I love watching people.

In watching them I become them. I become the quiet light-haired girl sitting across from me in this cafe. Ironically enough she is solving math equations on an 11 inch netbook that she rented from the campus library. Her notebooks are piled up next to her, they each have a manga character etched onto the cardboard back. These are also my notebooks because within moments I will become her. I will anticipate the following math equation with great zeal and claim possession of those manga drawings.

I am the amputee sitting next to me speaking with her German friend in a slavic tongue. She eats her early dinner and texts on her phone all while her friend becomes increasingly nervous about an upcoming assignment or someone potentially stealing his coffee off the table. I am slowly becoming her as I stare at this screen and wonder what it would be like to never feel keys beneath my finger tips. She looks happy, happier than most.

I transform into all three girls to my left. They each have pocket books that are jewel encrusted or sequenced. All they can think about is the work they don’t want to do but have to do and how lovely their bags look in contrast to the ugly gray jersey sky line this evening. They have caught me staring and becoming and if looks could kill I would die instantaneously.

I am slipping into the bodies of over-achieving grad students, sipping coffee and utilizing excel. Everything seems in tact for them. They have coffee mugs and satchels filled with mircron pens. They’re all much older than I..possibly married but not to a person just their work and excel spreadsheets. I would love to be in a holy union with perfectly ink filled pens and microsoft software…things would make a lot more sense.

I like when things don’t make too much sense. It’s when people stumble on their own words and swear by publications like the New Yorker that bring me joy. Not because this person has pronounced macabre oddly or they hide behind the words of others, it’s because I see myself in them. I too quote the Times and pronounce radiator in a terrible thick New York accent.






There is something I love about terrible love songs. This adoration cannot be described in words. As I am writing this I am listening to The Cranberries_Linger…yeah, but I love it. I feel like I am thirteen years old and the owner of an MP3 player. I’ll continue browsing my computer for love songs that cast me under the spell of nostalgia. Sometimes in the midst of this nostalgia I will recreate my old bedrooms.

When I was five I had a pink room complete with a pink canopy over my bed with pink plush animals guarding my pillows. When I was twelve I had a purple room with floral bedding that my mother insisted I make my bed with; it meant a lady resided in this room. It was the same room I lost my virginity in and cried when I realized boys don’t really like you and they wont love you tomorrow.

Onto Patsy Cline…I fall to pieces.

Patsy Cline was my soul sister at the tender age of fourteen. Of course I only secretly listened to her because in central jersey that would be social suicide. I must have seared impressions onto that CD. I completely skipped the sad emo girl routine and pleasantly acquainted myself with the love songs of decades past. Besides Patsy sang it better than anyone: she’s got you, crazy, sweet dreams. She nailed it. I also think I am going to marry every person I date but that’s another entry for another day. Chet Atkins was another man who preoccupied my time, but we did not meet until I was sixteen.

Of course Paul Simon’s 50 ways to leave your lover is in that mix; don’t be silly. I was lucky enough to hear that song during my time as a cashier at A&P; same CD for 6 months.

but where does my heart beat now?

Celine was onto something.

it beats in the representation of letters within this keyboard, it reverberates during cold autumn nights spent in rustic recliners (that’s what I call my shit furniture now), it skips a beat over lanky men with dark eyes, and drops when I realize I let my imagination fill in the blanks, it pulsates when someone appreciates a line or two of my entries, and explodes entirely when I realize I’m lucky in more ways than one.

ja’i ton amour