Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Bitter Moon - Zulu Winter
Below a shopkeeper kicks out a rolled rug. I wonder if he finds succor in the ritual or if it bores him. It interests me how intentional and precise he places merchandise on the carpet. A half hour before, he approached the shop sifting through his keys. Now putting down the second of two typewriters between a Beatles album and a Jackson 5 record. The shop front is slightly shoved from view by a palm tree. The other half is smudged from attention by a sale sign at the shoe store adjacent. Something about the poster's size and dispersal of color tap your eyes on the shoulder. A passing trio of girls that are wearing ten PM outfits at nine In the morning have their eyes arrested too. The one in the middle trips at an unexpected bit of sidewalk topography. She looks back at the spot spitefully, like it insulted her. She and her girlfriends continue off in their large, almost helmet-like sunglasses. Bored husbands might be the shopkeeper's only chance in this pedestrian mall. The gossamer light of morning.
Portions of the weight from my head, neck and back slopped on a round bar a foot above a concrete horseshoe bench whose shape it corresponds with and mimics. Inside the horseshoe is a swimming pool of soil with plants that are either young or won't grow. People walk in front of me and every 30th or so has an index-finger-and-thumb-size slip on the slick rock prominent on the promenade of Ben Yehuda St. A case could be made for saying it's still evening, but to me it's now night.
Two girls/women walk downhill in the direction of my left. One, hippyish, wears baggy harem pants and has a confidence transparent through her skin. The other I have already forgotten two minutes after she walks out of my life. A brunette female who was generally attractive is all I can recall. The whole painting is beautiful and I know took bookshelves of hours to birth, but the only figure I can ever bring to mind is the Venus. With her art nouveau dreadlocks and hands in her pockets, ninety degrees from her shoulders, she and her sidekick don't speak. Parting company at an intersection, their distance is an amending ebb tide as they now talk. Who knows why they didn't just take care of whatever it is while they were walking in silence before. The confident one has curated her self-assurance in situations where she's sure she is the queen. It's confidence with a caveat. The thing I'll remember most is her voice though. The leafy timbre of her sound as she spoke words I could understand to her friend. Oh yes, her companion is American. I now remember this too. They were making some sort of plan. I couldn't really hear, not that it matters. What stays with me is the way her Hebrew-sculpted tongue pinballs syllables into corners and nooks I'd never heard before. It makes me want to trace over them with my finger.
A small settlement has been erected in the intersection of Hillel and Ben Yehuda. It is mostly plastic. A pink footstool, a pale purple stool, and a taller white stool surround a woman of a large, but ambiguous shape squat on a grey plastic chair. Also, an even tinier white plastic footstool that is only visible when she stands up. Yellow plastic bowls sit on top of the stools; oversize round coin slots for her jukebox. A living jukebox of the women, a ukulele, a chest-pinned microphone, a tissue box speaker, and a music stand planted in the center. She plays the songs both me and my dad can agree on. The woman's clothes, accessories: it took her longer to choose to put each item on that day than the time it took her to decide to purchase them originally. A black dress that reaches elbow and ankle hugged by a denim vest. On her head a pink hat with a flower and pink Crocs on her feet.
I am halfway between her and a bald man's gelato parlor. I have my choice of two radio stations. If I turn to the left I hear the placid strum of the pink and plastic woman. To the right I get ice cream speakers splashing American Top-40 from the end of the last decade. It's weird how 2008 can seem more outdated than 1964.
Holiday - Poor Moon
A group of Chinese tourists walk up to the woman. I miss what happens, but now the tourists are singing along with her. One is even playing the ukulele himself. They all look pleased. Even the woman though she is not facing me. This seems to be nicely wrapping up a satisfying cuisine of Jerusalem sightseeing for the tourists. They sing along to Bob Dylan. Their Chinese accent acts like a wonky shopping cart wheel upon the words. It is nice to listen to, but is hard to take serious.
Soon they are substituted out by a group of American Jews, youths, 8th grade I'd say, wearing their yarmulkes for the first time; like it's a Halloween costume or something. A male takes hold of the ukulele and it looks like he may be taking the reins for a cut. The woman talks with him. Around those two the others switch in and out posing for pictures. You can still tell, even by looking at the back of their heads, when they make a goofy face for the photo. Some also snap ironic hand gestures. With the moment already soaked into their cameras, they leave. A song is neither sung nor played nor heard. They now have pictures of an event that never happened. The boy holding the instrument is still chatting with the woman. His friends are gone. With them went his interest in the lady. He hands back the ukulele mid-sentence. While still conversing he calmly takes steps back. Once outside the bubble of an obvious interpersonal communication he turns, hurrying to his companions. The woman doesn't miss a beat and begins a John Denver tune. Much of her songs are his. That time we played with that street performer in Jerusalem. Oh wait. Yarmulkes and ukuleles.
At some point that night I am walking. Uphill, but I'm not complaining. Flung down upon me to my right is a bike of whose great velocity I turn with as it passes. The rider’s speed seems grossly irresponsible considering the amount of people meandering slowly and distractedly. I think this even before I see him wheelie as he continues down Ben Yehuda, slaloming through the stationary and moving objects on a single point of contact to the ground. In my head I imagine the series of decisions it would take to get me from my current state to one with a surplus of action and deficit of thought where such bike-riding would make sense. It is impressive, though I'm not sure I'm impressed.
A bench finds itself under me. We are both facing uphill so I easily settle back into it. This makes it one of the more comfortable bench experiences I've had. The wind comes and pats me down. Forty-five degrees and twenty feet away sits an Ultra Orthodox man, ensconced. He is so large that I am sure there is a smaller person inside the huge bundle of beard and hat and clothes, puppeteering. Arms crossed taking the whole scene in or maybe not seeing it at all. My attention goes to a young woman in high-waisted mustard shorts. Her hair a jet stream of orange; endless caverns of curls, a vortex vineyard. The locks seem a living prop like women who carry dogs in their purses.
Marichka - Deradoorian
The wind starts losing its manners so I head back down the hill. I pass through the gauntlet of street performers. Each with their odd tricks and niche talents. I drift to and fro them the same way I lazily click through YouTube videos I halfheartedly want to watch. Passing by is an Ethiopian man wearing a black shirt graphically printed so it looks like he is also wearing a denim vest. I think of the pink lady, the ukulele woman, the Madame of plastic, with her jean vest over black. I want to sit again. I choose between planting within earshot of a man with an acoustic guitar and the unintimidating handsomeness of a male TV lead, and a Hassidic Jew playing electric guitar. I go for the electric Hassidic.
He plays blues and is impressive the way someone who can paint with 1080p accuracy is or a Celtic dancer is or a chemist is. It's something I cannot do, but have no desire to. His novelty is popular with the tourists who not only listen, but take pictures of him. They get excited at the thought of having such salient proof of what a cosmopolitan place Jerusalem is to show their friends at home. The sound of drums claws behind us. I turn and see a group marching. They chant too. Getting closer I'm struck at how young they are. I would wager a large-ish sum of money that at least a third of the marchers have a department store Guerrillero Heroico shirt in their closets. I do not care to know what they're saying in Hebrew. The Hassidic man stops and watches. Begins playing along to their beat and complimenting the melody of their chant on his guitar; a coy simper. They continue by him without noticing. There are probably more than twenty kids. I wonder if being able to understand their chant would make it more or less memorable. I don't think people's best qualities ever get complimented.
A secondhand friend finds me on the concrete lip where I sit. I don't think I am pleased to see her, but talking, the words swimming upstream from my throat, feels as satisfying as emptying a water bottle post-jog. My motivation to invest in interactions has all the consistency of a claw game. She is catching me on a good night. She is catching a bus so I say I'll walk with her up the mall to King George St. We mostly play news anchors for the lives of our two mutual friends. Her bus isn't coming for over 10 minutes. I wait with her. It's not even out of obligation, for the most part. A guy she knows, who is also waiting for that same bus, joins.
She introduces us. He has one of those economical Israeli names, Ori or Dor or something. Soon I have been marginalized. They talk of people and places I have no knowledge of nor desire to have. I feel like the bandleader on a talk show with the occasional dart of conversation thrown my way. I think of the girl in the harem pants, her Israeli accented English, the suds in sent through my ears. The way it made conversation a roller coaster instead of the kiddie ride it typically seems. I think of doing dishes that afternoon, how with my washcloth I swirled the suds into hurricanes on plates. It occurs to me I have loyalty not to the truth of the events when I recount a story, but allegiance to the feeling I felt then at their realtime unfolding. In my mind that must always be held up and fortified; conveyed. The bus comes and swallows my once and twice-removed friends.
Walking down Ben Yehuda again I try to remember if I came out tonight with a purpose besides getting some fresh air and fresh sights. I head back to the apartment. The most interesting thing I see on my return is an Arab man and his mother. His hair is long, damp, curly, and vine-looking. He also wears camouflage pants. Beside, in an electric wheelchair, is his mom; a sickly hunched figure shingled in scarves and sweaters. His left hand on her chair's joystick as he guides his mother through the mall and up the hill. I can't remember the last time I found something so touching. I wonder if this is how housewives feel as the credits roll on a Hallmark movie.
