I’m standing on the platform at Ft. Hamilton waiting for the F train to take me to Manhattan. I’m drinking out of my lipstick stained coffee cup and continually glancing down the track expecting to see the train any moment. The hums and rumbles of the empty subway are misleading. I’m on my way to meet a French girl that I had made aquentences with while in Paris. She just moved here. We should have much to talk about. :)
My wedding yesterday went well. Better and worse than expected. Nice challenges, lovely surprises. My assistant drove me all the way home. I’m grateful to not have to ride the subway at 1am with my gear. I found I wasn’t tired and joined Chloe and her roommate in Carrol Gardens for beers at Great Henry on Smith Street. Everyone is a fucking character here.
We grabbed bagels at 4 am and took a taxi home.
I took a picture of myself in grand central enroute to my wedding. A token of this accomplishment and another milestone passed. Contracted job in NY, Check.
It’s painful to be there. To be here. A sad pain. One you want to argue with, bargain with and don’t want to let go of.
Chloe said I’m a catch. But then why am I divorced and single?
Because there is more to life than love. Not much more, but there is.
I’m not done yet chasing me. More to do, more to purge, more to break apart.
I want my home, my office and my studio back. I need my space so I can create.
