wednesday

It's easy to say very little by saying a lot. For instance, I've spent all day in bed curled on my side, drinking ginger ale, reading Paris Review interviews, watching 60s beach flicks, and blowing my nose. The evening has advanced like sludge: slowly. I adopted a few of Joan Didion's thoughts very early this morning and later forgot that they did not originate with me. I respond immediately to displaced Californians. The sun, Didion observes, settles differently in the East. In California, it explodes in slow sun bursts. In New York, night simply falls. I wish I could express the deepness of my fixation with light. Last week I visited Yves Klein's International Blue after hearing that the Pompidou had removed the glass shell. It was the warmest Thursday I had experienced in months. The security guard was a young man dressed in light grey. He looked slightly bored, slightly eager. The last time I had visited the fifth floor I saw a man walk into a bench and fall face first. I watched strangers and employees walk up to him and later jokingly tease him. Unfortunately since, the benches have been removed and I found myself standing in front of IKB for twenty minutes before my intoxication wore off as a result of fatigue. All of this babble has only furthered my procrastination of packing for a trip that has been rather crippled by the volcanic ash currently littering the sky. My voyage to Budapest and Vienna remains unseen, so I'll bid this my possible, potential adieu!