Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Friday, October 22, 2004


Late, late at night, the skies hunker down close, making the houses and trees and cars smaller.

Woke up at 2 this morning to go count homeless people sleeping outside with the Coalition for the Homeless. While I was putting on my shoes I listened to Mieczyslaw Horszowski's rendition of Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat. So, so tender and sweetbitter melancholy.

Someone in a sleeping bag out in the wide open park near the mouth of I-90. Chopin's Nocturne echoing in my mind's ear, seeing someone sleep is so tender and intimate, and the crushing indifference of go-go America to our internal economic exiles. Two people up late talking in their sleeping bags under the I-90 bridge. A man with a backpack walking manically around, flapping his arms, hoping for lift-off. Something, something about bluebirds flying, flying beyond the rainbow. Why can't I?

Home again Finnegan, time for bed and up again soon.

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