phoenix {rising} |
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Who. And where. Would I feel cramped? Where would I go for private time? Would it be a gesture of lack of independence? Could we live in a loft on Lorimer Street with lots of light—oh—there is still cheap loft space in Brooklyn if you look hard—could I walk to the L train in the mornings secure in the occupation of space and life without sublimating myself to the girls walking next to me? Last night, a boy I'd invited on a whim to a joint birthday party at Leah's brought too many people and I ended up talking to him for an hour and a half on Leah's porch amongst this crowd of his friends, smoking cigarettes and drinking sangria. He wants to go into advertising. He wants to wear Prada shoes, he confesses, unabashed. And a girl with whom I went to elementary school makes six figures at Goldman-Sachs, I respond. What are you thinking of doing?, he asks me. I'm thinking of publishing?, I misinflect, as if to apologize for having no passion. (I have no passion.) The thing is, I don't think I could spend my life in a group of people who can't talk about books. (I have no passion, but I know that much is true.) He nods. He's New York-affiliated but doesn't understand the great things: Sixth Street Indian and soup dumplings in Flushing, readings in St. Mark's Church, the eight hundred lists of free events. Dancing and movies on piers and in parks in the summers. It's not all ten-dollar drinks. I like these things. I like the idea of Prada shoes, too, I think. But I hate the idea of ever deciding that a sense of whimsy (no matter how self-conscious) is tacky. The through line is Williamsburg. L train. Shuttling back and forth between Manhattan and Brooklyn via some intermediary plane. Surely not everything can be stuffed full of significance like a water balloon shimmering on the verge. But. Deciding who to be. |
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