We're loading up Car 220 and slipping out of town this morning, trying to blend in with the herd and slip free from the City's tractor beam. Get out on the Road where the Americans roam, where Gulps are Big and there's always a parking space.
I think it was Steinbeck:
The curious thing about Americans is we are only truly home when we are on the road.
Maybe it was Whitman.
Or Dean Koontz. Can't remember.
Great fun at P.S. 122 last night. The indomitable Jennifer Conley Darling is presenting the fifth annual solonova festival (that's not the right name, but Walsh is staring at me and time is running out) and last night I saw Aravind Enrique Advanthava (that can't be the right name, but again, Spitfire is starting to spit fire and I'm wasting time with these parenthetical remarks) perform his Prometheus Bound (probably the right name).
Holy laptop. Great gurgling postmodern mash-up.
He's working on something called "escrituro acto" which is the performance element of writing, sort of. Him and a laptop and a screen so we can see what he's typing and he's talking and typing at the same time but not always the same things, sometimes close, sometimes way off and he's kind of telling/writing the Prometheus story and how often do you walk out of a thing saying,
"Well, I've never seen that before."?
I've never seen that before.
And then I blow it.
I'm all set to see the second show of the night, Sally M.I.A.
There's a change-over, so I go over to the park, get a hot dog, hang out and listen to the I-Pod, watching people and dogs and fireflies, just killing time until 9:00. Stroll back to the theater around 8:55 and it's locked up tight as a drum. Weird. I look at the poster on 1st Avenue.
Sally M.I.A. starts at 8:30.
I walk home like a moron and vow to pay more attention to more things.
Apologies to Jen and Kristin DeNio.
All right. I'm getting the high-sign.
We're off to America.
Have a good weekend wherever you are.