::New York Diary::January 2008
We were both remarking on how this feels like a dark Alice in Wonderland with the marble tabletops and low cushy regal seats with high backs. There are half price bottles of wine, dark walls, red neon and red light bulbs, and somehow we are both trying to write through all of it, me coming off a buzz, pouring ever more wine, a nice calm smooth Syrah, smelling cheese and chocolate in the air, so close to St. Mark’s Place, me thinking of Eileen Myles, walking past Thompkins Square twice now, getting familiar, slowly, though the crush of humanity will never feel familiar.
Women sitting next to us could be on a date or not. Carrie pours herself more wine. My ankles feel a little tender, having worked all or most of the day. One of the women has a British accent and one is very American, and remarked that she’s taking off her shoes, and I’d love nothing more than to sneak a look and hope that I see her feet in the other woman’s lap, which makes me think of someone else, their lap, their feet, calves, knees under the table…and it makes me look forward to the spring and the summer, high summer, and meeting at The Abbey, the fans doing their back-and-forth above us.
There’s an Abbey bar here, too, and there is a Bourgeois Pig here as well as in Los Angeles, though in L.A. the neon is blue and there’s no alcohol. This place, on the other hand, has no coffee. The scent of fondue and breads and olives snare my attention.
Across from me is this friend of about eighteen years, a photographer and visual artist. Since Sunday we’ve been eating, drinking, walking, lounging and I realize it is too damn easy to drink to excess here but you still get to walk off your drunk on the way to the subway station.
Last night the bartender paid a little more attention to me when I mentioned Luc Sante. Tiny measures of knowledge, like rubies in a palm.
Oh Tom Waits. What would we do without you?
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