HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot
Thursday, May 22, 2008
running with donald
i'm settled into the city now, living on the east side by the river in stuyvesant town. stuyvesant town is one of new york city's gems, one of the most iconic and successful of post-war private housing communities in nyc. i live with a 60-year-old artist called donald. he used to be a franciscan monk, before he became a guidance councillor. now he writes poetry and novels between 7pm and 4am in the morning. justin cooked dinner for me last night. then, i cook for us--grape crumble and ice cream; peanut butter and cranberry cake. donald keeps me awake by talking to me at 1am when i scoot into a kitchen filled with magazines, books and artwork to do my dishes, and before i realise it, its 3.15, and i still haven't done the dishes and i've gotta work tomorrow. justin takes over, and talks to donald and makes excuses for why i can't talk, and the two of them talk about neuroscience the rest of the night. i've started work at the publishing firm, it's tedious work, being pushed between 4 bosses, i also will have to get myself familiar with all the magazines here, but it's one of the most amazing things ever, to be working on union square, pouring through a travel novel that i might be helping to publicise, lunch hour in greenwich village, conference calls with boston. i will be starting work at the literary agency tomorrow, juggling two unpaid jobs. in two weeks i move into harlem, with denise, who has a collapsed trachea, and owns a dog hotel. my grandfather passed away last night at 12.02pm, after having held on for a couple of days after his body failed, and after being on morphine for about a week, i think. stubborn till the end, my father says, my father sounds tired over the phone, drained, i can't talk to you now, he says, i'm talking to the undertakers, and he hangs up, leaving me in the dark for a while, and i suddenly feel far away from home. later he calls again, my father tells me, he had been waiting for my grandmother's ashes to be shifted to the st. mary of the angels columbarium from mount vernon, because he only finally was willing to sleep, almost immediately after my father received the call confirming that they could be placed side by side. i was close to my grandfather, and i lived with him in the house for most of my life. i am not coming home, because my father wants life to go on. i told justin i couldn't go out with him. i was supposed to go up to his place in jersey, i told him i couldn't. i had to stay in and spend time with donald--donald who reads with a magnifying glass, donald with an apartment full of junk, donald who plays the harmonica, donald who reminds me so like my grandfather--i have to spend time with donald, i blubbered away, i can't hang out with you. it's fine, do what you need to do in your own time, i understand, he said. we finish the last of the crumble with bryers ice cream, and then he tucks me in, and leaves the house. i am exhausted from accumulated exhaustion of driving into the city, packing, walking around, working, bad sleep, calls back and forth between ny and singapore. i pass out the moment i hit the pillow--forgetting to put on earplugs--i got into the habit of wearing earplugs when i spent freshman year in nyu because of the ambulance sirens and stuff like that throughout the night. i wake up with a splitting headache. today i am going jogging with donald by the east river. do you really want to run with me, he asked, eyes shining, hair all white; yes, i would love to. oh, it's a date, he said, it's a date.
: 9:15 AM
