Lately, besides writing and music, all I can think about is living in Brooklyn. It’s a romantic idea, sure. All the ills that plague me here would plague me there, but still, I think about it. The big droopy trees, the exposed brick, the music-filled pubs and Manhatten, right there. Have I mentioned how I hate the cold?
But I am reading this book: Leaving Brooklyn. Not because of Brooklyn, but it was recommended by a writer friend. The prose is poetic. It reads like a memoir. I’m told the plot doesn’t develop the way it should but I can’t say yet. So far I love it. I sat last night with the windows of my old house open and a warm March breeze rested on me while I read and I was so distracted by happiness over being in such a moment that I could hardly concentrate on the reading. That’s always how it is for me – the excitement of the now or the anticipation that it will end always makes it hard for me to be present.