Annie's Song - Sunshine Club
International pants with their unexpected zippers and seams. A napkin on the ground with an engagement ring of condensation, but no sign of the glass it was committed to. Kids with their bouncy ball voices springing somewhere to the right. The most interesting thing I hear on my way back comes from a presumably crazy woman. The cinders of language she scratches loudly from her lungs suddenly turn everyone around into actors. All that matters is sustaining the scene, not reacting to the reality of the situation. They focus on what is immediately in front of them, not the lights, cameras, strategically placed microphones, the director, people on set, craft services, the screaming woman who's had an exponentially less fortunate life than us. She walks by me and I am now incapable of sensing all the stimuli I am always so desperate to consume. It is as if I'm walking alone in a circular white corridor. I want to know what her Hebrew is though; even toy with the idea of asking an Israeli on the street to translate it for me.
Now on my street. Through two outdoor cafes with over twenty tables combined. I busy myself with guessing how many people give me even a passing glance. Then pondering the fraction of those who decide I warrant a second look and further wanting to know what thoughts they hang on the line between the first and second peeks. Next, I feel like an idiot for setting a place for those thoughts in my mind. Seeing my landlord pacing through the cafes as well, he shakes my hand and pats me on the back when we pass. As I walk I look around for the owner of the cafe I live above. Upon spotting him, he winks at me as is his custom. There is an old man playing accordion at his place tonight. The sounds of his instrument have the dusty glamour of my grandpa's trunk of mementos. Applause resonates hard off the stone valley; plastic.
I have two keys on my ring here. The one to get into the building says Magnum on it. To get into my apartment I use the one branded Ultra. People never tell you what they think you already know about yourself. This is the first thought I think the following morning as I hear dogs barking back and forth and look out to see cats eyeing each other from different balconies; one typewriter, a different Beatles record blown face down by the wind, and a print of 18th Century Jews dancing in front of St. Basil's. continue reading...
Posted by And And And And at Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Saddest Summer – The Drums
It started out as one of those summers. Those tire swing summers. One, that when you say you're going swimming, everyone knows where. You're barefoot and only every fifth step hurts. Every fifth day is boring. It's mostly because of the heat though.
A summer that even three swallows in, you still feel like you'll always be thirsty. Water never touched your tongue like that. Time was never on your side like that. It was worth it to make the lemonade yourself. You didn't want to twist off a plastic cap. It was ok to pop off metal caps from glass though. A bottle opened summer. A blade of glass in the gutter summer. A grass blade summer. Stuck to your ankle.
A summer that only makes complete sense in November. On Thanksgiving, when you're bored and hungry right before the meal. When you realize where you're not. When you realize where the warmth is not.
A garden hose summer. Baby sat by automated sprinklers. Not a lifeguard summer. Not a suntan summer. A bike-pedal summer. A temporary bike-chain tattoo on your calf. Sweat pomade. Not a flip flop summer. An occasional tank top summer.
A sticky Popsicle summer, not a melted ice cream summer: a snow cone summer.
A sunlight strained summer. And then a sun-stained summer. Your summer with Carson and Audrey.
You took the job because of Carson. He was years older, but seems a lifetime older. Seems like this was the second time he's been alive. He was sort of a big brother, kind of a coach, pretty much one of your heroes. No. Unnaturally like him too much to be his brother. Listen to him too attentively for him to be your coach. He's not a hero.
You got the job because of Carson. You were a dishwasher. You didn't mind it because outside of working for your uncle, this is your first job. You like it because Carson frequently visits you in the back to hang out. To deride the patrons he was waiting on. The customers whom he would push to the upper thresholds of their tip scales with his charm when he went back out. Carson's charm. Charismatic Carson.
Genetic Carson. A DNA sculpted physique, not an iron earned body. Kinetic Carson. Athletic, but too cool for school teams. Wishes a guitar felt as natural in his hands as a baseball bat. Always wearing a reversible practice jersey from his older brother's basketball team that summer. Usually Away-side out. Under dirty blonde hair. Light and darker like sunny/shady sides of a dune. He knew what they had said about him in school when he didn't play. He didn't care at the time. He cared now. In junior high he had the maturity of a college student. In high school the maturity of a middle schooler. Now at a high school level. When he thought he was acting maturely he wasn't. The inverse as well. Synthetic Carson. Cosmetic Carson.
No one would ever think that. Except you now. Not you then. No one else ever. Maybe that's why he made sure you always got an invitation that spring semester. Why he would let you sleep over on the couch when he kicked everyone else out. You knew him. Like actually. Saw him might be a better way to put it. Maybe it's because he thought you were on the same branch, from the same trunk, of the same roots. You were, but only in your JV sort of way. You'd never live up to him except for where it actually counts. Then you'd surpass. Maybe he just didn't see you as a threat. You moved in with him for the summer hours after your last final.
A watermelon seed summer after a sunflower seed spring.
A college town, but a Southern city. Foremost. A place of drawn out a's. Faces registering decades of recognition. Paragraphs communicated in slowly nodding heads. Biographies and resumes exchanged and retrieved in a hand shake. A city of 10 o'clock yawns. Perspiration, the greatest source of precipitation. Here couldn't provide college kids with a diet of internships or with enough electricity for their LED skeletons.
So they left. For the summer. They were gone. Your friends. Your acquaintances. The people you'd met once. The ones you had hoped to meet. The ones you walked past at the same time each day of the week heading to class. No names for their faces. Really though, Carson was your friends. All you needed. Wanted. Whatever.
He was supposed to graduate. Didn't. Taking summer classes so that maybe by the end of August. You still had three years. No longer a freshmen though. Still pretty much a freshman. A sophomore summer after a freshmen spring.
Bang Pop – Free Energy
After work, the start of summer. Grease stitched in your clothes. Carson, you. On bikes, dusk draping its pink sheet on everything but the shadows. You pedaled, but it felt like you didn't. It felt like youth was pedaling. Like summer was. All downhill and everything had momentum. Like you were being pulled.
Then Aaron. Yours and Carson's friend Aaron. Behind a 4Runner like Sisyphus. Pushing the vehicle with all the force he can squeeze out of wedging himself between the car and the Earth. Movement that was so slow. It seems an optical illusion.
Carson and you slid down the sidewalk towards the scene on your bikes. Dropping them on grass and into a run like you would after playing in the street and then heading in for dinner. You guys on either side of Aaron throwing ambiguous heaps of effort behind the vehicle, not sure, but hoping it helps. The kind of heavy you cannot comprehend, least of all your individual effect upon it. You hear it then. A female giggle from inside the SUV. From the driver's seat. It acts upon something installed deep inside you. It comes again. All of you hear it and when you do, it's like a whip on your broken backs bidding for more strength. She lazily cracks the whip. Unknowing. It makes you guys bleed. Seemingly silent grunts creak out of you like a wooden dock. You three, together, tip the car into a parking lot.
A spool of brown hair and cuffed skinny jeans drops out and bounces back towards you all. Laughs lick out of her. A hand on her face in mostly mock embarrassment. Thank you’s to all. Introductions to Carson and you. Aaron has grown up with her. Seen the thread change, color with different hair dye jobs and texture with their transformation from t-shirts to blouses, as it was slowly spooled into the ball that stood in front of you now. He didn't see her like you saw her. How Carson and you were seeing her. Audrey apparently. No natural nicknames. Audge maybe. It's awkward though. Like trying to take a first bite out of a too large sandwich. Audrey. You wanted to know her on a nickname level. At the very least.
She had been giving Aaron a ride to work. Like siblings. Parents didn't even give them a curfew when they were at each other's house. He was now a half hour late. It was a snow cone stand though. Plus things ran on Southern time. On summer time. No biggie. It was also a snow cone stand.
Rides on the bikes. Carson's had pegs so Aaron was with him. Audrey positioned on your handle bars. A lady of the sea on the front of your ship. Creates a memory that you don't think has stopped playing in your mind since. At least subconsciously. Frequently consciously.
It makes sense that Audrey comes over to your guys' house after so she does. It makes sense to get Audrey a bike so to campus to find one without a lock. It makes sense to bike around town so the three of you end up in the nearest grab bag of mansions. It makes sense to play strip bike tag so you all leave a breadcrumb trail of clothes on the laboratory lawns of the affluent. It makes sense when you're down to your underwear to ride the paths of the golf course nearby so you do. The darkness hugs and the breeze wrapping around your bodies scrubs you clean of angst and anxiety. Because of this moment, tonight, it makes sense that the three of you will hang out all summer long so you do. At some point it makes sense to go home so you do.
It really was a bike summer after that. Audrey's car perpetually placed in that parking lot. Like a memorial to her first meeting with you and Carson. No real thought to usher it to a mechanic. Audrey's calendar was made of minutes and milliseconds. Schedules no more than a blink ahead. Her plan was to take care of it on one of those mornings when one is inexplicably motivated upon waking up.
The size of the city seemed to shrink over the summer. A bike felt just as fast as a car. She lived close. To campus. Her summer classes. Her part-time job as a lab attendant.
