My favorite thing is going across the bridge at night and seeing another train across the way, lit up from the inside so that just the windows stand out, and the people inside, tourists with baseball caps and nontourists with baseball caps, cardigan sweaters and strollers and tired commuters and girls with better hair. I watch them and I wonder if they watch back, look at me and see just a character description; a quick, pretty movie of a train crossing a bridge with the city lights behind it, the helpful electric sign blinking SEA BEACH EXPRESS/CONEY ISLAND/SEA BEACH EXPRESS again and again and again, marking a beat that no one keeps track of.
9:52 pm • 25 August 2014 • 1 note
I couldn’t remember whether the chambers of the heart
were atria or ventricles. I looked it up. They’re both.
The atrium brings the blood in, gestures to the coat
rack, pours a glass of red wine. Then out, out through
the swollen sodden gills, lub dub, all best to the wife
and kids. Missing you, there’s some muscle I can’t un-
tense. It’s not even a vagina muscle. It’s my heart.
I was thinking the heart’s chambers are made of cells
which are made of chambers, but then I remembered
muscle cells are really more like those rolls of cookie dough
you slice and throw in the oven, all discrete strands, maybe
string cheese would have been a better metaphor but it’s
too late now, I’ve already made it about cookies.
If you don’t like cookies then you can go fuck yourself.
It turns out heart cells aren’t like normal muscle cells.
They’ve only got one nucleus, and they spend all their lives
making sure they keep living. Under duress, their walls
thicken. I’m pretty sure someone grew them in a petri dish
and all the cells began to beat in synchrony, the tiniest
dubstep concert ever. Cardiomyocytes can grow but once
they die you’re totally screwed. I didn’t even want to drop
the name cardiomyocyte. There’s a joke about monogamy in all this
somewhere. I will find it. I’ll tell it to you and you’ll
laugh and I’ll keep tensing up my heart because if I don’t
I’ll die and this love poem will have been for nothing.
— <3, Annelyse Gelman
2:20 pm • 19 August 2014
Oh, I’ve got an excitable heart, one that’s not going to stop.
1:55 pm • 19 August 2014
“What hurts most, you do again. Away from the living people you practice for. Toward the shaking, fleeting thing you only let yourself half-believe in.”
— Marie-Helene Bertino, 2 A.M. at the Cat’s Pajamas
5:45 pm • 15 August 2014
Hi little tumbly. It’s been awhile since I’ve done something here beyond posting about snails. New York has been chilly this week, windswept and full of pedestrians wishing they had grabbed a sweater on the way out. I think this is a lull of heat that will grow into a crescendo of sorts around September, squeezing the last of summer like a lemon onto baked fish. My mind has gone there for a bit, wondering about the scarves and sweaters I don’t need but will probably buy. Each season is the opportunity for a slightly different look, a chance to outwardly prove the sun and air has changed you for the better. All the headiness of back-to-school without the back, or the school.
I’m in the middle of reading 2 a.m. at the Cat’s Pajamas by Marie-Helene Bertino and it is very good, moving like a song.
My friend at work and I switch off making coffee. Then we return with our mugs at the beep, fill them, small talk, go back to work, and do it all again in a few hours. It is nice to commiserate over a need for caffeine/a need to put off work for a few more minutes.
10:10 am • 15 August 2014