rescued from notebooks.

a weekend in the city

[on the train from inwood to brooklyn, 4am sunday]

"we got a journey ahead of us, son."
"...and you know we can't smoke anywhere near the MTA."
"one for you, one for me."
"word."
"son."
"son!"
"an adventure!"
"one hundred blocks, yo!"
"we're almost home."
"ayo. wake up, fam. let's go."

"huh? oh. word."

---------

this is what i come to the city for: brilliant taco stand food in jackson heights and 4am cross-town train adventures.

the night-train cat nap must be taught in public schools here. after 2am on any of these iron steeds, the locals are snoozing soundly, in spite of tinny speakers bleating out notices from the conductor, in spite of bleeding homeless people, in spite of the incessant squeal of some goddamn what the fuck is that noise anyway?

...

expertly coiffed windswept hair, blond as the swedish myth, she floats above an indeterminate point in the city, myriad landmarks lost in the depth of field behind her. her lips are just parted, mouth almost open, some angelic word on the tip of her tounge. even in the subway - especially here, perhaps - she commands the gaze of everyone who crosses her path. she has time to impart but one message to the world, to each one of us, instantly and momentarily enraptured: "only at bloomingdales...the new fragrance...good night..."

and it was.

...

and now, a bit of borges (out of context, of course).

"like cornelius agrippa, i am god, i am hero, i am philosopher, i am demon and i am world, which is a tedius way of saying that i do not exist."