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2003-09-10 - 8:45 a.m. Yesterday morning hit me full in the face. I was driving down Route 9. Singing the Black Eyed Peas song about "where is the love" and I just started bawling. I could not stop bawling. Like I had to pull over bawling. It was 8:39 a.m. and I called Riot718 to tell her I loved her and that she was my best friend in the world and how happy I was that she had brought her daughter into the world and I couldn't stop bawling. And I was being all logical. And I asked myself, "why are you bawling?" And then I realized that yesterday was the Tuesday after Labor Day. In my head. Tuesday was the day Certain Events happened. I spent the day bawling. On and off. I was annoyed with bawling. I went to therapy and bawled there. The Therapist looked as if she had been expecting it. She's a trained grief counselor. I wonder what class they cover "How The Grieving Will Pick An Anniversary Date." Because I'd like to take that one. Because I was expecting to bawl on Thursday. I was not expecting to bawl on Tuesday. I wasn't expecting it on a Tuesday two years ago either. A friend of mine got an obnoxious email from her department head saying that they would have a moment of silence this week and would play random classical music. The director included editorial comments about the music. I suggested that my friend counter the director's offer with a suggestion to play Jay-Z's "Big Pimpin'" due to its lyrical references to NYC. It was really funny at the time. I spent yesterday re-reading this poem. THE DAY LADY DIED It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 9:59 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don't know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an Ugly New World Writing to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life and in the Golden Griffin I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Negres of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the Park Lane Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a New York Post with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 Spot while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing ~Frank O'Hara,
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