breaking bread and eggs

27 days in the city.
24 days to get shit done.

[I need to produce 50 pages in ten days, then get it together for two finals, then pack my life and go] It's ending at this speed that obliterates nostalgia. I've been here so long I don't believe it will ever feel unfamiliar.

Stuff about my new job has been creeping into my mail box demanding attention. The melting streets outside and warm air make it relevant. This morning I made french toast while he made coffee, the night before we watched Eyes Wide Shut and made dinner and had wine. Ordinary life, stillness.

He has an overt masculinity that's not depleted by graceful gentleness.

I had Easter with my best friend; she made ham, I brought salad and starches. I took a bus to her house listening to the BBC, the streets melting were full of kids with skateboards. We watch reality television and hang out. Intimacy in friendship is seriously underrated, that point where you stop going out and relocate into each other's homes. When someone invites you to their home too early it has the danger of breach, it can be strangely off putting to see pristine towels in a bathroom or three weeks of dishes in a sink. But eventually all good friends evolve from coffee or lunch or cocktails to homes. The paper this week wrote about Eucharist as an act of communal sharing, the dissolved core of it is an act of eating and sharing that is steeped in self, Jesus ain't no take out box.

Dude, what is going on in Tibet makes me want to listen to the Beastie Boys and wear overtly political t-shirts, even though it's as meaningless as AP photos of bleeding monks and sensational headlines. This world is complicated. I'm going to sleep.