Her family was male-pattern rich. His father was a photographer and her mom taught English at a community college. Her grandparents had a weighty bank account from her grandpa's decades doing corporate things at Wal-Mart. With their clay of stocks, mutual funds, and checking accounts Audrey's grandparents had churned out a home spilling over with square footage. A collection of walls they had left in May to return to in August. They were off seeing the chunks of South America they had yet to check off. An estate happening to be in that southern town, in the neighborhood biked in by you three. A house to be watched over by Audrey during their seasonal absence. It was nice, but not too nice. Not second-glance nice. Not daydream nice. Not sell-your-soul nice. Tilted head nod nice. And Audrey there alone. Junior Audrey. She's a junior at school. Junior in multiple manners. Little Audrey all by her lonesome in that large host of negative space.
Small Audrey. Short, but in the way that it was a fact not a definition. Defined, defining. She was Polaroid beautiful. Not photography studio beautiful, photoshop beautiful, fancy camera lens beautiful. Nope. Her looks were best shown in a way where people couldn't make excuses or explanations for it. It's there.
Like her smile. That college girl grin. Naively wise, with a whole life’s worth of possibilities shining through it. When she smiled there was something preordained about it. Like it was always there, but that she decided to throw off the sheet covering it right there in that moment. Pulls back the curtain. The reveal. Most of the time you don’t even notice the act of smiling. It doesn’t appear; it’s appeared. Never see the act, the creation. As if it had been.
Her shape. Like a slender suitcase packed pleasantly full. No fear of breaking zippers. No screaming seams. Not eerily empty. One of these pieces of luggage that make you want to travel just at its sight. Her cinched-bow waist. An analog bag of candy from the grocery store, brimming. Substantially and happily inhabited by sweets. Not a branded bag pumped full of smoke and mirrors air. A candy bag summer. A sugar chapstick summer.
Summer Lake – Thee Fair Ohs
You are not in classes, but they are. They're really not though. An A's an A, but B's and C's have bloomed and ripened over the summer and can be picked from the trees free of charge. It even gets to the teachers. Summer does. The three of you make a rule. For every hour spent in class each week, that same must be spent swimming.
In a skinny street of stream you three immerse. Sometimes among others, mostly not. Near the boat ramp. A tire swing sets the scene for some. Propels the rest. This stream the hypo-chromatic hue of a watercolor paintbrush depository.
A Thursday afternoon, Carson carving through the air into the water off of trees and the tire swing. Sunlight wicking water off you. Audrey beside, a bundle of limbs held together by a towel. Her wet hair, elongated stabs of brown crystal. You feel so young. You are younger even than you feel.
"Why is it more fun to swim here than in my grandparents' pool?" Audrey.
You ask her why it's been more fun to bike rather than drive a car. She laughs. "Good point," her reply. You were asking a sincere question and not making a statement. Carson is suddenly there. A clod of flesh, wiping his hair on your chest. Family pet playful. Laughs forced out of you as if tickled. As if squeezed from a tube. Like Carson's cranking some old timey toy and you have no choice but to react that way. You pry him off, give his shorts a mischievous tug as he walks away. He winks rakishly.
He holes the tire swing. Audrey lays out the same question to him.
"I'm not actually sure it is more fun. In fact, in the name of science, I think we should throw a little pool partay there just to make sure."
"Any excuse for a party, eh?"
"A little shindig at their pool doesn't sound like a good time to you?"
"Mmm...I don't know. Maybe not the right species of good time."
You just watch. Amused you'd say.
"What are you talking about? A good time's a good time. Where's Bawdry when you need her?" You two's nickname for her when she's jocular. Especially jocular that is. She's almost always in a fun mood.
"Bawdry drowned in the water today. I was simply trying to baptize her, but apparently she can't swim. I only wanted her to be a good girl like me." She smiles. "All of that is to say, I will be zero fun for the remainder of the summer."
"Well are we sure Audrey knows how to swim?" Carson jolts up and hog ties her legs with his arms. "Hey, help," and at his command you join. Her arms by her wrists. Down to the water. Back and forth you guys swing her. Threatening at anytime to release her into the wild. The water. A smoothie of screams and giggles from Audrey. You miss sitting and talking on the banks already. You wish you were sitting and talking on the banks again.
She is let down. Says, "I knew you wouldn't have the guts," and then laughs and laughs. Sometimes her words appear as if from the bustling bright-eyed braces of a 14 year old. Other times they're coated with the hieroglyphic lipstick of a 40 year old cocktail waitress.
"You know your grandparents will of course get the invite too."
"You know I don't think they'd be able to jet back to this continent in time."
"Well the gesture would still be made."
A small pause. The sun: an umbrella of summer.
The sun seemed so cleansing. You would shower in its beams and vitamin D. Not water. You never felt clean getting out of the water. Even though it started the flow of sweat. Even though it actually made you dirtier. The ooze of perspiration that appeared. Dried and caught bits of the world in it. A layer of grime. A layer of your day. You told yourself that was the sweat though, not the sun. You reached for the sun. It felt like it was burning off what you didn’t want. Sanding down your skin to that blank stare bronze. Cathartic. Washing with the wind rinsing. Not a summering summer. Not a laying out summer.
You look up at Carson and tell him that it's not a pool party summer, it's a beach party summer.
Heart to Tell – The Love Language
Audrey glances up and down at you. You feel like she's looking at your spinal column, not you. She says, "Exactly." Says it slowly. The word cruises from her mouth. Loiters in the air. Keeps her eyes on you. She looks like some sentence that used to be a statement was suddenly a question to be pondered. So you guys have one, a beach party.
That night at the golf course. In the sand trap. Near the water hazard. With people and umbrellas and coolers and coconuts and tiki torches and rainbow silk flowers and sand sand sand. Carson in a Puka shell necklace. Also in board shorts and a surf company t-shirt two sizes small. He thinks it's hilarious and so do you. Aaron and Carson play ukuleles badly, but happily.
With a finger you draw a couch in the sand for you and Audrey. She pretends to make a big show out of not wrinkling her grass skirt, sitting modestly in it. You tip back your straw beachcomber's hat. Charmed because it was all your idea. She tells you she gets scared staying all alone in that house sometimes. Not joking. Says she knows better, but still. Your eyes to the sky. The stars are more muscular out here. The darkness feels like a container. Stars seem like breathing holes someone poked to keep you alive. She loops her arm through yours. Says she's scared. On your faux-couch.
Later, sitting by yourself in the sand. Thoughts about earlier in the day, swimming. When she catches you by the wrist, a step away from the water, to put sunscreen on you, it's maternal. Jesting, throws a glob on your chest it feels like she's your sister. Her hands, a butter-knife on your back and it's like it might be something more. You tip your hat back even further.
You are little brother content. Baby brother content. It's the best way to be. When you are, it's all a cherry on top. Frosting. You're just happy to tag along with Carson. You're just happy to tag along with Summer. Happy just to be there.
You don't notice the cracks. The pores. The continental drift of character. The plate tectonics of personalities. The weather patterns of egos. The erosion of expectation. Not encased by entitlement. At least not consciously. It all pools somewhere in you though; sewers of your instincts.
Every experience feels nourishing. Falling asleep in the role of Carson's roommate is satisfying. You feel like you learn something important when you trip up the stairs chasing after Audrey. Walking in the morning with the sun behind you and its heat like massaging hands on your shoulders. Lying on your back in the nostalgic tall grass of engagement photo-shoots. Every thought pacing in your head has the potential to reveal the non-existent secrets of life. To become a best friend you might jot down, fold, and tuck away in your mind or your heart or bones forever.
National Anthem – Lana Del Rey
The times that are supposed to be fulfilling, even more so. The Fourth. There you are. Fireworks break the surface in the grayscale pool of sky; frantic, drastic, splashing, dramatic. As if they held their breath beneath too long and couldn't stay submerged underneath for a sigh longer.
With all your friends. Your summer friends. You three among many of them. A neighborhood of blankets. You, Carson and Audrey stacked on one such expanse of fabric. Framed in grass with red flannel wallpaper.
Audrey in the middle. Accidental contact of the shoulders, calves, hips and forearms. The three of you like an octopus outlet. Spits scintilla. It was necessary. Making due. You feel it, but to you it's a sparkler, not actual electricity. Being baby brother content, you don't see it's parlous.
You shouldn't be thinking about any of that anyways. Not today, tonight. Not with fireworks. That sound. The sight. God crumpling your fears into powder and flicking the confetti that remains into the sky. A firework summer. Really though, every summer is a firework summer.
The sounds stop. Then the sights. Smell remains. It's time to leave. Through the channels and canals of people. To your bikes. Follow your other friends on cars. They get caught in nets of traffic. The three of you slide past. You know where to go. A field. Then woods.
You are fertile tonight. Things could take root. You could change. You might look back and pinpoint this night. It's possible. Thankfully these thoughts evade you. You're saved the embarrassment.
A pleasant backstroke chat with Audrey and Carson till the others show up. They do. Call out to you in the woods.
They are handed out. Lit. Lights burst, birthed from Roman candles. People run around. Laughter foaming from their mouths. Screams pulled from their throats like silken ribbon in a magic trick. Take away the darkness, the Roman candles, and this looks exactly like elementary school recess.
Moving diameters of daylight clarity. At each other. Speeds both surprisingly fast and surprisingly slow. You don't aim at anyone. You aim at the inches just past, where atoms switch allegiance from humans to the world. Spinning and stuttering behind and between trees, you wonder what others' crosshairs are on. You lose Audrey and Carson. You lose everyone and yourself.
