New York is part of the negative space of the canvas on which I find myself. I say I find myself with every intention of the word, for I must take a moment to regroup my five senses to return to the conscious fact that I am in what they call The Big Apple. Another moment of forcing back together the rebel parts of my scattered brain, and I realize that I'm not really here. Like a guest at The Playboy Mansion I find myself in a carnival, from which I can extract myself easily and instantaneously. I am merely sexing and teasing the apple. I do it, I feel it, but there has yet to be an emotional attachment. I would rather see it from a distance, looking down from my dorm window or through the viewfinder of my Canon SLR, but never confronting it emotionally, and retreating to my temporary home without cuddling afterward. There is no explanation, I am to bear all the blame. Hi, I'm Anita, and I'm a polygamist. I do not feel ashamed in toying with this city in complete apathy.
Patty Smith in Greenwich Village, sometime agoMust-Read List:
Betty Smith- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
William S. Burrough- Naked Lunch
Objectivist Anthology
Jeanette Winterson- Oranges are not the Only Fruit
Iris Murdoch- A Severed Head
Betty Smith- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
William S. Burrough- Naked Lunch
Objectivist Anthology
Jeanette Winterson- Oranges are not the Only Fruit
Iris Murdoch- A Severed Head
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