a busy week of:

late night going aways at the Ding Dong lounge with an early-fall wind outside, some beer and a pool table inside, learning new games and people.

an end of season bbq at my friend Joe’s place; he is a wonder, and his life is the very essence of chilled-out creativity— with his wonderfully homey Washington Heights apartment and its rooftop vegetable garden, his independent radio station, the small time-press and screenprinting his roommate runs out of the place. We talked about zines, bookbinding and nerdy movies, Ryan all the while broadcasting excellent rarities, from French new wave to Bluesy hip-hop roots— working the switchboard as he contributed token sarcastic asides. And out on the patio, Will (another roommate of Joe’s, who himself DJ’d something awesome at the Ding Dong the night before) commanded the grill; there was a piece of sweet, spicy chicken, hot and tender; a politely sized burger with bitter-savory black grill marks and sweet hot fat soaking into a soft white bun; multiple skewers of grilled vegetables. An excellent ear of corn with a charred husk and tender kernels shared three ways, an experience which to me was perhaps most of all the essence of Summer.

and, finally, a birthday party for a new-soon-to-be-old friend. I made her what is now one of my favorite desserts (which I tried for the first time when we cut it last night): a plum torte. A plum torte to end all cakes and pies. Humble, moist yet crumbly, spotted with jammy baked plums and spicy with a touch of cinnamon, it was an utter dream. Perfect. I bought some fior di latte gelato moments before at Brooklyn Larder to accompany, becoming agog at the wares and happily accepting enthusiastic assistance on what might best accompany the dessert in question at this most wonderful institution. (It really is wondrous, with local pickles and European licorice, gorgeous bread and cheeses and olive-oil wafers and pistachio cake and absolutely everything!) I skipped out and walked down a perfect block, arrived at my friends’ place (first, because I am apparently always early) and proceeded to let their perfect, hip & utterly settled Park Slope existence put me into a state of despair.

Listening to the metal playing from the Ipod deck, and to the happiness that exuded out of everyone, new New Yorkers and old, over their view of the city from atop the roof on a Summer night, I felt at a loss on my New York experience. I felt lonely and I thought about Joe and his awesome garden and radio station and of Saltie and of all the things that were haphazard and are unfinished.

I had to keep reminding myself that the birthday girl was turning thirty, and that, after all, I have time yet for wandering and slouching and daydreaming. There is time yet. After all, walking down Broadway at 2:30 am, the dirty city made me feel trapped again, unwelcome and angry, and it was really then that I remembered there is time yet: for Texas and for New York via Brooklyn, and for love, zines, music, barbeque. It’ll be what I make of it. After all, I am still learning.

This happened to be playing as I wrote this. So, then, here’s to all my friends.