I've Been Dancing with, Mr. Brownstone

Oh God.
There was a tally, empty wine bottles gathered from around the house and back yard and lined up in the kitchen the next morning. Eight bottles. Eight bottles, and three people in desperate need of hydration and sleep. Welcome to Poughkeepsie, bitch.

I had to run to the train to catch it at grand central. It wasn't what I had planned for my sunday afternoon, but why the hell not? And then this beautiful train ride, all mountains and greenery and overgrown little cottages in the upstate countryside, arriving to find two mad men picking me up at the train station and the feeling that it was all truly beat. The driver with his straw cowboy hat and looking so much the vacation getaway personified compared to when I'd last seen him in the City. Them having spent the past day in the backyard, drinking and reminiscing and not having a care in the world even when it was so sad. I picked right up where they were at and suddenly all was well with the world and wasn't this red wine particularly splendid? So we spent the setting sun in the backyard of this late 19th century house in historic Poh-Kippsy, drinking wine and deciding that handrolled cigarettes were infinitely better than Newports.

John, the man in the straw hat and whose house we were now staying at, seems the ideal of ideals. A place in the city, a place in the country. A proper job and button down shirts, a garden in progress and a charming house in need of tlc. A wine cellar in the basement, infinite smarts, and more goodness in his heart than the soft eyes can convey. All that was missing, he said, was that special someone. And I don't know how often I've seen this. The good guys never get the girl, and what on earth is wrong with the girls that they don't get that? (and shouldn't I be able to answer that, being one of the ones who never gets it?)

In other news, the boys had proceeded to kill a poor bird before I got there. It had broken a leg, or something, and they had put it on something soft in the bathroom, so as to nurse it back to health (or whatever), because they love all living things and want only the best for Everyone. By the time I got there, the poor thing had scrambled from its soft spot and drowned in the toilet. Heaven help me, I couldn't help but laugh.

I return home with inexplicable bruises on my body, dirt under my fingernails, and a creeping tiredness in me. But I am glad I went, because I never regret any adventure I take, and it's good to be reminded of that. When Life asks, the answer should always be Why the hell not. Even if you end up with eight empty bottles and grass in your hair.

The Edge of Reason

Awakening is slow, and painful. Limbs twisted and mouths dry. Sleep too short, always too short and yet already restlessness pulses through the veins, and it's time to get your bearings, time to salvage whatever heart matter spilled out in the openness of the drunk Friday night and close up shop. Not regretting anything, perhaps, just regaining composure and putting the hair back up. Stumbling home along the Pulaski bridge and Manhattan is covered in gray fluffy clouds. The Good Ones are out for their runs, and it isn't strange considering it isn't even morning anymore. Memories flashing of the previous night, of the dead or dying fish in the Chinatown restaurant fishtanks. How weird it is to know something will happen someday and then to be on the verge of it. And does that mean I am now in the middle of it? The hangover affords some much needed escape from thinking, from feeling. Did that girl at the bar and I really decide to be best friends and should I maybe do something about that? Left my umbrella at that bar but it wasn't mine to begin with because it was left by someone else months ago. In the general tally of umbrellas it evens out. Perhaps I will keep my eyes out for another. My phone took a swim in some beer and refuses to write the words I aim for, so text messages went out that no mere mortal could possibly interpret, and how many shots did we drink anyways?

Still, there is something to be said for those moments when you both know. There's no need for questions or questioning. It's so strange. I know. But I knew this would happen. I know. And here we are. It's Saturday night and only my second entry and already I'm bullshitting because I haven't yet learned at what level I want to be writing. Forgive me, bear with me, stay. It gets so overwhelming being left to your own devises.

New York, New York.

When you read this, on your 27th birthday, I hope: that you are living in New York, even if you work as a parking lot attendant to pay the bills. That you spend few of your days alone, and instead are constantly meeting new, Mad people and staying open to the possibilities knowing them presents... That you get your shit together and Write. I'm not saying time is running out, I'm saying it's time to have something to prove. That you surround yourself with Madness and giggles, that you are tickled pink at the mere prospect of Life, that you are up for any adventure because you remember how good you feel when you're on them. I hope you laugh a lot. I hope your darkest despair fuels your Word, so it is good for something. But I guess, in the end, what I really hope is that the Dream of New York still burns in your heart, and takes you there. Happy Birthday./Cajsa
August 27, 2008. Sweden.

There are things to be said, and the time to say them is now. At the risk of creating a Bridget Jones moment, I have decided on this, my 27th birthday, to start a blog. Because it is a good life, and it would be a shame to forget it. You find me in the middle of my love affair with the City. Sometimes things turn out just how you dreamed they would. Welcome. Take your shoes off. Stay a while. /c