First names i'm fairly good at knowing. Last names need to be indisputably visual. i have made it my business, throughout life, not to know anyone. i'm not attesting to anti-socialism, but to my non-socialization. i don’t consider myself naive, as i am probably in the second half of my life. But it has only been recently realized one could talk to strangers + they would decently talk back. i had seen this done, my mother being a champ. She would get off the phone after 20 minutes of conversation just to say it was the wrong number. But i had always imagined if i talked to an unknown someone they'd get a far off look in their eyes as though they were in State Fair, start singing, turn + walk away. The rules change the reaches, as Le Guin says.
It is good to remember ... all is fleeting.
The apartment's kitchen was situated inside what used to be a walk-in closet. The Fridge door opened only half way, as it was wedged in + the stove edged out of the door frame. If there had not been a barred window, making it seem expansive as you looked out over the gray rooftops, it would have seemed you were cooking in a closet. We worked okay, side by side Kyle + i. Since he was so much taller than me we used different elbow space.
He had to have that credenza. That damn piece of furniture. We hauled it 16 blocks uptown from the salvation army. This huge buffet counter thingy, resembling a moose — as long as a coffin, heavy + on high spindly legs. you know, that thing from th e'50s that store china + linen for fine dining. We trudged it, stumbling, having to stop every 20 feet or so. i remember someone passing with the quip, Why don’t you put a handle on the top to carry it? To the cop we pretend it wasn't ours. (What credenza?) When it got so late we discussed using it for an overnight bunk bed on the street. We fibbed to the door-man by saying a friend had won it. Up the freight elevator ... i'm reckoning it’s in that apartment on 208 W 23rd street today still. It would be fun to know. i carved a note on the outside back of the drawer for posterity.