15 November 2023
Feels like the right time to turn on the faucet as I remember yesterday's boots stomping through Chelsea Harbor to the beat of the gurgling bass in “Fly” by Low. Accelerated past a mother pushing her baby in a stroller, baby's cries punctuating each loop of “fly-eye-eye-eyeee.”
Then tonight, after six hours tending the bar and a McDonald's double cheeseburger, the choral kaleidoscope of Sufjan's “Now That I'm Older” weaved a helix as I sat on the night bus and watched the reflection of a woman's fingers dance in BSL to her friend on FaceTime.
How about Golden chain? The title is from “Spinning Away” by Eno and Cale:
Up on a hill, as the day dissolves
With my pencil turning moments into line
High above in the violet sky
A silent silver plane, it draws a golden chain
Maybe a descent into what's waiting for these kids? Both a radioactive dumpster fire and an incomprehensibly vast petri dish of regenerating sublimity. Have also been thinking about children as vessels for truth. My niece at the full family dinner table: “Daddy made mommy cry.” If she didn't say it, nobody would.