yes, try as i might, i cannot leave new york behind.
my new neighbour, jean paul, just walked into my little tower, holding some leonard cohen under his arm, coffee in hand. when i warned him about the floral housecoat currently clothing my fella, he told me i was lucky he had on any clothes at all. we have ended up here. but my head, and oh lordy my heart, keep finding their way back there.

so it is with renewed vigour that i take up this journal. to put myself here. in this most magical and enchanted of spaces.

jean paul on his way, i sit here listening to the clock tick and the gentle background creaks of the wood stove, the occasional crackle of wood popping, of the room itself, settling in against the damp outside. i see a winter stretched in front of the stove, cookbooks in arms reach, and water on the boil for endless cups of tea.

the house lets me see this because it is so thoughtful.
everything here is just so. not in a twee way, in spite of the shingles and gingerbread curves. its the small details. there is no superfluous lighting. just soft globes illuminating all the right spaces. one for the table centre. one for the chopping block. several to light your way through the garden once the four o'clock dark arrives. there are candles for windstorm blackouts and matches to light the fire.

it is a thoughtful house, and here now, i find myself full of thoughts.

the f train revised

i had to post this here,
after listening to an interview with the new pornographers on cbc this morning i was overcome with whistful reverie, days long since passed in brooklyn. the band is canadian, so much closer to here than there - but one mention of auster and lethem and a brooklyn literary tradition and i was a wobbly mess..

so stole this from myself - from elsewhere.
'the insufferable f train'

I APOLOGISE ladies and gentleman' boomed the strangely clear and coherent voice over the PA "but we are being held in the station by the selfish individual holding the doors to the last carriage...'

Heads, usually burried or closed behind blase transit faces, look up.

'We will move on,' continues the voice,' as soon as said individual realises that the MTA is here to provide a system of public transport and that we endeavour to run to a universal schedule and not his personal one.'

Faces have warmed with silent smiles and the train winds its way up the hill out of the Carroll St station.

Moments later the PA crackles to life once more.

'You might think that your ivy league education makes you better than everyone, but remember, in the subway ALL ARE EQUAL'

The carriage cheers, one commuter high fives his neighbour and both the train and night roll on.