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Aug. 21st, 2011

There's something about supermarkets at midnight that feels like you should be in a sad-girl movie montage or establishing shot. Maybe it's just me. Empty parking lot and shlubby clothes you've either just pulled on or have been wearing all day and really belong in a hamper by now, hair's in a mess, and there are just three or four people in the whole massive building, but you're still patting at it to make it lie flat and trying for the sassy, confidant walk, like you're trying to give off an air of "just popping in for a bit of milk for the cereal in the morning, totally classy, absolutely not eyeing the discount candies and contemplating wine coolers." And maybe it's even true, but there's something about the midnight supermarket with it's too bright lights and the furtive glances of the other shoppers that suggests you're just putting on a front and you're totally going back to your ridiculously messy apartment--empty of life except for the cat who will be thrilled you've come back and demand a share of the milk--where you will sit alone with the internet for hours when you should be in bed. Over tired, listening to the squeal of the train going past outside the window, trying to think deep thoughts or trying not to.

Then again, could just be me.


( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
Aug. 21st, 2011 02:00 am (UTC)
Late night shopping is always a bit surreal.

I'm up watching the Hugos. Disappointing in many ways, but there was one win I was happy with.
Aug. 21st, 2011 02:52 am (UTC)
Lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely
A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

-Allen Ginsberg
Aug. 21st, 2011 04:47 am (UTC)
Not just you.
Aug. 21st, 2011 06:59 am (UTC)
Once when I was in a supermarket at about 11:30 at night I saw a guy in full clown get-up - big shoes, makeup, etc - wandering the aisles with a basket full of Hostess Fruit Pies. It was both depressing and surreal.
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )


The eyes have it. watching.
Corn-fed sushi lover

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