I am always in disbelief at how loud H’s alarm is. We wake promptly at 6:30 am. H gets motivated, I linger in bed a bit longer. I had been dreaming about something I can barely remember now, but I feel it had left an impression on me. When H opens the blinds we’re greeted by a grey sky threatening rain or maybe the rain had just passed. As I’m straightening my hair, H and I listen to a few songs by Cocteau Twins and a song by Ride. H thinks there’s a better Ride song from the same album, which I pull up and we listen to; it wasn’t nearly as good, but Ride doesn’t have many good songs to begin with. This had me thinking about other artists we mutually listen to where our favorite songs differ. I go through a few with him:
The Smiths: H’s favorite song is Still Ill from their self titled debut album. Mine is Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me which, funny enough, is from their final album.
Led Zeppelin: H teetered between Traveling Riverside Blues and In the time of dying. Without a doubt I chose Since I’ve Been Loving You but specifically the recording from the Live at MSG 1973 album.
The Beach Boys: The Warmth Of The Sun recently became my top song from them. H has a genuinely surprising choice of Wouldn’t It Be Nice.
…
I put on a navy blue V-Neck sweater from Uniqlo, brown Max Mara trousers, and Dries Van Noten sneakers. Later regretting the choice as the pants are about half an inch too long and I hate the caramel color of the shoes with the chocolate brown color of the pants.
At Penn Station I take my headphones out to listen to the ambient sounds of the terminal while I continue my reading of Martin Gayford’s Man with a Blue Scarf. I’m nearing the end so I packed another book to start, probably tomorrow. A man arrives and sits at a nearby table disrupting the current background noises I could easily tune out with exceptionally loud hiccuping that became impossible to ignore. A moment later our track is announced so we head down.
On the train I’m trying to remember my dream and why it had set a certain mood to my morning. But it’s gone, only a lingering feeling of what I want to say is contentment and the feeling of a chill in the air.
The train ride goes smoothly. We bought our tickets too late and could only get one as far as Saratoga Springs. From there, we drive a ways and stop at a grocery store in some small town off the highway. This is something I enjoy deeply about leaving the city: small-town grocery stores. After nearly a decade of living in NYC and shopping at ‘New York City’ grocery stores, the likes of which need to be experienced to know the difference, walking up to and in to a suburban grocery store becomes a bizarre experience.
In February, on a trip upstate for G’s birthday, we stopped into the only grocery store around the cabin we were staying at to stock up for the night. We looked exceptionally out of place—but most likely to no one but myself. I distinctly remember walking the aisles under green-tinged florescent lighting feeling absolutely outside of myself.
The lighting of this grocery store has a happier florescent tone and an orange and white color-scheme. The layout looks nearly identical to every grocery store in my hometown. I feel like I’m in the 90’s.
…
Inching closer to the lake, I roll down my window and stick my head out letting the wind batter my face a bit. The combination of sun and refreshing breeze makes me think ‘ahhh a perfect day’ and I realize that it actually doesn’t take much for me to have a perfect day—or rather, it doesn’t take much for a day to be considered perfect in my eyes.
When it’s cool enough that I don’t sweat but not so cold as to make me sleepy, that’s a perfect day.
When I have no plans but spontaneously go out or do something on a whim and have fun, that’s a perfect day.
Sometimes, I could be having a bad day that turns around at some point and becomes beautiful. That’s also a perfect day.
2:59 pm
Driving up to the house the weather has significantly cleared up since this morning. It’s incredible—a robust breeze, sun shining, and I can comfortably wear a light sweater and jeans. Without a second thought I take my book and walk down to the big lawn, pick a partially shaded patch of grass, and lay down.
4:06 pm
I open my eyes again to see I’ve fallen asleep exactly where I had sat and an hour has passed, in my head I thought I was still awake. I hadn’t touched my book and was instead using it as a very uncomfortable pillow. I walk back up to the house slightly itchy and totally zonked.
In the living room no one is around, Sammy gives me a meow. I sit at the counter to finish my half-eaten sandwich from the ride and pick up a copy of The New Yorker that was lying on the table. I’ve never read The New Yorker, never cared to, but flipped through nonetheless. First, a quick blurb about a bar in Bushwick that’s supposed to be an ‘artist haven’ but is overrun with finance losers. I let out a noise of disgust, mostly at how I literally don’t care. A disturbing piece by Lena Dunham on what constitutes ‘Brat’ nearly made me throw up. I got pretty into the excerpt of Al Pacino’s memoir but ultimately dropped the mag to look at the ceiling.
There’s a pure air in the house right now. I’m lying on the fish-printed couch, listening closely to the sounds of cicadas outside. H is in the arm chair by the window presumably listening to a book on tape. B and L arrive but we don’t get up. We continue like this for another hour or so before dinner.
Around 8, we dim the lights and sit for what I always see as a beautiful three-act play in which the dining table is the stage, as it is the only illuminated spot in the space. Act 1: Setting the table. Act 2: The Feast. Act 3: Dishes and Dessert. Tonights show is a comedy. I’m in the audience. I get my moneys worth by laughing till I cry.
Playlist
Dreams Burn Down - Ride
Pink Orange Red - Cocteau Twins
Desire Lines - Lush
Yes I’m Changing - Tame Impala
War & Peace - Ryuichi Sakamoto
ABCDC - indigo la End