12.24am
waiting for the/on the A uptown
After three crazed babbling calls to bosephus tonight, I feel more like a manic wild-haired loon, trying to express the width and depth of life and its importance in every second, less like a fount of literary (spiritual psychological philosophical) wisdom bursting to overflow.
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I badly need to urinate and there is some kind of faucet sporadically dripping into the train tunnel before me. When I first sat down I noticed a person standing by the edge near where the sound is coming from and thought it to be a drunken male relieving himself. Instead of being disgusted (anything in those gutters of rail lines is at least as filthy, perhaps more) primarily it made me envious that such relief is beyond my gender's capacities.
It turned out to be a female there, and she was not peeing.
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I am so enamoured with the outdoors. I lay tonight in the middle of the Museum of Modern Art's sculpture garden, and looked up and around me. Aitken's Sleepwalkers is being projected onto the walls, showing New York from the angles of five people (Seu Jorge the electrician that uses a wire as a lasso, Chan Marshall as a postal worker (poor casting? ...or brilliant?!), Donald Sutherland—an aesthetist roaming the sidewalks, stepping from a limo, wearing a long black coat, fearless—the stories blur into eachother, the five wake up together, pour coffee, grapefruit juice, orange juice at the same time, flickers between them, stutter into the setting sun—the city blurs together), the movie blurs into the skylines above me, the commentary wavers from my cell phone (calling the movie's number) and into my ear: "where do you end and the city begin?"
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God. I love the power of efficient mass transit, but it really is a jerky bitch to my bladder in its time of agony.