that is the question. So much easier losing one self in another person's language or vision. Yet writing, even a little, is kind of stimulating. A sense of my own power---my own "ability to create". Anyway, here it is---early Sunday morning---not the greatest of mornings. Woke up feeling overwhlemed by problems. No need to categorize them. At this point, feeling more "real", that is to say in the present. Already went out and bought a gigantic fruit cup from Fairway. Will probably go to the hotel coffee bar around the corner and get my coffee and read.
Still wondering if I can get to Brooklyn? Too many risks? Maybe after Tuesday, when I receive the ct scan and MRI, I will be more relaxed. BRIC is opened, I wonder if the large Atrium across the street from BRIC has reopened. Spent many relaxed times there, watching sports, hanging out. A nice place for people just "to be".And then, on the other side of the street, right by BAM, the Center for Fiction. Wonder if they are opened at full speed, or if their coffee bar has reopened. When I visited last August, it was just books, no coffee, no bathroom---kind of a ghost of itself. Spent really many terrific times there, between its opening and the pandemic. Read The Not Wives, by Carly Moore, completely there. A terrific novel, taking place around the time of the Occupy movement. Yesterday, browsed in Strand's bookstore on the upper west side. So many fascinating possibilities. Bought nothing---getting my books from the library now, and besides, want to complete James McBride's book Deacon King Kong, before starting something else. Deacon takes place in the Red Hook projects in the sixties--McBride's authentic voice (it is where he was raised) brings it to life with a cool force. Each scene with different characters, a kind of mini-play or short story. This author writes amazing dialogue.
I think I should stop here. Nice work, so far---ready to face the rest of the day.
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