding of a dear friend. I will stand well clear when she throws the bouquet.