Your 19 years were simply a giant slide to drop you off at this moment with these people. Lights intersect and traverse. It feels magical. Like wizards and witches. Feels like stupidity. Floating flash bulbs. You breathe in air and it's milk. Pumps of light.
Own personal meteor shower. No, it's shooting stars. You guys shoot wishes at each other. The opportunity for wishes. You all shoot chances for fantasies. Opportunities and offers to fulfill each other's fantasies. For each other. All you have to do is hitch a wish to it. What summer is. What being young is.
The next thing you know you are back home with Carson. He sits on his bed with the mumbling light from his nightstand lamp to his left. You are in the doorway to his room. The living room light that everyone always forgets to turn on or off, behind you. The house is dark besides.
He hasn't seen you're there. He doesn't realize the hollow tornado of confidence this night and this summer tricked you into currently dressing in. Heading for him.
You look at Carson and say words. His spine springs like a mousetrap at the sound of your voice. Within those words you use, you reveal you have feelings for Audrey. For the first time, Carson seems like he doesn't know what to do. Looks like he hopes you'll just walk away and a half-moment before you do, when you later wish you had, he speaks,
"One time my dad asked me if I could come help work on the car. I said yes, but played video games for another half hour. I finally dragged myself out to the front of the house. It was September, dark out. I saw my dad there, at the car, with the hood open. He had a flashlight in his mouth. I don't think I ever respected him more than when I saw him then. I'm not even sure why. I'll never forget that flashlight clenched in his teeth." Pauses, thinks. "Audrey is a super cool girl..."
Carson continues to talk of Audrey in the banal patois of morning show hosts. So harmless. A coil of conversation that amounts to something of a 'good for you.' A few minutes later you leave. You are confused. You had hoped that he would tell you what to do. You are not tired. It’s late. In your room now.
When Carson began talking about his dad you thought he was taking you into a new room. It turned out it was the same old spot he'd always let you in. There was just a new mirror he had put in to trick the eye. On first glance you think there's another room; more space. You hope it's a window at the very least, but no, just a mirror. You are old enough to realize as much. You are not old enough to understand why. You know him enough to see that he's given that same speech before and that most people don't catch that it's a mirror. Not a new room. Essentially left staring at a reflection of the vulnerabilities you brought with you into Carson's room. He thinks you won't notice whose they are as long as there is the presence of some right there in that room. His sense of obligation to match the exposed vulnerability. His solution. You know better. Mostly you know him better.
Brushing your teeth. You hide when your confidence comes looking for you. To you, it acts like a spurned bookie. The racing mind of a realized mistake. A stationary bike. Eventually you will understand your confidence was callow because of the result you expected, not because of surety of what you felt and what you did. There was nothing wrong with that.
Carson slides into the mirror behind you. "Audrey just texted me that she's feeling kinda freaked out. I'm gonna go over and wait with her till she falls asleep or calms down. Want to come?"
You can tell the invitation earmarked by requirement. You decline. Jump into the giant pocket of your bed. Carson heads out. You don't think much of it. You decided to save money for the summer by going without a phone. You weren't planning on having to contact any one besides Carson anyways. His phone is the one she texts.
Growing ur hair out – Sun Sister
Days become more fluid. The liquidity of time that comes from days spent swimming and riding bikes. You guys sit on covered porches too. A few times in air-conditioned rooms.
Promoted to waiter. You're swell. You have the charm of a cup of tea. Sometimes you out-tip Carson.
One night you guys head to the city for a concert. It smells like a coin jar. Lights go on and off to entice you to join, partake. Lights flash on and off to tell you to wait, walk, hurry. Lights flash on and off to tell you to be excited, participate. You're not sure it was worth it to come.
More days. More swimming, more sweating, more bikes. More summer. Less left. The seasonal see-saw tilted down towards August weeks ago. Carson continues to go to Audrey's every once in awhile; when she's frightened. You're little brother content and you only awake from sleep once a day.
Strewn lazily on a couch like clothes hastily thrown during a midday bedroom costume change. Watching a movie. Carson goes to the bathroom. Audrey sits up. She's a knot of knees.
"Oh, before I forget, do you have plans not this coming Friday, but the next?"
You reply hanging out with her and Carson with a laugh. This will be the last moment in your life that will truly be kid brother content. You don't know to enjoy it.
"Well how would you like to hang out with just me? My grandparents are getting back that week and are throwing a huge soiree at their house. They want me to bring a date and I definitely don't want to go to that thing solo. You interested?'
You tell her that you most definitely are. Her question becomes a crux of growth and decay.
"Faaantastic. It'll be the greatest night ever! For sure. Also, don't mention anything to..." she tosses a nod towards the bathroom. "...yet. I just don't want him making a big deal out of it; feeling left out or trying to crash it or something."
You say sure. Looking down you notice the cuff on her cutoff shorts. You wonder how she got the ratio of cuff to short length so perfect. How she got her fray to look so right.
It wasn't really a seersucker summer and yet here you are. You mined the suit out of a consignment shop. A seamstress tightens the screws on it till you're encompassed correctly. Your blonde hair off your forehead for the first time in months. Your mind processing the experience from the passenger seat. Audrey pilots her grandparents’ yacht of a sedan from your place to theirs.
You try not to stare at her, but it is hard. Something’s different. It feels like you're watching a movie you hadn't seen since you were a kid. While walking out the door Carson asks where you're headed. You tell him. He's surprised and you're surprised he didn't already know. You split before additional inquiries can be heard. His reaction was a chore to be put off till later.
The car just now in park. The slacking sun. Makes the sky slouch. The colors in the sky like stretched taffy. To your left their lawn looking like fresh linens. It slopes down and then rims up to include an arrangement of tables and people.
Your hand through your hair. You are nervous, but you're not neurotic so it never occurs to you to not tell her. So you do.
Your hand coming down from your hair. She catches it, presses it. Says the sentence, "You're with me, don't we always have fun?" underlined with a smile. One of her inevitable ocean wave smiles.
The Town – Little Racer
You blink and when you open your eyes. You're at a circular table, with a white lace table cloth, sitting in a white chair. The dress embracing Audrey's body, her cheeks, the roses on the table; all pale, fair, but with the blood of life breathing through. Delicate and indestructible at the same time. Milk with unstirred strawberry syrup swimming through it.
Grass heaving beneath you. Only the geology of crumbs on your plate. Clear glasses filled with clear liquid. Audrey to your left, kicking your leg when she finds something funny in a way that can't be expressed by her body above the table. Jockey’s whip egging on your enjoyment and it works. Her grandparents looking at you with genuine warmth. Their backdrop, a large screen flashing shots of their summer travels in genuine South American warmth.
"How would you like a tour?" Audrey tilts her head towards their booming house.
Stepping over a welcome mat that doesn't say "welcome." You ask if you should take off your shoes and she laughs. That wasn't your intention, but you'll take it. She walks around the house in the swaying trot of a bird usually accustomed to moving through the air. Takes you to the kitchen. You say you like her bedroom. She laughs as you were intending. Going up the stairs, she stops, turns. Says she likes interacting with you. You laugh and she laughs.
Takes you to three different guest rooms. She even shows you her grandparents’ bedroom. Then to her room. It's in a corner of the second floor furthest from the stairs. Doesn't sit so much as falls backward on her bed.
"It's technically a guest room too, but really it's mine." She looks around at it. Appreciates it in a way she hasn't in awhile. You pace the carpet, but don't say much. When you're near her bed you squeeze the bulbous post with your hand. It feels like you might be able to absorb something of value from it. To you it seems like this house has some secret worth you want to understand.
"Sometimes I'm embarrassed of this house, my grandparents." You ask why. "Not for sure. I think it's because, like, I try hard not to be materialistic. Like my parents were hippies and I know that I'm some sort of vague 21st century approximation of that too. That's what I want to be, try to be. You know, just loving music and books...and people. Trying to keep an open mind and be open to experience. At the same time I'm drawn to my grandparents’ world of money and comfort. I don't want to be though. I rarely admit it to anyone. I love my grandparents and all, but I just don't, like, want this." She gestures at the house, but really gestures at much more. "I feel comfortable in it too. I just don't want to. I’m embarrassed, but I secretly am glad I feel it fits me in and am ashamed that it does compel some part of me." Swishes the blankets on her bed. "I think that's why I want to be a nurse. I'm caring for people, but still have a good chance of landing a rich, doctor," she laughs.
This is something you yourself have thought about Audrey before. You thought this was how she felt. It feels both reassuring and strange to hear it voiced back to you by her.
You tell her things. Say that if she likes it, then she likes it. Tell her that the alternative ways of thinking can be just as oppressive as those from the mainstream. Even kids our age who are indie can try to control your thoughts and feelings as much as stodgy status-quo adults. You say that it's ok to like what she likes, especially when so much of it is attached to people and places she truly values.
After you're done. You feel like you talked too much at once. Scuba diving and you wasted much of your oxygen fumbling around. She felt the same too. About herself. It's an unsettling feeling. It's not a bad thing. Taking a chunk of something you thought in your head, felt in your heart and throwing it out to someone else. Creates a vacuum. You feel the rush of matter trying to fill the space. You can sense how the thought isn't there, that a feeling is gone. You've come to live with its presence so you feel off-balance without it. You both do. So you smile at her. Sincerely.
