New York City: Four Nights, Four Mornings, Three Days
Sometimes you fall in love, with a city.
Brasserie Athenée Redux. Eggs, bacon, orange juice, dry toast. Laugh at the irony of dry toast and bacon.
MoMA. Picasso: Guitars. Warhol. Looking at Music 3.0. Pictures by Women: Laurie Simmons: Walking House. Pollock. Gunter Brus: Self-Painting. Adrian Piper: Food for the Spirit. Matthew Barney: Cremaster 3. William Pope L: Foraging. Lose yourself in a dark room with a long black couch and vibrating air.
East Village. Yaffa. Wine. Witted aesthetics on Nabokov and poetry brothels while decadent hand-waving whips words into cream.
Brasserie Athenée Redux II. Crepes. French versus Italian versus American. Cell Theatre. “She gnawed her arm off in the morning, before he woke….” Discuss online versus print. Eat made-to-order guacamole. Nightcap.
Brasserie Athenée Redux III. Morning before the last like the last breakfast. Soho and Anne Fontaine. Taschen Books. Cappucino with a honey shot and people watching through plate glass.
“There’s no way this isn’t happening.”
Last supper like last morning and last breakfast only now there will be no more lasts. This is really it, the last one. Eat calamari slowly. Chew on millimeters. Sip wine in tiny reservoirs and roll in the mouth, absorb into tongue. Savor it like a lover who will be gone too soon.
Morning. Curl selfishly long in bed. Run to cab. Curl in corner of cab. Blow a last kiss to NY and disappear down escalator where you imagine turning on toes, lifting to say, Je t’aime with perfect accent.