Marcellus, Nisa and I met in Bryant Park midday last June for a final edit of 57 Octaves. I ran across the street to Chipotle Burritos for three margaritas.
"To stay, right."
"Right, to stay."
A legal formality wherein it is actually better for the teller's kharma if you walk back out across the street with the margaritas to meet Marcellus and Nisa and edit and watch the marble shooting straight up get all aggravated by the swaying tree trunks who really don't mean anything by mocking their strict adherance to structure. Just teasing.
Marcellus has the ability to say as much about the city through his illustrations as I can in an entire novel.
Then Nisa goes and convinces me that though I think this book is about my love for one woman, it is really about my love for another. She's right.
So I keep thinking about the trees, the wind, the perfection of the meter of the language we catch snippets of as wise people who are privy to the same info we are about how to spend this day walk past. I think about the McGraw Rotunda hidden behind the marble of the New York Public Library the shadows of the trees mock. Have you ever been to the McGraw Rotunda? You have to go. It's on the third floor. When you go you also have to visit the "Rivers of Manhattan" map in the map room adjacent. You have to invite me too. Listen, I'm also overdue for something cute. Can we go to the Central Park Zoo aft? Not only does the $6 entrance fee include the seal feeding at 2pm, but it is also half the price of the sidecar and "complimentary" nuts we'll share at the Pierre later. But "who would ever visit the McGraw Rotunda today?" I thought. So you can understand then how the notion of ending this thing with a pathetic album just seemed vulgar at that point, right? All that in one regurgitation seems vulgar. The girl I thought 57 Octaves was about always refered to White Pigeons as vulgar. I'm sensitive for the time being to vulgar. No, the book and the album need some space from each other. Room to breathe. I could have thrown it all together but my cockiness posing as self deprication does have some limits so I seperated them.
Before we met up that day though I had written this as a part of the post script to 57 Octaves:
'In retrospect, of course, I was the fool who didn't realize every time I approached Maura she just got younger and younger. I was the chump who thought I could actually pass Maura off as someone other than my Maureen. That's not clever. Well I was also rude enough (yes, I've come to understand that that's the right word, rude) to think that love, by both not allowing me to expose it once again (the first failure was White Pigeons) and by in turn exposing me as the square I've been hiding from you all so well (and you thought otherwise!) had already had its last laugh. I was wrong again.
Not only do I apologize for not coming through with the goods I initially promised (that though not explicitly said this time, I know you read), I also apologize for this album love left me to howl as its purgatorial prophet: the manifestation of a malignant retribution I did not know I was waranted.
Aye, without further ado I offer you ten apologies I apologize ten times for I'm calling "Let's Duke It Out At Kilkenny Katz' " by the Vague Angels.'
And so it went. The album wrote itself out of the book just as the lady wrote herself out of my life. Something is still unsettled though. The discourse between the book and album has not yet closed. Forget it, whatever please forget it, this is not I assure you, this is not what we will talk about when we meet for drinks at the Pierre. And the Pierre, for the record, will also not be the culmination of our day.