Anyway and also
this morning, in a haze from last night, I got off of the L train at the wrong stop, and proceeded to head in the direction of my old office, one which I haven't worked at in over six months. I didn't go all the way to the old office, but I went so far as reaching the N/R platform at Union Square, the second step in my old routine. Ordinarily now I stay on the L one more stop, until Sixth Avenue where I transfer to the PATH train to Jersey City.
Another thing and along some wormy holey metaphysical lines, as I was circling off of the N/R platform and back to the L train, almost back on track, part of me felt very much as if I had already made that transfer. I had the memory or awareness of already, sometime during the morning, removing my PATH card from my wallet and passing through the second gate, even though I hadn't yet. My only logical hypothesis for this feeling is that despite the delay of my error, my muscle memory was choreographed to cross the PATH gates at this specific time of morning, and so that is what I felt was happening, or had happened.
But maybe...
Anyway and also. I think that I have the opposite problem of some of my friends who seem to always be on their last pair of panties. In fact I seem to have accrued so many pairs of underwear that eventually I may never need to do my laundry ever again. Lately there is always yet another clean pair in the drawer, god only knows how. I'm not fond of shopping for it, that's for sure.
Perhaps my friends' underwear has entered a wormhole and become my underwear? Maybe my lingerie drawer is like the city of lost underwear.
Which brings me to the Joseph Brodsky lines, below, that have looped through my thoughtstream like a haunting, or some kind of ominous pop lyric, ever since I first read them when I was a teenager.
* * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my shoulders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.
from I Sit By The Window
by Joseph Brodsky, 1971
* * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *
Another thing and along some wormy holey metaphysical lines, as I was circling off of the N/R platform and back to the L train, almost back on track, part of me felt very much as if I had already made that transfer. I had the memory or awareness of already, sometime during the morning, removing my PATH card from my wallet and passing through the second gate, even though I hadn't yet. My only logical hypothesis for this feeling is that despite the delay of my error, my muscle memory was choreographed to cross the PATH gates at this specific time of morning, and so that is what I felt was happening, or had happened.
But maybe...
Anyway and also. I think that I have the opposite problem of some of my friends who seem to always be on their last pair of panties. In fact I seem to have accrued so many pairs of underwear that eventually I may never need to do my laundry ever again. Lately there is always yet another clean pair in the drawer, god only knows how. I'm not fond of shopping for it, that's for sure.
Perhaps my friends' underwear has entered a wormhole and become my underwear? Maybe my lingerie drawer is like the city of lost underwear.
Which brings me to the Joseph Brodsky lines, below, that have looped through my thoughtstream like a haunting, or some kind of ominous pop lyric, ever since I first read them when I was a teenager.
* * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my shoulders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.
from I Sit By The Window
by Joseph Brodsky, 1971
* * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *
posted by esterhazi at 9:11 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home