So I dragged myself out of my apartment Saturday night, made my way to the train station through rain and wind strong enough to make an umbrella useless, and rode the A-train (going local, of course) all the way down through Manhattan and out to Fort Green, Brooklyn, to a friend's birthday party.
I'm not much of one for socializing, generally, and certainly not with an apartment full of folks I don't really know. But I'm glad I went, in the end, because I actually met some pretty interesting people.
Sunday afternoon, after stumbling home at 2am, sleeping in until nearly 10, and frittering away much of the day, I went online in search of a particular New York Times article from last summer. This article, in fact, and not only because I had just the night before met both the photographer about whom the piece was written and the person who wrote it, but because the pictures sounded so damn cool.
Chris keeps telling me that I should hang stuff on my walls, keeps asking me what I might want there, seems almost flustered by these blank spaces in my apartment and even offered at one point to buy me a poster. But I've put off hanging things, investing in things, I think because I worry that the beauty I imagine hanging there cannot be matched by anything I'd actually find. (Also, of course, because of a chronic and unfortunate combination of laziness and cheapness.)
I think, though, that if I had my choice of anything, I might hang a couple of Nathan's photographs, clustered on my living room wall, framed somehow in driftwood and catching the last of the evening light.