A Bar in Dumbo Last Week

Interesting, both me and the maître d' dissolve into dream space with an extended riff in the jazz 

I only know we return at the same time cuz we each reach for our phones, as if to say 

No, no I’m still here — I’m working. 

He is working. 

I’m not. But I have a train to catch and I can’t go too far from earth tho I desperately wish to. Beyond sleep. I want to go to NASA’s headquarters, the secret ones they don’t tell u about. In another galaxy. 

Listening to improv and we are both lit up and away. 

Daydreaming. Tho now I’m observing him, which is more creepy, I suppose, than a daydream. 

Which is a faintly pink thing. A daydream. Unassailable and done in lingerie. But I’m doing it in a safari hat. With binoculars. In a compression sports bra. I’m a creepy neighbor. No one’s precise fantasy. 

I think of my friend who, when he was young, thought that all boys had boners simultaneously. All boys for no reason or for some reason. All dicks rising together. 

He’d have gone on thinking that, but one day, at 8 years old, he said to his young colleague, in a spirit of collegial curiosity: Did you just feel that? 

That’s how he found out, we are not all so connected.

But I?

I do get boners with you, old friend. 

Boners of the spirit. Moments when I’m stirred such that my hands melt into grass and my thighs dissolve and I’m one blended and smudged piece of the oversoul and there is no ‘I.’ 

I’m a lucky one to know this. 

It’s a fine thing to lose yourself into nothingness. And an altogether hilarious thing when u return. 

A girl at an audition asked me today: So they’re looking for…? We’re auditioning for…? 

And I said, “Don’t u know we are drifting dust and have no control over our lives?”

She was getting her degree in counseling at Hunter (acting on the side), but still she didn’t know. She owes me $695 for the two-minute session, poor thing. 

We are here in our meat suits ambling about, together, with purpose, which is cute, valiant, and certainly the assignment. 

Make comedy, make jazz, make bitters, make rockets with mirrors that unfold to gaze back at star birth. Fulfill your most spectacular, divine potential. You should.

You’re still a fool. 

Go catch your train.

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