flying so you won't land

{ A }
i walk down 36th towards phinney with my eyes trained on the ground 5 feet in front of me, the way i walked for 21 years until i lived in new york. sometimes i try to see how much information my brain can record at once, and i study the leaves rather intently as they pass quickly beneath my little brown sneakers, the ones that allow me to move silently like a stealthy assassin. i'm moving at my usual pace which seems to be twice as fast as most people walk around here, except for regina whose muscle memory is still embedded with the pace of the 42nd street subway station.

my phone rings. jason sounds pissed. am i really late again? am i developing a habit of not being on time? i dislike when people can't seem to get their act together enough to show up someplace on time and i know i am perfectly capable of being punctual.

back to the leaves.

i look up from the damp carpet of red, orange and gold for a split second. my brain hits the record button. i see:
1. ) a girl
2. ) a boy
3. ) they are kissing
4. ) they are in the parking lot of a mexican restaurant

i hit stop and then rewind. in that split second my brain has recorded much more information than i'd originally realized. the girl was blonde, fair skinned. the boy taller, dark curly hair. both of their eyes were closed and there was no awkward space between them. i watched as they both gently pressed closer to each other. is it longing for more, something fleetingly physical? or is it the kind of longing that involves exchanges of scribbled notes on counter tops, sunday morning flower clippings or the memorization of the contours of ones' shoulders?

i immediately look away. despite their moment being shared in the parking lot of a mexican restaurant on 36th street i know they are the only ones that exist in this moment and i feel like i've intruded. i take 3 or 4 more quickened steps before glancing over my shoulder. they have parted and are walking towards what i can only assume to be their respective vehicles. i don't know if they have butterflies in their stomachs, but i do. i think it's hope. i hope for them and for me.


{ B }
i find jason at ladro where he is curled up over a crossword puzzle. i appologise for my tardiness. he tells me he should have known better, that he should have called before he left the house, that this sort of thing is not new with me. it doesn't hurt so much as itches, the way thoughts or accusations in my brain do when i can't figure out "why."

we dine on thai before walking half a block to the 45th street theatre to see babel.

babel is a movie that you feel in your gut more than you follow. over the course of the two and a half hours i fealt tense, scared, happy, embarassed, ashamed, sickened and despite my best intentions to quell those same butterflies, hopeful.

regardless of the fact that throughout most of the movie they are both filthy and covered in blood, brad pitt and cate blanchett remain stunningly beautiful. in the beginning they quarrell and disconnect but cate is shot in the neck and i guess that's just one of those things that brings couples together.

there's a scene where ms. blanchett is lying on the dirt floor of a moroccan hut, talking about how she wet herself and is about to do it again. brad, being the gentleman that he is, asks the hut owner for a pan for his wife to do number one in. he slips the pan under her skirt and proceeds to gently lift her up over the pan. the camera does not cut away. we watch the entire painstakingly awkward process. it sort of reminds me of the time i tried to pee in the woods with jamie, except cate has a bullet hole in her neck and isn't intoxicated.

the camera cuts to a closeup of their faces, and my mind is subconsciously memorizing the minutia of their expressions. i watch as this cinematic moment transcend film and once again my brain is recording and stringing threads through my own thoughts.

a voice inside my head whispers, "see kiddo? that's love."