In the real dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning, day after day.

This is the kind of week where I close my eyes on the subway and let the darkness warm my shoulders like a blanket. I picture myself emerging into a Times Square that is empty of people, where the towering buildings make me feel big, rather than small, as I stare up at a bright, neon sign that says "You're Doing Fine."

I'm stressed. But I ate at Peacefood Cafe tonight, a table away from Kramer. (That Kramer.) I wonder if he's vegan.

In the ice ages of this blog, I sometimes wrote my posts while dining. So while I am pulling my hair out, I am re-hashing a few of them. Please enjoy. Hopefully I don't get any hair in your food.


I Always Sit by the Window

Today I got an email I expected months ago, demanding belongings in boxes. It said “forget I existed, and vise versa.”

I’m satisfied with the “vise” versa. It means no more calls I shouldn’t answer.

Silence. The whisper of computer keys.

My memory is oceanic; there are no files to delete. No need to move back , to forget. Waves crash into the shore.

There’s a full moon tonight, The Manager says, “a lovely time to be writing.” He’s wearing a white collared shirt and a slight smile that speaks of detachment from here.

“Some nights you sit down to write and nothing comes out, but other nights you don’t have time to sit, and the words flood out like rain.” He isn’t talking to me.

I’m sitting by the window again, sipping Coca-cola and eating sweet potato soup with chopped apples. Frank Sinatra is singing Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away...

My brain waves are peaceful tonight. I am soaring.

There's a bald Jewish man outside petting puppies. That's all he's doing. Petting puppies. He leans against the pole of the awning, waiting for couples to pass by, walking their dogs. This happens every ten minutes or so. Then, he acts shocked by the cuteness, as if the sheer adorability of that particular puppy compelled him to stop what he was doing, as if he was not standing there, waiting. I like this man.

I know what I want as of late. I want to be famous, I think. I want someone to buy me roses and then never call me again. I don’t even like roses that much. I’ve always been fond of orchids.

I want to feel my own bones.

There’s a boy I want with eyes like waves. I don't want to kiss him. I just want to paint him. I like the way he articulates S sounds. A coworker says he looks more feminine than I do. Phosphorescence. Eruptions. He probably tastes like nectar.

My vacation is coming up in three weeks and I’m taking the Chinatown bus to another city.

I will take a second trip, alone. I just decided this. I will wear red lipstick and whistle to myself in museums. I will carry an umbrella when the skies are clear. I will meet strangers, or not meet them. I will drive really fast on the highway.

There are two other patrons in the restaurant. They are sharing a plate of spring rolls. The woman is chewing and typing on her Blackberry. The man is chewing and staring at her cleavage. He looks resigned.

I rarely see happy couples.

I wonder how many calories are in sweet potato soup with chopped apples. I wonder what kind of stuff The Manager writes.

Out the window, I can see the full moon if I tilt my head. It seems to be floating, suspended.