In between Chelsea and Soho and the Bronx where I went to the Rose Hill library to read about Galahad's grail quest in the original French, a language I can no longer read, and then in a minute having to pick up Wally and then down to Tribeca for parent-teacher-conferences I stopped home just briefly and realized it was absurd to come home should have just gone to the grocery store in the interstitial moment of the day but I came home time only for one glass of Irish tea with a piece of Irish Soda Bread--no one yesterday enjoyed it but me--and calling a few assemblymen/people (though in this case, indeed all men) about the horror that is Cuomo's budget proposal and then back out into the cold that comparatively is not so cold but I just don't have the reserves anymore to fight it. Does it have to be so cold in Ireland? Do you remember that song, The Cranberries? I think it was after their hey-day when it came out. It was ridiculous to come home only to make the tea then dump half of it because it was too hot and then turn around and go blustering back out the door but it was worth it too, for the tea and Ireland, that increasingly distant place and also for the chance to write, because I write mostly in the moments I wasn't supposed to be there.
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