Neither Here Nor There

Hey friends, so we’ve been reinstated with the internet (AGAIN) and we are safe and we are moved and now that I am done being a slug and also unpacking our whole lives (AGAIN), I’m ready for blogging.

I am also in White Haven.


Monday marks the seventeenth anniversary of my Mon Bon Croissant Fromage Frere’s birth and this monsoon afternoon, packing my bag (with essentially nothing, so I can bring a host of worldy goods back to Brooklyn on Sunday, leaving The Bearded Companion to shake his head in quiet disgust), I set off into the deluge with only my raincoat, my sandwich, and my ipod of self-indulgently sad music to keep me company.

Walk west, two blocks. Walk south, one block. Huddle under exposed train platform with other humans and, don’t forget, my sandwich. Eat sandwich. Take train one stop, change to other train via the totally complicated and tiny elevator system. Everything smells like wet bodies and fried chicken. Get on second train. Contemplate trendiness. Arrive at 42nd Street/Port Authority. Find NJ Transit kiosk. Commence re-hating New Jersey. Purchase ticket. Bus 168, gate 212, 2:15 pm. Call sister with minor bus crisis because there are so many doors and also it’s hot and darrrrrk. Get on bus. Read David Foster Wallace book of short fiction and re-contemplate trendiness. Veggie Heaven, KFC, AMAZING SAVINGS, hit “stop” button, get off bus, thank driver. Run toward Poochcat in the rain in a cinematic sort of sequence because also I am listening to this superiorly epic Sigur Ros song at the time and I have my raincoat + hood on like a dork, or a kid about to go to kindergarten. Finish hug, eat spicy vegan faux shark fin soup, scull tiny teas, drive drive drive, listening to such distinguished artists as Sum 41 and Peter Gabriel to accompany us through the floods and the road construction and the vaguely disappointing coffees we buy on the way, until it is White Haven and we sneak in through the back door, creeping through the soggy, verdant yard like we’re in high school again, and reverse sneaking out.

JQ comes home ten minutes later, and he is surprised indeed.

Happy birthday, brother of mine. Dearest familia, I appreciate your constant support and the comfort of our same-ish faces.

As I began composing this, after a hearty dinner of macaroni and cheese, faux chicken, vinegared beets, squash, and a colorful salad, Momcat strode into the computer room (formerly the bedroom my brother and sister and I shared back in the true day) and stated that,

There are some cats on youtube who are flying around like they’re in Star Wars.

Intrigued, I did some google-based research and found out that she was not lying. Here you are.



Goodnight. All around me, the wet breath of evening is cooling on the tops of trees and the river that snakes below our streets. The last insects of summer and singing and dying, and inside we have few lamps lit, and everyone is sleepy. It is quiet here. You don’t need to chain your possessions to iron bars for fear of theft. No one will crawl in your window while you sleep. So you sleep with the screen in and your blankets jammed up around your chin with your feet sticking out and your cache of nostaligic sights and smells revisited. Also there is a cat here.



About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
This entry was posted in Charming Anecdote, The Cats of Summer and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Neither Here Nor There

  1. Pingback: Distractions | welltailoredsuit

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