rent my nyc apartment!!

i hate defiling this blogspot lover of mine with business but here goes...

i'm looking for someone to sublet my nyc apartment from august 1 to september 15.

the rent is inordinately low considering that it's in manhattan and that the apartment itself is kinda to die for. (did i mention we have views of the hudson?).

it's a two minute walk from the express A train (which means from where i live to columbus circle {59th street} it is only about 20 minutes).

if you're interested for any or all of the time period or just have some questions email me at

fee.meg@gmail.com

a call to the women of provo.

i need your help.

my hair has gone through a growth spurt of sorts. and i need someone to cut it immediately.

just to thin it out really. and i'm short on funds.

so tell me. where do i go?

POST EDIT: you ladies are the best. i have found a hairdresser and i am so excited, as are my dead ends! will be sure to let you know how it goes.

I had this encounter recently where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone, who's now in her 90s, but she's been a poet her entire life and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out working in the fields, and she said she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, "run like hell." And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. And other times she wouldn't be fast enough, so she'd be running and running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it and she said it would continue on across the landscape, looking, as she put it "for another poet." And then there were these times -- this is the piece I never forgot -- she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right? So, she's running to the house and she's looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it's going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail,and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact but backwards, from the last word to the first.

i met a guy when i was eighteen.

i had just graduated from high school.

was being treated like an adult for the first time.

and this guy liked me.

and i remember lying in bed thinking, well, i should just go for it. i should have the experience.

and i made the decision to like him. because i thought such decisions were possible.

and for a wee bit of time the delusion held.

but just for a bit.

because before long i learned such things as like and love are never decisions. but inevitables.

he lived uptown. i visited his apartment twice? maybe.

and he handed me a key.

passing.

it occurs to me there are days when a person can do everything right.

rise from bed at a reasonable hour.

eat a reasonable breakfast from the beloved blue-flowered bowl.

have a book for the train ride.

go to work.

go to the gym: move the body; refresh the blood.

meet a friend.

meet another.

take in a scoop of mint ice cream. on a sugar cone.

take in a sweedish film on spur-of-the-moment-last-minute impulse.

enjoy all of the above.

and yet.

sadness persists.

but it is just one day.

a passing thing.

and so one must go to bed.

and pray that tomorrow will be better.

recognize that it might not be.

but hope that sadness doesn't begin to string the days together.

because it's that damn stringing that's worrisome.