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And-d-d-d-d-d Chapter 2 is done.
I have no idea if it's any good, but it's certainly been fun writing it. And a bit of a lifesaver, too, because instead of feeling sorry for myself because I'm living in fuckin' Wallkill where I know absolutely no one & could go for weeks without having a single in-person conversation with anyone but store checkers, I can pretend I'm at an exclusive writer's retreat where everything has been arranged to give me perfect solitude for my art!
Anyway, Chapter 1 is here.
And here is Chapter 2:
-------------------------
Part 1: Grazia
Chapter 2
I was born and raised in New York City.
New York City is like no place else on the planet, and when you grow up there, some unquantifiable but enormous part of your brain is assigned to cracking the City's various codexes. The map of the subway, of course, but also the conversations on the subway, voices chattering away in a thousand different dialects that some magical gift of urban telepathy allows you to make sense of. The discombobulated dance step you have to learn so you can weave in and out of the crowd coming at you whenever you walk down a city street. The litter of unexplainable objects on every city street, like fall-out from some highly selective Rapture: passports, wallets, Hermes scarves, Apple watches, Argentinian pesos. The sirens, horns, screaming voices, pulsating bass notes, which you must learn to love like a lullaby.
Once, I saw a woman walking a pigeon on a leash; it was an ordinary pigeon, and it was an ordinary woman.
( But wait! There's more! )
I have no idea if it's any good, but it's certainly been fun writing it. And a bit of a lifesaver, too, because instead of feeling sorry for myself because I'm living in fuckin' Wallkill where I know absolutely no one & could go for weeks without having a single in-person conversation with anyone but store checkers, I can pretend I'm at an exclusive writer's retreat where everything has been arranged to give me perfect solitude for my art!
Anyway, Chapter 1 is here.
And here is Chapter 2:
-------------------------
Part 1: Grazia
Chapter 2
I was born and raised in New York City.
New York City is like no place else on the planet, and when you grow up there, some unquantifiable but enormous part of your brain is assigned to cracking the City's various codexes. The map of the subway, of course, but also the conversations on the subway, voices chattering away in a thousand different dialects that some magical gift of urban telepathy allows you to make sense of. The discombobulated dance step you have to learn so you can weave in and out of the crowd coming at you whenever you walk down a city street. The litter of unexplainable objects on every city street, like fall-out from some highly selective Rapture: passports, wallets, Hermes scarves, Apple watches, Argentinian pesos. The sirens, horns, screaming voices, pulsating bass notes, which you must learn to love like a lullaby.
Once, I saw a woman walking a pigeon on a leash; it was an ordinary pigeon, and it was an ordinary woman.
( But wait! There's more! )
