a practice of pleasure

I’ve been coming home to a practice of pleasure lately. re-reading adrienne maree brown on the subway, writing pages at a polished bar, observing with charcoal the stretch of a body, luxuriating in the gleam of freshly mopped floors and the earthy scent of creased linen sheets and washed silk on scrubbed and oiled skin. three dollars for a box of Chinatown dumplings, a ripe champagne mango, a custard-filled donut, these delightful rainbow sprinkles. wandered in the middle of the road under streetlights and the full moon, after 90s Mira Nair and a chat with Sarita Choudhury about sensuality in film. a restoration after reeling, a frisson of calm.