>The Day After

>Things begin to congeal. The energy lessens, and what used to amount to nothing–a strangers accidental touch on the subway, imagery (a bike, a piece of clothing), the approaching winter–becomes charged with meaning, with an immeasurable sense of what is possible at those moments, in the random (but are they random?) crossing of trajectories (and how I know so much about the crossing of trajectories now,) but also what seems impossible. Everything. Sometimes everything. Other times I forget.

She was all around me in the ether today. Meg and I rarely left voice messages for each other, but rather we would leave about 15-20 seconds of a Sade song, a particular lyric: “I want to cook you a soup that warms your soul,” or my favorite, “There is a woman in Somalia…” And today, when I got on the plane to return to NYC, a woman sat down next to me and began listening to Sade on her iPod. Then, I got in a taxi, and guess what was playing on the radio? Yes.

Jennifer Miller told me a story today about a pigeon that landed on her windowsill and seemed sure on finding its way inside her loft. She ignored it for a time, but it was persistent, and so she let it inside, where it walked around the apartment for a short while, and then left.



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