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PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
B. 2.25.43 Liverpool, England / D. 11.29.01 Los Angeles
Songs stuck in my head over a recent 48 hour period, in order of play:
Good Morning Heartache
In My Room (from the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack)
and for the final twelve, the last fifth of Here Comes the Sun. At the Murray Hill co-op, my feet are always cold. A duvet is not enough—the jealous cotton holds its warm Egyptian breath and by degrees goes still and snow-like. I paddle helplessly from bed to bath; scald my shoulders just to stand in tepid sprays; haunt the heating registers where I buy the vague but sole relief the place affords me with two roasted kneecaps—and she says, What is the attraction of that particular window?
Two days of dampness ink the newly-naked trees until they drip and all await the cold to come and fix that last impression for the winter skyline. Why is Gillian Anderson suddenly back in my thoughts? Is it the weather? A year ago it was the same thing—is it lunar, menstrual, what? An account of all my hundreds of romantic objects, each one in her hour—how useful such a chart would be; what a pity I didn’t think to start one back in ninth grade, when they first gave us graph paper and “study” halls. Every afternoon, two other girls and I would get to spend that strange new hour sitting in our teacher’s office. We’d play records on an old school turntable; I always picked the second side of Abbey Road. And every time She Came in through the Bathroom Window hit its stride I’m sure there must have been a “special someone” in my thoughts—but who? Was she someone in the room? (I just don’t think so.) Was she elsewhere in the school? Had we ever met? Did she exist? (They haven’t all.) Or was she on TV—I wish I knew. But without the chart I should have started keeping then, I never will. Nor can I say tonight, Yes this this and that, do the math, presto—this type will dominate my fancies at the second full moon of November when the nation is at war. So not to worry. I’m not in it for the neighbors, just the view, I reassure her. As the breezes raise their tattered parasols of pink and silver cloud in tandem, I watch the moonlight floods recede; they leave a recollection from Atlanta in the 1960’s, of the holographic Beatles rings my sister and I took home as gum-ball prizes from the grocery store. We tried to hold our hands so the ones we liked the most stayed fixed in place but the motion of the car kept switching faces on us. . .she liked Paul, or George, and I liked George—or John. Alas, I can’t remember.
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