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I haven’t been able to get the Elif Batuman novel out of my head, so I’m re-reading it. It was so dense with references that I’m sure I could read it a third time and still glean more from it. Sorry again, Dostoyevsky.
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Today I am thinking about Kensington Market, and about the really great roman al taglio pizza place that used to be there. About the hippy shops where I helped a friend pick out a simple silver ring for his future wife.
I think about some of my best friends, a couple: Her, petite with the wide smile, the sparkling brown eyes, and the corkscrew curls. Him, with the sardonic set of his mouth, sandy brown hair, and green eyes. I wish I had handled those friendships so much better. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.
I think of the weekly ferry rides out to the island - the way the wind whipped my hair around and stung my cheeks until they were pink, electric anticipation, C & K leaning over the railing with me. The Hare Krishnas and their cooking smells. All of the fucking goose shit everywhere. The picture of my brother, sister and I against the skyline.
I was always waiting for something back then. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew it was coming. And then it came and went so fast. It had slipped through my fingers.
It was gone.
1:31 p.m. - 2020-12-05