On the eve of the summer solstice & THAT particular batch of eclipses, my car was hit on the street in Brooklyn, while I was sleeping. It had been a blissful early summer evening, walking the streets of Carroll Gardens with Amalia & Thea, in flip-flops & a bustle-y skirt, listening to sirens & kids yelling to each other in the night, sitting in an italian grandma's backyard (not mine) & nestling myself in the generations of women like a pocket weave of slippery moonlight & a gin rummy spread . . anyway, in the middle of that balmy night, Amalia & I heard a huge crash & we looked out to see if anyone was in trouble out there. We saw nothing. The next morning, I found my car with a secret scar, a blow to the back tire, passenger side, so hard it broke the axel & torqued the frame beyond repair. That car had carried me through 2 big dogs & 3 kids & many over-sand trips to the dune shack(s) in the Provincelands, besides sleeping me & a couple of lovers (at separate times) on several ridiculous & ambitious adventures . .
It's now a half turn of the year later and I have managed to work out a chain of love barters in exchange for transportation. I keep waiting for the magic to expire & yeah, I do love to call my own shots & be immediately gratified when, for example, a midnight impulse to drive to the ocean comes upon me or, in more practical cases, I need to deliver some love product: healing, living foods, me, me, me and pay the rent, but these transaction between myself, the traveler & my various drivers has been tender & beautiful. I can't remember a time when I have been so (regularly) social & available.
Yesterday Tom & I drove into NYC. I needed to deliver to some Inner Garden clients, he needed to finesse some gorgeous lighting fixtures for the store & some clients. We drove around for 12 hours & we laughed & smoked (?!) & finally stopped for dinner, starving & slightly deranged as if we had been camping for weeks without sustenance or showers, in Carroll Gardens (practically the scene of the crime) at Sam's Restaurant (238 Court Street), totally old school Italian pizza & pasta & red neon & red & white plastic tablecloths . .
I told him about my great grandma & her bedroom full of candles, her yearly birthday parties at various locations, where we all danced the alley cat in line formation while waiting for the antipasto.
He talked about driving to his father's door in Queens, accompanied by his young son ~ after not seeing his dad for years & then all of them going to the Cloisters for the afternoon.
We are both so sensitive.
The waiter acted like we had been together for a while, which we had.
(photo by tom luciano)