The Reading Spot
Thinking of my reading spot. The spot I sit in now. The burgundy pillow pushed up against the arm of the old tan couch. My shoulder bone shelved against one of four pillow points, curled like withered leaves in winter. There’s a spit-up stain beneath me and I remember how I stood hunched over a toothbrush and clump of baking soda, sprayed cleansers, sighed at the distorted rings of forever, as they blackened like mildew into the folds. I read here. I write. I watch television
Seeing
At my new writing desk, in its new room, I sit one window east of where my old desk used to be. I’m closer to the sill and the glass is cold. Now that the leaves are falling away, I begin to see a small piece of Manhattan’s skyline. From this window, the Freedom Tower is just out of view. But I know it’s there because one window west, at my old writing space, it is. Tonight, I relish in the new view, in it’s new angle. I am an impatient writer. I don’t always like the pace I
Halloween Here and There
I love Halloween here in Brooklyn. It’s more festive than anywhere I’ve lived. With all the brownstones and apartments and local shops so close together, the streets are lined with people and store clerks giving out candy. There are a lot of families in our neighborhood and people come out in spectacled groups, sequined and felted, wielding plastic swords and scepters, with wild head-pieces and spooks. The leaf colors are at their peaks and it’s just before we lose the lushne
