Night Out

I went to New York on Saturday to see an evening ballet. But we arrived early to have the afternoon to ourselves. We went to Central Park first because it was nearest. I didn't count on feeling what I felt. It was summer there.

I am jealous of my friends, because they'll be going where I want to go. I don't know that I'll be disciplined enough to do what I want this winter. I hardly thought about what I would do last winter, but then six months eluded my attention and there I was in the heat.

Winter after winter, summer after summer. The thousands upon thousands, strings of eternal moments, they are eluding me.

One morning, one morning. Rise and shine. Rise and shine.

I was bent over the sink doing what I do every night. The concave mirror glittering blue on my fingertip was there and when I looked again, it was not. Do you know how things stop for a minute when unpleasantness to some odd, unreasonable power is rushing into your stomach? Well, I stopped moving. And do you know what I was afraid of? Well, I won't tell. It was trivial and vain. I noticed that the porcelain was stained, that the gray squares were unclean. I've seen the way a car roars by in the darkness and sweeps in a city of lonely roadside houses before sweeping them out again. Instant illumination. Things that exist and do not, with the flashing of a headlight. Smaller than leaves. I found nothing, only imitations. Inside and out, gritty surfaces careening into each other, indiscernible, hypocritical. I waited to feel the cracking but every sound lied. In the mirror were bags under my eyes and smudges, traces of feeling good sunk into fatigue. The light above my mirror makes everything sallow. Sallow smudges, sallow reflections of lights where eyes should have been. One last try, I said. One last try. I was supposed to speak in the language I've always known, but my tongue tripped. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? Yes. Delete this recording? That was how it went. I stopped counting. My tongue kept tripping. One last try. On the floor. On my knee.

I look for things I don't need. Chasing what I ought not to, deleting what I should save. All the dust, all the dust that blows in from my window and becomes a blank film on the surface of my possessions. Dust is destruction, erasing the script, erasing the capacity. All the dust, all the dust that blows in from my window and becomes a blank film on the surface of my heart. Erasing the script, erasing the capacity.

What I was looking for was a plastic lens for my left eye. Where I found it was on my right eyelid. Hilarious no? My most hilarious story in a while.