All the Pregnant Ladies Say Fuck Almonds

All the pregnant ladies say, “Fuck almonds.” I can safely conclude this among those that had gestational diabetes. (Again, here, n=2. For literary reasons we are unconcerned with sample size.)

There was an art installation in the Flatiron Building, twisted metallic trees.

The second book of the Neapolitan novels starts with Lila giving Elena a box of notebooks that she needs to hide from her husband. Letters as identity, like an essay I wrote for a French class. In Lettres d’une Peruvienne, the lover returns the letters. In Lettres de Milady Juliette Catesby, she asks for them back, and the guy says he’ll never agree to return them. Letters as a piece of yourself, in ways that all this newer technology cannot replicate.

“That mailbox story--that was the worst.” The days when our mail would overflow but we wouldn’t bring it in and the pink notice came through because they were holding our mail at the post office. “My god, he’s my boss,” she thought.

Is it a trick of light or the day’s haze or are the trees already thinning? Quickly falls the evening. The sky stayed gray but never gave up rain. A bride being photographed outside Gramercy Park. A buttery lobster roll for lunch. Bitch session in the cellar. Wine, slate. A drink with tequila and pineapple kissed with foam. Then entranced by murals on the Lower East Side. I wanted to linger over the hearts and bright skulls. I liked listening to stories about horse races.

Plans for another relay. Nostalgia for old shows, old jokes, from the way, way back. “The synapses sparkle and flare,” I wrote a decade ago. I haven’t used it yet so throw it in here. The original question was something about alcohol and choices. Full circle to tonight, the film about the German girls and the monster they create.

Which of your gods have fallen, and which have you propped up? Don’t get hung up on lines you don’t like. Now is not the time for that. Now is time for deadlines and thresholds.

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