10:12 AM 8/28/2007

Got out of work early yesterday, and ran to the subway stop, book clutched in hand, weaving through the crowd that thronged the pavements as if I had some place urgent to go. At times I sidestepped right out onto the road, running along the lip of the gutter, only to hop back up and through a columnade of scaffolding as a bus came barreling past. I reached the bus stop, helter skeltered down the steps and hit the turnstile running, swiping my card with new found ease born of a month’s practice so that it turned before my weight, the little green GO flashing on just before I would have otherwise castrated myself. Slowing, faltering out onto the platform, the massive tunnel empty, the warmth suddenly muggy and oppressive, close like how air gets under your sheets after an hour of past lights out reading. Heart thudding, breath shuddering, grinning for the lunacy of running for the sake of it, I sat down, kicked out my legs, and began to read.

As if to compensate for the rush and run, the rest of my afternoon and evening past in a slow and mellow flow, with my reading on the couch at Paul’s, and then talking in the kitchen with Christina when she arrived from work. There’s a great wooden chest, coffin long and a deep lustrous milk chocolate red in color set against the wall of the kitchen, and it’s my favorite place to sit in the whole apartment. We sat down and talked, spoke and then roused ourselves to amble down to a new Deli that Christina was in high hopes that it might sell produce and goods of higher quality than the local C-Market. En route we past an ornate shrine to the Titanic, replete with faded photographs of key officers and passengers in oval, gilt frames, plastic bouquets, cupids and candles. The Deli was too small to warrant the trip, but we loaded up on goods and then trekked back, the moon rising broad and full like a soiled silver dollar off to our right, visible between the scarce high rises.

Having spent much of my day reading, I settled down upon returning to the apartment for a game of Hitman: Blood Money on Paul’s Playstation 2. I became a tall, leopard lean bald man in an Armani suit with a penchant for garottes and skulking around drug lord haciendas. The game rewards subtlety, stealth and lethality, but I found greater amusement in equipping my assassin with a machine gun and charging the front gates. Bullets flying in a frenzy of poor shooting, outraged hombres rushing out with shotguns and cuss words. High noon at the OK Corral over and over again as I was gunned down, rising, unstoppable with every Restart Level? question. Eventually this cheerful inanity paled, and Paul arrived, so I turned off the game and spoke to the tall man before turning in for some sleep.

I’m currently reading Caitlin R. Kiernan’s Threshold, and enjoying it tremendously. She does teenage angst exceptionally well, the intense, nothing in the world matters more than this self absorption that goths and drunks and artists and students can do so well at that age. Throw in excellent descriptions, an aggressive, fast and delirious style of writing and then drench it all in horror, and you have an excellent novel in hand.