trump won and our whole building smells like home fries, potato patties, tater tots; our neighbors fry away their fears and keep on blasting ariana grande like big whoop.
i think we’re about to plunge into a henry darger dystopia.
i’ve been noticing that the leaves in prospect park look more dry and less colorful than usual, maybe they’ve all been pressed in a giant toaster, or maybe it’s just that time in november where we still haven’t had a snowfall.
(the red cap by frederick sandys, 1900)
sam is going to siberia in january and the low today there was -24 farhenheit. i’m sure he’ll eat a lot of flakey fish and breakfast vodka. i’ll be in the city, looking up at lit snowflakes hanging from the avenues and rushing into delis for warmth and fruit and nut bars.
i’ve been spending more time with kids and it makes me feel really good. i read a star wars book to a boy in a bunk bed, cradled by two dozen stuffed animals; watched kung fu panda 3, boys licking popcorn butter off their fingers, eyes stunned and glazed, focused on the fight scene; glued glitter onto paper, painted a night sky.
my friends know i have a fixation with snoop, his falcon nose, his voice, his house we’d drive by in my hometown, guarded by two colossal stone pitbulls and buffered by a line of palm trees in the front and a romanesque swimming pool in the back. it was the part of town where mcmansions reined, but every other block or so there were real mansions, real, gaudy, dracula- or parthenon- or ranchero villa- or california gluttony- themed houses lining the street. i had a friend who lived in one of those when i was in elementary school. her mother was a “stay at home mommy” with a tiny, sharp nose, and her father was in the business of “nuts and bolts”. they had a room referred to as the maid’s pantry where all the gourmet snacks were stored and another one they called the artist’s cave which had more craft supplies than michael’s, my favorite store then. in high school it was just the neighborhood we went to once or twice a year: on halloween, for the extravagant drunk bonanza parties, girls teetering into bushes and masked boys handstanding on kegs, and on beautiful red-eyed days, to pay homage to snoop by driving by his house and shouting stupid lyrics.