There was something in me this weekend. Something big and rushed and anxious and nasty, swelling past forever, leaking into the five burroughs, even

queens, which i forget is a burrough.  even past that.

my ideal situatio

n would be ridi

ng bikes, sipping lemonade through paved

 paths in the washington forests with p

aul simon, quinn, and thoreau.  may

be henry miller.  maybe grown up anne

 frank.  talking to the ghosts of my a

ncestors.  the 

ones i dont know about.  the ones who 

looked like me.  and i trip on the resurrec

tion stone.  and my dress gets dirty.  we 

are all wearing the costumes from 

where the wild t

hings are.

i think she was right when she said literature was the only real counter culture.