Walking down 8th Street, belly full of noodles and sake, on this warm April night, tiny drops of rain unyieldingly turned into torrential downpour. I realized the umbrella I was shielding us with was useless, we were drenched. Drenched and laughing hysterically, jumping around, taking in the fun of this moment. There was nothing but the overwhelming joy of that moment. I hopped on the subway back to Brooklyn, dripping water like I had just stepped out of the shower. I am open to the possibility that this was my spring awakening, as it were, in the most literal sense possible. (You know, not adolescent spring awakening, not spring awakening the musical, but simply, my burst of joy after what has been a very tough and long winter.)
Nostalgic for the present.
On a somewhat related non-sequiter (oxymoron, right?):
Lou Reed sat several seats away from me at the latest strange Richard Foreman performance [art] last week. I can attest that Lou Reed, does in fact, look like an old lesbian, even if he makes good music.
