Friday afternoon and there after

I went with Tey to Penn to meet with her boy because I was afraid of waiting around for someone I wasn't sure would come or was already gone. She is good company, makes me smile even when I don't have any intention of being amused by anything of the world, and I love the way she smiles when she sees her boy it reminds me that I really do still believe in stuff like that. I left them for Strawberry Field to people watch and think. I watched a woman in a suit lay a rose on the plaque crying as if she was Ono and Lennon died yesterday. There were two bike messengers off duty (maybe) getting hazy off whatever they kept refilling their soda bottles with out of paper-bagged bottles. I watched a Scandinavian man look up "imagine" in a translation dictionary. I left some of my own heart debris. (why not.) Visited Alice. Read all the plaques again. Tried to recite the Jabberwocky and got schooled by a middle aged suit with a very small daughter who was still appreciative of my bubbles. I read half of "Missing Angel Juan" while watching kids and adults swarm over Alice whilst I perched on a wall. It got darkish, coldish too. The Met is my sanctuary. I like chilling out in the room with an egyptian temple inside, and all the religious stuff from everywhere. There's a room with yellow walls, two mirrors, and old roped-off chairs all around. I couldn't explain where it is but I can always find it sooner or later. Something about that room...I always feel as though if I were brave enough to put my hand up to touch one of the mirrors I'd go through like Alice and it would still be the room but beyond that everything would be just different enough to make all the difference. I never touch the mirrors. The first time I came to New York, my first fifteen minutes in the Met I beelined for the Moderns. When I saw the Picasso's, and Giacometti's, Gris's, and Chagall's, I knew if I could come back to stay that even being on the wrong coast alone would be okay if I could just sit and look at those and put myself back together. And so sometimes I do. The Met closed but the Skyline is always open, and their egg salad is good, tomato slices thick, pickles bite back, coffee is divine (with free refills), and the waiters and waitresses call me 'dear,' or 'hun.' And so it was good, especially that point where I'm not sure how long I've been sitting there mumbling to myself and scribbling or how many cups of coffee I've had. In other news: apparently I don't swear as convincingly as I once did, and have a trust issue, maybe two. (No shit.) ... I finally got out to Rockaway today. The Atlantic is not the Pacific, but it is an ocean, so I guess it'll do. *shrug* My mom just called. I am tired enough to remain docile. I keep reminding myself she'll be gone for a full month this summer. I think Nana is worried about me, she sounded it a bit on the phone. I need to call her more often. Mom mentally drains me of patience and energy in maintaining it and I forget to reserve some to let Nana know I'm some kind of happy. She wants me to be happy, to be loved and to love, but I'm never sure how much she really wants to know. I can't read her over the phone. I'm bad at people.