You are on the floor. Your back against some drawers. Ask if you two should head back out. Audrey flings herself flat on her bed, says yeah. Stand up and for some reason you brush your pants off. As if you were sitting outside on the ground. You comment about a door to her left, open the width of a fist. At first she says it's a closet, then says it's a bathroom. Air in the room suddenly perfumed with anxiety. You jokingly ask about getting the full tour. She constructs a laugh, replies that it's just a bathroom. You simply steer the canoe away from the bank because you can tell she doesn't want to get out there. Most people would've pushed it. You start to walk out of the room after her. Look inside the bathroom as you pass. See a mesh jersey on a maroon bathroom mat. It is Carson's, it's lying home-side out. You make a note of it, but don't think of it the rest of the night. It never occurs to you to tell Audrey how you like her that night.
You think about the space you have built for her. The residences people build to house each relationship. Romantic, platonic, familial. How the size or expense of the building reflect nothing about its real value. How it’s about putting together a space that fits the relationship, person, people. People make mistakes in these things. People get lazy with it. Try too hard too. Assembling the right home means knowing the other person; yourself too. The home can be an office, a villa, a series of underground tunnels, a Putt-Putt course windmill. It’s where you want it to live. Where you want you two to live. Whoever those two might be.
You can mess up living in it too. Some people make a palace for someone, but never show them anything more than the front porch. People can also have a palace made for them when they really want a quirky townhouse. Can be erected too small and you get trapped or come down with cabin fever. Created too big and you can’t keep up with maintaining it, the bills; it becomes decrepit. Many spaces are made for the maker and not you; disguised prisons. This is where your relationship has to live. Has to get up in the morning and pour a bowl of cereal. Has to react when it stubs its toe. Has to find a light switch in the dark. Dance around when it’s by itself. Look up from reading a book to see the other person. Shower.
The houses you build for each other. People forget, you two have to exist there. Residences of relationships.
You clutch the post at the top of the stairs before heading outside again. Hope for it to transfer some builder’s wisdom to you. The darkness is contented with its hue for the night. At some point everyone starts dancing. Old stuff.
You dance with Audrey and it feels like she's on your handlebars.
Nowhere – Wild Nothing
Upon waking, you find yourself with the inexplicable urge to tell Audrey how you feel about her. Standing up while pedaling your bike. See Aaron working at the snow cone stand, you decide to stop. You think it'd be nice to surprise Audrey with her favorite: something called Blue Hawaii. All through the summer the three of you at the stand whenever Aaron was working. He would always give you guys the VIP treatment. Just a snow cone stand, but still.
The mornings are slow so he is thrilled to see you. Says he'll take his break and come hang out with you. You only want to go to Audrey's, but he seems excited to have company. Plus you like Aaron. Affable Aaron. Always unshaven Aaron. Sitting at an umbrella'd picnic table. A picnic table summer.
He asks what you did last night and you tell him.
"Sounds magical. I bet Carson probably wasn't that happy about it."
You reply that you agree since you three had done practically everything together that summer.
"That too. To me though, personally, if I'm hooking up with a girl, I feel I should at least get a free meal out of it, right?"
Ask him what he means.
"I mean I would just feel entitled to a courtesy invite."
No, you say you want to know what he means by hooking up.
"Well...Carson and Audrey. Like this summer." Looks at you. "Did you not know?"
He is told you didn't.
"Carson didn't tell you?"
You say he did not.
"Oh," he laughs. "Yeah, well he told me all about it. He said she would text him if she was scared at night, but that he knew what it really meant." He laughs some more. "I figured he would've bragged to you first. Weird."
You had no idea it was anything more. You had this image of Carson dutifully sitting guard on the floor of Audrey's room. His back against those same drawers where you sat. Waiting for Audrey to pass to sleep so that he could head home to do the same. Maybe that was. Maybe Carson made it up to try and impress Aaron.
It’s then a revolving lighthouse inside you. At one pole it shines right at you and you are sure it's true. You think of the jersey, staking its claim. At the other, it is far away and you are convinced that it's not accurate at all. He, she, and they wouldn't. Not this summer. Not this lighthouse summer. You also feel everything in between. The light keeps rounding. It is surprising to you how quickly it rotates through all the degrees of realities. How you can sincerely believe all those degrees of reality at different moments; in such a short span. Completely buy it at the same moment you begin transforming to believe something modified slightly.
A vehicle pulls behind you. Its engine breaths on you. Emits a honk causing you to jump. Turning around you see Audrey in her car waving like crazy. She gets out.
"You know for some reason when I woke up today, I was super motivated. So...I decided to finally get the ole thing fixed." She pats it. "And look! Good as new. I already forgot what was wrong with it, but apparently it was not a big deal. An expensive not a big deal, but hey it's working."
She is excited and has lots to say. Doesn't give anyone else a chance to speak.
"I'm glad I saw you two here. I was actually heading out of town. My grandparents surprised me with a ticket to Arizona to see my parents. It was kinda last minute. I'm on my way to the airport now, but I have a few minutes to spare and I'm so happy I'm not leaving without saying bye!"
Aaron and you welcome her to your table. You pass her the snow cone. She pats your leg, but it feels like a bear patting a human. Mauling the person though it actually thinks it's just being playful.
You try to converse with her. Talking is thick. Pasty. Used to have the sinewy savvy of a family business. Muscle memory you didn't know you had. Now an assembly line. Designed. Predeter'd. Your mind, translating the tribal language of your heart into English. So Audrey can understand. Usually they talk the same dialect so you don't have to think about it. More than just translating though. Not really translating. Laced with compounds of diplomacy. Bowdlerize. Words commercially packaged for a targeted demographic. A person.
Talking about the fun times from this summer. You hate it. It's a clip show. It's the last thing you want to be talking about. It's directly related to what you want to be talking about. The lighthouse.
Then Aaron, "I thought your little trio was closer than what you apparently are." You look up at Aaron knowing what he's about to say and not sure whether or not you want him to, here, now. Audrey looking innocently perplexed. "Someone had to find out this morning from me about yours and Carson's little friends with bene's sitch." Points faux-covertly at you. "Was this classified information or what?"
Your eyes slide to Audrey and hers are digging into the wood of the table looking for some ancient answer. Sawing for spare parts. Drilling an escape route. The normal time for a response runs away. Sawdust and wood chips accumulating on the table.
"Audge?" Aaron asks. You wonder if it was a childhood nickname, if her parents call her that. Never heard her referred to as such before. The social cue sprints off again.
"Oh man. I just looked at the time. I gotta go. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time for whatever stupid conversation you were wanting to have later, Aaron." She corkscrews from the picnic table. Her eyes turn from Aaron to her car, but for a pulse, between them, they are on yours. They don't look guilty at all. Just passing over so she could maybe see the reflection of what you saw. What you see. Are seeing. It's then, for sure, you have everything you need to know. Her eyes finish their circle and they’re away from you.
Bedbedbedbedbed – Deleted Scenes
The unapologetic hands of the workmen as they industrially scrape the sentimentality from your ribs. They say it's their job. It'll be better this way. Get testy when you linger. Tell you they don't work for you. It's true. They don't.
Audrey drives off on her in her 4Runner. It's self-powered. Doesn't need three men pushing it anymore.
The deconstruction. It was a boat. A ship. Wouldn’t have seemed out of place next to a yacht or a Coast Guard vessel or in a cove in nowhere.
You say you should be off too. Aaron doesn't think anything of note has happened at all. Audrey being Audrey. Classic Audge. He hasn't felt anything except the extraction of injected synthetic strawberry from ice. He absentmindedly shakes his strawberry snow cone. Strawberry syrup in ice never sounded good to you. Strawberry in milk though.
Realizing halfway home that Carson is working you turn around. You know it's important to get to Carson before he has been warned. Before he has time to make bullet points. To not give him a chance to think himself from intelligence to stupidity.
The poles are now about blaming. Carson, Audrey, them, you. The rotation. The lighthouse.
She was afraid. Terrified even. Audrey meant it when she said she was scared. She told both of you the truth. Independent truths. Two truths, no lie. The lie she saved for herself.
She told you of her real fear. The rationally irrational fears of phantasmagorical fiction. The burglar casing the house from the garden. The fugitive eyeing the gazebo for cover. The ghost you only see behind closed eyelids.
With Carson she told of the same fear, but meant a separate kind. The irrationally rational fear of the dust settled truth. The muscular arms that hurt and hug with the same strength. The aging body that needs a subscriptional reminder of worth. The razed soil that might not ever get planted.
One brand of fear ebbs and passes like television commercials. Changes with the cast of a fishing pole. Finds comfort in the universality of it. Lies, but they’re for everyone.
Too much imagination. Lack of imagination.
The most perpetual fears require the most immediate fixes. Baths of band-aids. Treats a human heart like a child's game with blocks and shapes. Lies, but they’re only for you. Makes them even more terrifying.
At the age where girls stop believing all the true things about themselves and guys continue believing untrue things about themselves.
You think about them talking. You wonder if it was flirting or just banter. You hadn’t noticed anything at the time. Really though, what makes flirting flirting and banter banter, is whether the bulldozer is pushing it to the recycling center or the garbage dump. You forget which one is which.
Carson wanted her because it was the best movie playing that weekend. You wanted her because it was a film you'd been waiting years for.
