brooklyn love story #2: outside its as though the gods had cans of white krylon paint, and highlighted the shit out of every last branch, every little twig, every last line of every single tree, edged by a crisp white line.

dear readers,

its a blustering wintering blessing of a night here in brooklyn. last night i danced for a couple hours to questlove/ahmir’s resident thursday night set at brooklyn bowl. it was smooth like water on the floor, by the end of the set me and the dudes peace and mr. biggs were flowing lovely. i like how ahmir pushed us to the edges of our comfort zones, nirvana to nina simone to disco, bbd to mj to bob dylan. for a while the dudes was like nah, and the only time they would dance was just to make fun. but you could tell everyone was feeling it.

when i woke up the snow was dusty soft piled on top of everything. the garbage barely got all picked up from the last blizzard and now here it is, all christened white again. just a couple hours of sleep behind me but i headed out to get the ride closer to the front of my building. the super was out, we talked politics as usual, everyone is so tired of mr. mayor billionaire. before i headed back in, he pointed out the sun on the trees, and i stopped dead in my tracks. it was so, so beautiful outside today. so me and this dude, we took a walk through the park.

everything is fresh white. even the kickin wind on my face feels clean. and the trees. the dusting of snow has every branch layered with a couple inches of white. outside its as though the gods had cans of white krylon paint, and highlighted the shit out of every last branch, every little twig, every last line of every single tree, edged by a crisp white line. it makes you realize how some trees bend towards you, in offering. away from you, in awe. we gamely trudged through the snow, laughing and telling stories like we was on a ski slope, and not just cross the way at prospect park. snowball fights were everywhere, and when we got to the drum circle, we stomped to the middle. and he watched, sweetly, while i made a snow angel. i got back up and checked out the angel. arched wings, pretty wings, not bad. come to find out, my belt on my grey jeans left a golden yellow chain around the waist of that snow angel. i thought it looked like dog piss. until i looked closer. i don’t know if you’ve ever seen fresh dog piss on pristine white snow. it has this greenish yellow florescence to it, a glare that lets you know its piss. but this was golden, looking like anointed waist beads and shit. we both were tripping off that shit for a minute.

come back for more from winter in bk,
roopa

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