An unsuccessful visit to the Genie Bar. My brilliant and impassioned speech about the injustices I have endured—delivered to the floor manager—may have been more effective if I had not temporarily choked on tears and had to stop speaking.
Some consolation that after the floor manager went back to wherever floor managers go, the Genie Man conceded I was right. They are shipping my laptop to an unknown location, the cord is in shreds, Apple is evil, and the floor manager is a mean man, but I am right.
I will carry this knowledge with me to the grave, likely with one million frayed Apple cords.
* Note I do not believe in purgatory, nor do I believe in Apple, but this is a post on genies and liars.
I again tried to talk myself into twitter. To get in the mood, I did searches like “feminists to follow” and “best written feeds.”
And again felt like I was in a small room with people shouting at each other in one-sentence increments.
I persevered, looking up every name on “50 Best Book People to Follow on Twitter.”
The only vaguely interesting remark was, “If you have a dream, don’t waste your energies explaining why”
In which case, the lack of a period gave me convulsions.
I remain twitterless.
Afternoon prowl in the garden among all the blooming things.
Contemplating that in some 30 days world leaders will meet not far from here. Wearing synthetic fabrics, walking on tiled floors, and sitting in air conditioned rooms, they will discuss “the climate.”
I wonder who they are, to be entrusted with such matters. And I wonder who I am too, to be entrusted with such a planet.
I was devastated when I learned I could no longer grow edible things in this soil, on account of a hex from a prior generation known as leaded gasoline.
But then there were flowers. Crawling flowers, towering flowers, shy flowers, booming flowers. Deep oranges, addictive crimsons, creamy creams, pops of blue, languid yellows, and everything in between.
This flower garden grew, and my soul with it. It might be the best thing I have ever done.
Street harasser: Inaudible.
I take three steps and freeze on the fourth.
Turn. “Excuse me?”
He offers a half wave? He is eating out of bag with crumbs falling out of his mouth. Yes, he forgot he did not just download me for $29.99 a month: I can talk back. He looks embarrassed. He says defensively; “I said, how are you doing?”
“I am fine,” I say crisply and clearly. And walk. Some consolation in his misery but it does not outweigh mine.
In this neighborhood you can still find shadowy corners and mysterious apparitions after dark. Tonight I wander the labyrinth of sidewalks, seduced onward by a cool breeze and endless ache for summer.
Statues of the madonna wreathed with flowers, Puerto Rican flags, storms of graffiti, swathes of warehouses, hairy patches of gardens, and bars with halos of light flooding from the doors.
The tortilla factory, baskets of cassava, a billowing curtain, laughter from a cluster of women on a stoop.
Even with the ominous drumbeat of gentrification, even in the belly of the capitalist beast, these streets feel untamed. Mismatched, dirty, gorgeous, devout, irreverent, and endlessly sensuous.
Whisper to the night air, I want to live forever.