You knew you were more for her. You did. You were. Sure of it. There was a room she wouldn't let you in. How funny, because you were her preferred houseguest. Her favorite houseguest. He wasn't even a houseguest. Simply a plumber. A maintenance man. To do what she was scared to ask of you. What she didn't want to ask of you. Of anyone. What she needed to be done to keep up the appearance of an orderly running residence. She gave you a tour too. There was a room she didn't let you in.
You walk into the back. The kitchen. Carson is sitting on a stainless steel counter, talking to the cooks. You ask if you can talk to him. Says yeah and the cooks go back to work. A little after 11 so the establishment is mostly empty.
You ask him why he didn't tell you about Audrey. You see him age before your eyes. It is hard to tell if he ages forward or backward. If he seems old and beaten down or young and puerile.
At first he is philosophically apologetic. "Hey man, I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to say. I never meant for it to happen or to hurt you. Sometimes darkness promises to tuck your sins into bed for you. It tells you it's ok. That it'll adopt your mistakes and assume responsibility for them. You know, it's night and you're alone with a girl you have feelings for and..."
"Cars!" He is called away to work. You wait for him.
He comes back and you ask him if he really liked her. Instead he starts acting like it was out of respect for you.
"I just couldn't stand to let you down. I was scared. Really scared to not be the guy you thought I was. I liked seeing myself in your eyes and I didn't want to destroy that. I didn't want to confirm that I wasn't because I was scared I wasn't. It's one thing to not want to be something that I know I'm not. Like I don't want to be hunchbacked, but I know I'm not so it's nothing. I don't want to be a scared little boy, but I'm scared I..."
Called back to work again. Carson returns and you ask him if your relationship with Carson is just about making him feel good about himself. Instead of answering that, he is bitterly defensive.
"You know what? I tried to apologize to you, but I think it doesn't matter to you. You're just looking for an excuse to punish me. Sorry I liked her and actually was man enough to go for her. Sorry she went for it. I don't know what else to say. It wasn't that big a deal. You have got to grow up and stop being such a starry-eyed kid. Don't think you know me. Don't think because of our time together you should know everything about me. You know it's not that big of an issue so give up trying to make it one. Drop it. It's what's best."
"Carson!" he is called out again.
You now understand exactly how he feels. This third time he talked. You find it hiding underneath every sentence he just spoke. How each one was the opposite of how he really felt. The lighthouse. Mirrors. A reflected beam. The rooms we build. Spaces that house our relationships. A mirror. Lighthouse. Written in reverse. Mirror image. A one room lighthouse. One of those. Lying lighthouse. Didn't know there were those.
"Hey," Carson pauses with his hand on the door; about to walk out. "Leave. I'm not coming back here to talk. I'm tired of talking to you. What else do you want from me? I've had tons of skinny little freshmen following me around like a puppy. Just leave me alone."
My Boys – Taken By Trees
You smile. Laugh a little. No longer care about asking him prosecutorial questions of timelines and actions and motives. You turn before you see him go through the door.
Go to your bike. The sun grabs you immediately. Squeezes you until sweat comes out. You think about the Roman Candle war, how you lost track of who everyone was out there. Those terrible moments when friends become pronouns.
It is a summer. Do the only think that makes sense at the time. You go out to the swimming hole and jump your bike into the water.
Posted by And And And And at Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
DUDES – SOMETHIN’ 2 SAY
Mario’s Pizza, Gunnison – June 4th
In our booth, in our wooden alcove. I can’t see. I don’t have to see. The Tapout shirt. The retiree with the tucked in t and no belt. Clothes inspired by bad tattoos. Things bedazzled. I love these booths. I want all restaurants to have them. And the waiter. This guy. I wish I went to high school with him. I’m not sure why. He talks like a VJ. I think he would’ve been fun in study hall. Maybe that’s it. I can’t see them and so I can pretend. So I do.
An orange glow. Then a streak. Now a tint. I am with Sonja and Devin.
The electrical synapse corrodes, it flickers. Orange. Orange-ish. A guy Sonja knows comes up to us. How did he see us? He compliments my shirt, then says “no homo” and laughs. This makes me not like him. He leaves. We talk again. It flickers. I take a drink. Sonja says she guided with him a few years ago. His name is Chase. Sonja has a sister named Sasha. When I see her, I say her name with verve. She seems to like this.
I go away. I spread out in the booth. I have my side to myself. I wonder if they notice I’m away.
A polyester jacket, with a chenille letter I earned, myself. I-vi-IV-V all over my record player. Not cause it’s hip; cause it’s all we have. I’m here. The orange is from a light in a mine shaft. How I imagine it looks that is. The light of ’55.
But I’m back and my hair still cool from dipping it in the reservoir. And the stones I tried to skip. And the mud now on my cuff.
Last night in the hot water. I looked at Sonja. Sonja and the stars and the smell of sulfur. I got so thirsty in there. We played chicken with Devin and Claire before. I love these booths.
I saw her then; Alana: specter of tweed-clad college, hard-bound. At least in my mind, sometimes in person, sometimes with elbow patches. She was range roved and her blanket, madras. With the embroidered letters. It really was madras. Those years were madras. Madras and embroidered. She’s ingested so much bad since school. Mostly guys. Dudes. Some dudes.
It was a thousand miles from here. In blazers. Collars popped when it was cold. As pillows in the spring. On a madras blanket. Thinking about my books. Reading books. Thinking about my iPod battery. Blocking out time for studying. Not for this. Pencil skirts, mackintoshes, saddle shoes, duck boots, toggles. Her eye lids; perpetually gibbous. Lined. Out lined. So bored and so excited. At the same time. Only her.
She was bored though. Her that is. Herself. Roman candle bursts of thrill. It’s not enough. No one’s surprised at what has happened.
Now, on the way past me to her own panels of wood. To her own waiter. Her own food. I don’t even think it’s weird. I heard she was here. Kinda here. Here and New Zealand. Here and New Zealand. New Zealand and here. Microfibers and the North Face.
Not here exactly, but a hundred miles close. Gust that breathes for you when it’s warm, chill that takes it away. Alana. Who? Alana! She.
That won’t stop. It’s good I can’t see. There’s orange grease on my fingers that I lick and leave. She can’t see.
Youth Lagoon - Montana
Old Town, Ft. Collins – June 24th
The rain split, but the lights are still distressed. Kinda lo-fi. Smudged. So many amateur photos of this.
It’s summer, so the populace is sparse. It’s like a painting awaiting people to be added to the scene. Still wet like a painting not yet dry.
Streaked rubber, dabbed tar, splattered oil. We cross the street. It’s nice it’s night.
On the corner, a man stops us. He says he wants to ask us a question. I prepare to explain the universe to him. He sprays us with cologne. I toss water with my shoe. I am bored. He is nice. He is hard to shake. We leave. Dominic and I leave. He was nice though. We had to say no. Why would we buy cologne on the street? He made references to clubs. We really couldn’t.
Along we walk. Snaking neon, fields of brick, hedged by eaves. Cagey stares from underneath awnings. The wet slips, yet remains.
Dom points to a place and says he knows all the waitresses there. No one cares. I ask him if he knew Kendall’s aunt owned that place. No one cares. We double back. The same looks. Mirror neon. New shadows. Back. Guys dressed like middle schoolers in entry ways. Skater clothes.
We cross the street again. Halfway through, I begin air high-fiving the walk light cautioning us. This place is just dripping.
We head east of College Ave. To the promenade. The town square. Shops mostly closed. Bars and restaurants mostly open. A few persons hung about on shelves of benches and ledges. Maybe it’s the water, but I walk to the beat of waves.
An imprisoned bar. A stoplight inside. A fog light of color. We pass, but in the swirl we hear our names. It is Brittney. Or Britni. I forget. A black ribbed tank top with the bar’s logo. I wonder if she ever wears it for fun. A belt of flesh. A black skirt. Do they even make long black skirts? A black apron that’s longer. She’s a year younger than us. From school.
4th grade recess when my friend asked if she had been dropped on her face as a baby. Then ran off crying to the teacher. In 8th grade and I was a freshman. I talked to her and her friends when they came to the football games. Junior year summer when we pretended over text to be closer than what we were. College when we didn’t talk for years. I hugged her when she graduated. It feels good to see her.
She had been outside talking to the bouncers. They sit on stools. They are in black too. She talks to us now.
Her tartan is stark blonde highlights over subtle shades of brunette, traces of purple. She talks much. She mentions a boyfriend occasionally. If I had to guess, I would say he has a large truck, but is emotionally unavailable. He is some night-club promoter. How is that even a job? There’s always a market for morons. I always found her attractive.
Her face seems worse, but her body is better. I feel like her laugh is now licensed for commercial use.
She says she does modeling too. A big smile. Shows us photos. Why does she have photos on her?
I tried to hide my reaction, but she caught me. I couldn’t whip my judgment of her behind my back quick enough. Casually hide it there. Slip it into my pocket. Before she ever noticed. She could tell though. I couldn't help it. It was quiet and late and they were sleeping, but the wood still creaked when I moved. It happened. I moved. It creaked. Like that.
I don't like seeing old friends anymore. When they see me they stare like a test question they hadn't studied for. I am glad to see Brittney or Brittany. Maybe it is Britni. I hope I don't make her feel like that. I hope I didn’t. Dominic sometimes siphons his personality from others. I feel bad. She seemed happy.
