the little minx's diary: the day, the night.
(previous entries) (email the minx)




1:04 AM *
it's like the alarm has been ringing on 2004 and i've done nothing but hit the snooze button.

somewhere across the room there is a little tinkling. as i roll over, eyes rolling from under my lids, i can't tell if it's our dog or my dream. or the lingering bit of 2003 that is trying to get my attention in the one moment i have no self control. and all my thoughts happen at once.

and I swear sometimes
when I put my head to his chest
I can hear the virus humming

like a refrigerator.
Which is what makes me think
you can take your positive attitude

and go straight to hell.
We don't have a future,
we have a dog. Who is he?

and i am stirred to cry, but because all the thoughts are here, i cannot tell if it's because i cried when i first heard Doty's words sung at Ned Rorem's birthday in October, or if it is because the six hours of Angels in America struck me deep, like spoken words that are always true, even when they're spoken by assholes, like a little trip to a time you never knew but heard a lot about, namely, New York Eighties. jesus, i hadn't even seen the fucking play when it opened, and i had just moved here in 1994.

i moved to new york on August 14, 1994, at 7:13pm. i still have the fucking receipt from the Lincoln Tunnel.

but you know me, don't you. you've spent a lot of times looking at a picture of a mountain near Jemez Springs and filled it up with these words, the words of the next entry, the words you knew i would write. i probably should have clarified it at the beginning: i've been a snooze button junkie on this, the words you are reading, but not on the rest my life. there's a difference, and at this point, you know what it is.

i get a jump on things like my anaerobic training for rugby season, and in this weather it's all misery. you knew. i've been out of the gate on new independent projects that make new independent moneys, and lead to new independent professional reputation as a new independent thinker in the realm of architecture. you knew too. and have been to more broadway shows, and seen more movies (at home, silly) in the last four months than i have in my previous nine years in this town. i got shit to do, so hit the damned snooze again, okay?

"Yeah. There was a black velvet curtain in front of it and you had to pull the curtain back to see. And there was a note pinned to the curtain that said children weren't supposed to look."

"But kids did," said Crosby. "There were kids down there, and they all looked."

"A sign like that is just catnip to kids," said Hazel.

see? i've just been looking.

i also keep looking at this picture on my desk, at the office. Truman Capote dancing with Marilyn Monroe at El Morocco in 1955. people at work don't think i'm all together as it is. i like architects they don't like, i'm terminally bored with architects everyone else likes, and i talk about literature or clothes or whatever part of life is perfectly necessary when critiquing a design. nobody gets it. i think about lisping Capote, trying to hang on to this incredibly famous woman, eight comfortable years from death, who won't look at him for the picture, and even won't look at the god damned photographer. but she is holding on, somewhat, if only so that she doesn't fall over. Capote looks like he just wants to dance, get it done with, and get another cocktail. either that, or he grabbed her, and she is putting a smile on the fact that she is momentarily captive. i feel like my life in New York, up until september 2003, has been like this, me dancing with the gorgeous people, enjoying their company, touching their flesh. but holey moley you could put a whole other body between us, because the bitch didn't want to play with me. wouldn't even look at the camera.

at other times i look at the photo and think: they were at a party, and now they are all dead. it's really not possible to have enough fun, is it. and Capote wrote that book about killers, too, people getting shot. why don't i drink more often?

you know, i've had about three rye manhattans that are worthy of the name. two of them were in brooklyn, of all places. does no one care about good cocktails anymore?

so the thoughts all rise up at once. i say this all the time. and boyfriend keeps hitting the alarm. and i didn't cry to the poem. it's rare that it comes back a second time. but the cloud always forms, threatens to pour down anyway, even though it always blows over. snooze. where's the dog?

i roll over and wrap my arms around the boyfriend. the delights of loving someone your own height, but thirty pounds more muscular, are ones that i enjoy every morning. i run my hand on the little fur that grows only on his chest and kiss the space between his shoulder blades. i swear to god, sometimes when i put my lips there, i can hear our whole beautiful people future. and the dog.


2:40 PM *
New Hampshire
New Jersey
New Mexico
New York
Rhode Island

For the sake of convenience, i have already removed Ohio from this list. So much for being in love with my home state.

ps I wanna get married someday.


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