Well I’m thwarted by a metaphysic puzzle
And I’m sick of grading papers, that I know
A little before 7pm this evening, I stood on the corner of 45th and Brooklyn, breath escaping from behind my scarf in steaming bursts, hands shoved into gloves into pockets. I’d bailed on both my commitments for the evening for the chance at a beer and relaxation with friends, and was now at that point. That point of the night where I knew, if I came home, I’d just flop uselessly to one side and do nothing but berate myself for doing nothing, but had nothing compelling calling me anywhere else, and that lack of energy which made flopping to one side so attractive permeating everything else.
And then I looked up, and saw the Varsity sign saying “Rent: This Space.” Rent. Rent, rent, rent. Rent.
And I’m shouting in my sleep, I need a muzzle
All this misery pays no salary, so
Alone. It was something I needed to do, something I needed to see. It was a memory I needed to build for myself, new and removed from the memory of Rent that was, of seeing the play in Reno, of being so near the front row, of the feeling and experience and the everything-awe of the musical, all tied up in memories of my ex-husband. It wasn’t an exorcism, but it was an invitation, to new, that needed to be done alone.
I teach- computer age philosophy
But my students would rather watch TV
Tonight, I was alone, and it was a good night to see Rent. To reground, to create, to feel, to cry. Only a few tears, but I cried. Angel died, and I cried. I cried for Angel, and Tom, and Mark and Maureen and Roger and Mimi and even Benny, and I cried for friends gone and friends here, and people who should be friends but aren’t (or maybe are), and I cried for J~. I cried for J~ and the way that she died. The way her story ends. Just a few tears, but there they were, and there was the meaning so gathered into them. And one year, more than a tear or two is going to have to fall, and this will need to be processed.
Chatting not about Heidegger, but wine
Let’s open up a restaurant in Santa Fe
Stories shape us. We shape stories. We shape memory. It is a construction of our experiences, our ability to trust, our ability to love and connect. It is a reflection of those things that become important to us in hindsight, with memory, and those things that seared their meaning and purpose to our mind on impact.
Does anyone want to open a restaurant in Santa Fe? Cuz sunny Santa Fe, sure would be nice…