Snailouse – Living the Dream
Outlets, Silverthorne – July 10th
Oh magic fabric! You, imbedded with a thousand microscopic Hebrew slaves waving palm leaves on my skin. Bailing sweat off in buckets. Making Egyptian cotton seem like Kevlar. Making a regular 50/50 shirt seem to be a disadvantage. Even you appear to be a good idea in here. We’ll never work out for more than a month. But, still. For $12. And, wait…you were $30? As I lift you in my hand, you make so much sense. It’s too much!
That shiny thing though! I see you too. Savant water bottle. The thing is: I could carry you wherever I go. I’d barely notice you. Until I needed you. When my throat calls to you. What a marvel you are! Apparently I could run over you. I could press the tonnage of a car down on you and you’d hold strong. You wouldn’t even hold it against me. You’d forgive me and my car! You’d look past the incident. You’d still honor your contract. Continue to aid in nourishing me. You’re swell. You know that? Well, I don’t know though. I’m not really in the habit of running over water bottles. I’m really not. Still though. $4! You seem like such a good idea too! I need some air.
What is this place? Shouldn’t people be adjusting insurance claims in here? Calling people off of boy band microphone headsets. Why am I here? What are we doing here Sonja? When can we leave? How can we get out?
These lights. This place. Whitewash. I want to leave this whitewashed place. Fluorescent lights. Fluorescent retina.
The whitewash makes it seem like a dream. My memories all seem like dreams now. I no longer recall them in my body; only in my head. They are movies. Not memories. Whitewashed. High brightness, low contrast.
I can float back into them. Merge. Invade the background until I’m unnatural white too. And it’s like I was never there at all. My life a dream.
Who are these nice people, Makeala? Makeala and company. Makeala and her family. From the hamlet of Atlanta. Months verging on a year since Sonja and I have seen Makeala. Never since I’ve seen her family. Her Christmas card family. Her dressed in white and khaki on a beach with a wink of sand fence and scarf of sunset family. Whitewash.
A little brother. He annoys most and does much; thankfully keeps us adults from talking directly to each other often. A sister who looks both older and younger. Who acts both older and younger. I think she’s older.
A mom; pruney and water-logged. Permanently sunglassed. Perpetually exhausted. Sleeps on a Pumice Stone. A dad who wears Turtle necks. He spent too much on his glasses. I get the feeling he’s gone the majority of his life with a goatee. I do not respect him.
It was awful nice of them to let us come up though. I’m glad to be up here. In this lacquered world. Varnished. Sanded. Finished. Wilderness, right?
It’s nice to escape. To stay in a different room. To dream the lush foreign dreams of a new bed. To have experiences that’ll feel like dreams. That’ll fade into nothing. The whitewash.
I watch Makeala make her dad buy her things she doesn’t need and then it fades to white. I see Makeala’s sister roll her eyes and then it fades to white. I see Sonja become tired as only doing nothing can make you as it fades to white. I come out of the white to make a joke to her brother about the song playing in the store and then dive back in.
Makeala: your sister with the tulips pouring from her mouth. Pearls from her ears. Her face blurry with makeup. She tells your mother she’s bored, but she cc:’s everyone within ear’s reach.
These kids are not impressed. They are not impressed. They are the cliché kids of an early oughts PG comedy. They want to go back to the house to watch a movie. The house the company owns. That the company lets senior management use. In that house I had my choice of beds. I went with the one on the left. In a room of the digested West. Wampum. Moqui stripes. Sarapes. Bones. Bones animals vomited from their heads.
Makeala, remember our bike ride? You, me, Sonja. Just this morning. I couldn’t adjust the seat. I used the soles of my shoes as brakes. We got out and rode before we remembered how much we loved sitting on couches. I think of it.
Nice of them to let us come. I doubt Makeala’s parents remember my name. Why should they? Who are we? Who are we to demand to go to the Outlets? Who are we to demand to go watch a movie? Who are we to tag along? No q & a. No cue. No queue. It wasn’t my idea. None of it.
Who are we? We are dictators all of us. The light turns on when I tell it to. The information is there when I want it. I summon who I want to communicate with. I don’t wait. It happens when I want it. Patience is quaint. We are all dictators.
We don’t understand when things don’t go our way. We need attention, admiration. We are cold, uncaring. I am bigger than you see me. You are smaller than you see you. You are paranoid. You are too sensitive about yourself. You are a brick wall to anything pertaining to others. You are rigid. You are paranoid. You don’t know how any sane, good person could have a different opinion on abortion. You are a dictator.
You get mad at the car taking a second too long to start once it turns green, delaying your diplomatic envoy to McDonald’s. You get mad when they put on ketchup at McDonald’s. Don’t they know who you are? If you can change your Yahoo wallpaper to be whatever you want, then why would anyone think differently on the economic crisis?
You take 50 pictures of yourself. Find the one angle where you look how a famous person should. Where your asymmetrical face, long nose, small mouth, too close eyes, fumbling hair, look antonym. You pretend to be that person the rest of your life. In your mind you are that person. You plaster that picture like propaganda anywhere you can. You never have to look in a mirror again. You have that picture.
The distance between who I am and who I think I am grows. They are now two people and take off to two different lives. I feel the gulf. It lives in every sentence I say and thought in my mind. They'll meet occasionally throughout the rest of their lives. Like old friends. One time at Christmas. Once on a vacation. Another time after rereading a favorite book. A few times when they find a new hobby. When the current of truth that runs through everything aligns and the person I think I am climbs back inside the person I am. I miss it. I miss me. I miss you. Even if I don’t know you that well. I still miss the person you used to be.
Now in a rented minivan. GPS to the house. Sonya, Makeala, me in the middle. Talking amongst. We throw our conversation on the Roulette Wheel. Every once in awhile it lands on the first 12 and feels like old times. Other times. It’s whitewash.
Gauntlet Hair – Top Bunk
10th St, Boulder – July 29th
Kiddie pool in the front yard. Iced and flush with drinks. People on the lawn. On the porch. Inside. Out back. Everywhere really. And I among them. Inside.
Out of all the things to do. The things I could be doing. The things I’ve done. A view I climbed to see. Strumming a guitar. When I punched Daly. Running till air gnawed through my neck, lungs, and muscles. Nothing extends to every cell like talking to you, new friend.
You here now. You who I discover I like. Who I like talking to. Who I probably won’t be talking to in twenty. I’ll continue to like you for a day. For longer too. Maybe. You, girl. With your too many bracelets. With your loose, long tank top. Your waterfall hair.
I’ll project a life unto you. Times you’ve never had. I’ll assign a first boyfriend to you. Favorite bands. A quirky taste for Mexican sodas you can only find in gas stations. I’ll assume that you’d adore the things I have to say after we leave a show. Love the way I look with my hood up. Love the way you look with a hood on. That we’ll have a unifying love for public transportation. That your confidence in clichés will make up for me being too embarrassed to believe in them myself. Don’t worry yourself telling me. I’ll figure it out myself. You don’t mind, do you? Thanks. It really makes me happy. I’m actually doing it right now. Yes, that’s correct. All in an instant. All without words. All in one feeling.
This could go on for awhile, couldn’t it? But what exactly? Sidney, she says.
Then there’s you. Who currently resides in the corner of my eye. My older friend. My friend. You whom I came with, but am not talking to. I will be talking to you in twenty. You, for whom I hide an occasional disdain. For not being exactly what I want at some exact moment. For not leaving enough room for my imagination. For us knowing each other too well. Not well enough. Brooklyn, you are.
I am for the faint of heart.
Music comes from the upper corners of the room. Upstairs someone plays along to the beats on a drum kit. When they hit the cymbals and hi-hats it’s metallic rain.
I have been in this house before. Not this one. This house though. My friend Louis lived in a house like this. The Formica. The green. The linoleum. I spent the night there. His brothers and sisters thought I was so funny. He had a bunch. I did impersonations of Louis and mine’s friends.
He came and picked me up with his mom Teresa. He kept telling her to turn up the bass.
The bass took over for my heartbeat. It rolled through the room. A storm. Kick drum thunder. Snare drum lightning. It settles. It surrounds. Is in us.
It’s turned down. The drummer keeps playing. Though.
I’ve left Sidney and am back with Brooklyn. I came with her. She’s chill. I think she’s great. I think she’s terrific. That’s what I say when I'm fond of someone, but I can’t put my tongue on why exactly. I wish Sonja was with us. We both like her. She likes the both of us. She doesn’t live here right not. Not in this area code anymore.
This couch is swallowing me. And Brooklyn. The twine from the stitching comes up and ties us down. I don’t mind.
I’ve been in a stable string period the past couple weeks. I haven’t been questioning. Getting up in the morning makes sense. It’s nice. It’s starting to wear off though. Tonight it is.
I look around and the only color my eyes seize on is red. Red patches floating all over. My eyes tighten the image and I see they’re cups.
I see they’re in control. The cups. Cylindrical spaceships towing around their human cargo. Tugging them to the outer reaches of the galaxy. The cup is a brain. It has a human tail. A parasite that has taken a human host. Taken over. Consciousness has been outsourced to it.
The couch and the cups bother me now. I ask Brooklyn if she wants to go upstairs for some air. I smile at my sentence. She laughs. There’s no more drumming. Took no notice of it stopping.
