I cannot sleep, again, but you lie in bed breathing heavily after a long day’s journey into the night. I have been watching every Ballet variation I could find of “Esmeralda” in Youtube and my eyes keep following the movement under the soft radiation of the screen. I love gypsy music as it traces patterns in the air. My ears start to hurt by the thumping of those heavy Pointe shoes which are nailed to the floor, and by the tambourines.
Outside a fire alarm has gone on at two and I wonder if our Mexican neighbor is trying to make hamburgers, or if his “tent has burnt” again.
I have not told you about this, but I will probably get a minor in English next semester. I still like to study Philosophy, but there is no escape from this writing. I have tried. I have sold insurance for two years; I have offered many smiles to people for money, I have measured my life in coffee spoons. But it is only through art that I can redeem myself from the problem of Being, it is through this whip that God hands us.
I have to go to work in five hours, at the Deli.
I keep asking myself why rich people like terrible foods such as salmon or goat cheese on their salad, or organic eggs while me and the Latin girls would rather have grilled cheese sandwiches any day. Working class jobs are fun when I get to insult rich customers in Spanish and laugh along with the Latin girls. Working class jobs are not fun when half of your customers understand Spanish because they took it as an AP requirement to get into Duke. They also know French by the way, and German too. Working class jobs are not fun when rich customers ask you who your manager is so that they can complain to them about you, because you speak in Spanish in front of them and with the Latin girls too.
I will be in New York City in a few days, with you, and we will sleep inside museums and feed the ducks in Central Park. This is the way life should have been for us many years ago. We both deserve a break from the smoke, we deserve boxes of crystal figures and ice cubes, a treasure chest with a Ballerina’s picture inside it just like the one etherized inside the laminated pages of your book.
God hands you a whip, yes, but I have learnt that he also gives you a truce every once in a while. It is our turn to walk through the streets like blue flames