When I Should be Working

I am instead munching peanut butter toast, listening to Law & Order, walking south with Pulp in my ears, watching my rainy reflection pass in the windows of hair salons and green grocers, chopping vegetables for elaborate omelettes, guessing the identities of married couples in the New York Times, listening to a friend from far away who is temporarily near play guitar in quiet circles, imagining the sound of my own laughter from a vantage point in the future somewhere, hearing the rain, talking about feelings, snuggling into bed and dry clothes with the lights off and a stack of work-related materials but no drive, no motivation. There is a Sylvia Plath poem (that patron saint of all sad girl poets):

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free –
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is grey, it is raining, my brain is sideways and I am stirring. Here are some cats about art.

I found these on top of a set of lockers near my studio at Pratt. I was impressed.

Found on the wall of the excellent Gowanus Print Lab.

 

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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.
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