(Wibble)

Just to keep up with the swooping in of past lives, I ran into a college friend among the shiny, shiny lights of 34th Street last night (as I was doing my usual hooking. Um, no I wasn't). But after not seeing him for many, many years, over the summer I made a friend who knows him, so we've been back in touch in recent months. It makes me wonder whether I have walked past him and so many other old friends on these dirty New York streets and never noticed them...

In mind, in sight.

While the world may wobble on its ever-grinding axis, I find that I occasionally have been enjoying the wobble, weebles. I think I can say I'm actually surfing the wobble. In that crazy way where your body leans one way to balance out the woozy wave, while the wiggety water works its darndest to carry you the other. (Not that I've ever literally surfed, although I have windsurfed. When I was maybe 10. It was hard. My arms were spaghetti strings.) (It doesn't matter anyway, since we're all going to hell in a North Korean-induced bunker any minute now.) (Not that it doesn't matter that my arms were spaghetti strings, or that I've never surfed--although, come to think of it, I really should try surfing soon.) (I could do this forever. I'm beginning to understand the irritating joy of postmodernist, wank-offy footnoting. It's like a drug. You have to force yourself) (to) (stop.)

Did I tell you I heard geese the other night at 3 a.m.? Native Brooklyn geese. (Yes, I could tell by the accent. No, I'm not positive they weren't from Staten Island. What? You're some kind of expert?)

(In my head, I'm still talking to you in parens.)
(Queens, you say?)