I don’t know about you but, I’d say about 60 percent of the time I construct elaborate texts, write first and second drafts of emails or just plain have all out conversations in my head with people I love and never actually deliver. Do you do that? What is that? For the most part I am one of the most outwardly emotional people I know and yet I do that kind of stuff on the regular. I want to say it must be normal. It’s Sunday night. One of my favorite days to have off and one of my favorite nights to work. I kept dreading that tonight would be another one of those where brunch spilled a little to closely into ten o’clock pm and sure as shit in a purse after a one night stand I’m sitting here whiskey ass drunk on the runway floor of my apartment and fucking missing my brothers. And I bet my boyfriend does to… miss his brother and sister that is. And yet I’m all the more assured in my friendships. Feeling all the more loved. Loving people is intense man
Robert and I came up with a line the other day. I was telling him about how I was reading at a cafe. Did I tell you I picked up reading at cafes again? It’s been so long that all I wanted to do that day was to get lost in a book. Any book. I wanted to disengage with life for a bit, relieve myself of the exhausting task of processing all the beauty around me. I wanted to escape from New York. No matter the book I was reading happened to take place in New York. I just wanted to read. And for a moment I did. I unplugged and lost myself in the text. I became a shadow in someone else’s angst-ridden walks through the city.
But then there was a commotion in the real world and I looked up to see the cafe waitress hurriedly leave her post behind the bar and run outside with a slice of bread in her hand. Whole wheat, the good stuff, multi-grain. The other patrons followed her with their curious faces and their yoga neck stretches and still I just wanted to read the book. I didn’t want to know what it was that could have prompted the waitress to urgently scurry out the door with a piece of bread in her hand when she couldn’t be bothered to bring me my iced latte and avocado salad.
I really didn’t want to know but I pulled my head out of my book anyways and contorted my body just enough to peak out the window at a small crowd of concerned citizens, a police officer, a construction worker and of course the valiant waitress and her bread. But still I couldn’t see what had them all so enthralled, so filled with a sense of duty, so utterly determined to mend a disturbance in the harmony of the city. I clicked my tongue and rolled my eyes but I got up out of my chair just the same and with one foot touching the leg of the bistro table I stretched my torso as close to that window as possible and finally I saw there on the the curb in between a parked white city truck and a little sedan, was a most frazzled mother duck and her little ducklings. Aww, I thought, someone should really do something.
So I continued reading and was able to learn a few moments later that the little duck family was safely escorted to the pond at Morningside Park, that apparently this was a normal occurrence, that this particular mother duck is often seen stopping traffic on her back-and-forth migration between Morningside to Central Park and once again her and her ducklings are safe in the water.
It was later that day when I was telling Robert about it all that we happened upon a funny line. A line I have to write a story for. A line that incites a sinister laugh from both of us before we take a moment to reconsider then laugh again. A line not without an appreciation for the life lesson in your everyday duck incident that, when you see a mother duck and her ducklings on the sidewalk, do help them along their way, but if you see a pigeon on the street with a broken wing, don’t forget to kick it.
You couldn’t let me keep fantasying could you? Not just one more for old time’s sake. One last little delusion? An illusion. Some concentrated phantom to cling to while I rock to sleep. Is this your way of telling me I don’t write enough? That I have too much to right and not enough journals to write it all down in before I die? Do you want one in return because the truth is I meant to get you one, twice as big. And red. I thought for a day or two after you left that I would make my way downtown, pick it up, drop it in the mail and show you how much I care. But its just like me to think and for you to do. So thank you. Its always better when its real.