I go every other and jiggle the rail. Brooklyn behind me. Some people in the hallway. They stare. Take the place of family photos.
I look for and find the room with the drums. It is empty of people. I sit on a lawn chair. Brooklyn bounces small and steady on a fitness ball.
Then I get up. Survey the room. I go to the mirror. Ticket stubs. To the Fox Theater. To the Rocky Mountain Showdown. There are pictures. Edged into the frame. Of my friend Jordan. This is his room. I don’t know who he shares it with. I’ve seen these photos before. On the internet. It’s weird to see them now. Folds, fingerprints. Creases, no captions. Google Art Project. Wikipedia. Then I saw them in real life. Uffizi. Louvre. Musée d'Orsay. The British. Prado.
It was green downstairs. Older, lime. It’s fresher in here. Vivid. Alive green. Not plant green. Electric green. Popsicle green. Electric popsicle green. It shoots through here. Crystalline shoots, striped across the room.
It’s the bunk bed. I love the bunk bed in here. I love bunk beds. I never had a bad night in a bunk bed. I never spent a night in a bunk bed with someone I didn’t trust. I slept on the floor in a sleeping bag next to Louis’ bed. I slept in a bunk bed at Trenton’s. It was metal and shook. This bunk bed. Golden wood. Benign right angles. I sit again. I marvel at the bunk bed. Brooklyn bounces away.
I’m glad Brooklyn is here. She’s a better friend to me than I am to her. I put my feet up on the bottom bunk. I lean back. I fall.
As I lay on my back with the light sliced by the ceiling fan to which streamers have been attached and the bunk bed as the bottom border of my vision, I have an existential reboot. The Apple start-up music. The Windows login music. I have no awareness of being alive before. I am not me. In a day when I understand time again, I’ll see this is the best thing that’s happened in awhile.
Then Brooklyn is over me. She’s not laughing, she just smiles. Her hair drops down, whispers and sweeps my skin. We’re in a cave of faces. I imagine she’s on the top bunk, looking down at me on the bottom. Right before we go to sleep. A cave of our faces.
Indian Rebound - Sitges
The Fillmore Auditorium, Denver – August 9th
Chandeliers always put me in a good mood. Never too good of a mood. Just right. The same way walking over a wooden bridge does.
We were raised in the smell of hairspray. And between shoulder pads. Jackets with them. Disciplined under them, wrapped in mesh. They tricked us into reading. Made it into some Pavlovian experiment. We got pizza out of it though. And now we are here. Standing. Aching. I twist in my tube of personal space. My barrel of 88% social nicety. Stretch, rotate, release. As many micro-movements as I can fit. In. We are under chandeliers. It’s usually a good sign if you’re under a chandelier. Good decisions lead to chandeliers.
We stand like tall grass. And when we like what we hear, it's like wind moving through us. The opener made me move like airplane turbulence. Now we’re rustling you could say. Being raked like leaves.
Ceiling of clouds, roof of sweat. In it. We were all so annoying before we turned 20. Right before. How we secretly thought we'd never be as cool once we were no longer teenagers. The realization that we’d never be considered prodigies. The fear that nothing would ever come naturally. That we hadn’t been discovered. That it’d all get harder. What's the ratio of minutes worked to minutes enjoyed? How many minutes must I suffer for every minute of perfection? I don't remember my last perfect minute. I have had some though. Two Fridays ago I guess.
It’s bad though. Here. When I look around. I don’t mind the flat bills. They don’t ask to be taken seriously. At least not in the same way. But the fedoras, military caps, newsie hats. Why are you here? Why are you on? Fedoras. Shouldn’t you be at home recording acoustic covers for YouTube? And military caps. Go back to your coffee shop. Go edit your digital nature photos. Go have an adventure for me. Go feel something for me. Then report back. Preferably by blog. Make it easier for me and link back to it on Twitter. But first you must guilt me into following you, by following me. Hurry though! You only have a month before I unfollow you without you realizing it. In your mind I will always be following you. And newsie caps. Continue thinking people like you more than they do. They don’t. Everyone's a little disappointed when that guy shows up. Subtly self-conscious about wearing his new cap.
We are colloquial, we are quaint, we are provincial. Not!
I don’t get it. It’s more relatable to say I hate reading. No one gets it when I say “no thanks!” They talk about their best days. Doing nothing. Having to do nothing. Sitting on the couch. I have the evidence if you don’t believe me. That half has preprocessed experiences, the other half have fake ones. Flat bills and fedoras. Very few experience. You can tell them though. They're the ones not telling everyone else.
I don’t get these people. They say they love natural beauty. Colorado. Why are there so many tattoos on them? More per square inch of skin than anywhere else. Denver.
Has the music hit our bloodstream yet?
We shower in news clippings. Personal and professional. And so we don’t know anything. Really. I only speak rumors. Not from knowledge, understanding. Just things I’ve heard. Friends of friends. News Sources. Secondhand at best. Rumors. Does anyone know what they're talking about? News. Knowledge.
Those chandeliers though. Later, if bored I shall use you to imagine myself at a ball. One where there are prescribed dances that have already been planned out for me. My sentiments outweigh my vision and so I am trapped. All for socio goals.
That’s the thing though. I was tricked. We were bamboozled. They duped us. They said there were no limits. Unlimited options. Not true. They are just better hidden.
They said I could dance however I wanted. It could flow through me. I can’t though. I can’t move in every way. Not even as well as him. Or her. I can only do so much. I wish I only had to dance how they told me. That way, I could focus on making eye contact with a lady love. That way, I wouldn’t have to think about if that accidental brush was intentional. I want to do the dances that have already been figured out for me. The ones that make me less of an animal. The ones whose lines help me to see the lines that make up me. Distinguish. Distinct.
These limits are there. My dad couldn’t get me a car nor your internship. They’re just better hidden. It just makes it that much more confusing when one confronts them. They said they weren’t there. Some buried electric fence they hoped you’d never test the boundaries of.
We all say the same lies. A few fortunate souls have destiny’s luck that prove them true. They’re not. They got lucky. With so many combinations someone was bound to get lucky. Now they seem larger than life. Passion is the lottery. Talent is pedestrian.
They made so many plans for us. Then gave us too many options. I know it’s my fault. I know. Where to start though? Anyone know? Options...
Satellite Stories – Helsinki Art Scene
Here’s the thing though: everyday feels like a dress up party. What are these costumes? What is this ’49 haircut I have? This 80s print on my shirt? The 60s cut of my shorts. The same shoes I wore as a kid in the 90s. Now on my same feet. Only bigger, the both of us. Huh? What did you say? Come again. Sorry, I still didn’t catch that. Whatever.
Costume party. Us. You. From who did you steal that mustache? It is not yours. It’s New York’s. Oh? You heart NY. I see. That’s cool. Well, what of your shirt though? Your tank top is from California. Striped planks from the boardwalk of the Santa Monica sunset. Cali. Yes. Them. Those shoes. They are of the Algonquin’s deer in Mass. A 1/16th Cherokee? Who cares? What difference does that make? And your cut-offs from the homeless of Wichita. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. Have too. Your homage to them is charming. Libyan rebels dress like you too. Take a look. See for yourselves. And you sir! Why a backpack? That requires an explanation! It must. Your apartment is a museum. I bet. A real collection of treasures from indiscriminate middle-class humans of the past century. Especially pack rats. Especially ones with mothers who were good housekeepers. Good stewards. I’m sure all of your apartments are. Either that or plastic.
We aren't people. We want to be plastic. We don’t want DNA. We want to choose a mold to be poured in. We aren’t people. We are create your own players. We are a higher vitality and a lessened morality. We were 10 pts for a beard. 50 for muscles. I can switch my outfit. I can switch my vehicle. We were so close to turbo. We are limited. I am an a la-carte. I am not real. Someday though, we could be.
Until then. I need you. And you and you. I need them. You guys too. Y'all. Vosotros. Us I guess. I need those coins and tokens you put out. Place them and I will follow. I will seek. I will jump, overcome obstacles for them. Battle bits for the bits. They're more horse bits, aren't they? Decimals of confirmation that add up. Decibels of corroboration. Quicker than you think.
You can even choose your own problems. It’s made up. When someone tells me they have self-destructive tendencies, all I hear is that they’re taking a shortcut to significance. The lazy way out. When there’s blood you must matter. When your stomach’s pumped you must matter. When your friend is making sure you get home safe you must matter. Lazy. Made up.
There, there. It's ok. I know how you feel. I feel the same. I do. The exact same. I feel just as stupid. Our subconsciouses agree. When the door is heavier than I expect, when the doctor's form is impossibly hard to fill out. When I sneeze and no one says "bless you." When I sneeze and three people say "bless you." When I actually meant to type "too." When I realize that you feel the same. When I see that you think you're just as special. Just as destined.
But that's what makes it ok. It's what makes it significant. Justifies. Our own newspapers. That's why we follow, like, add. The more; the less it can be true. And with each crumb it is validated. It hides "have a nice day," "good, how are you?" It hides when water goes down the wrong pipe. No more squeaky leather. The currency does drown us though. The currents are too much. It's exposing us! Why isn't everyone else embarrassed?
We are trading cards. If maybe someone would put me in their spokes. I’d have significance. A use. The famous have it best. Even their gum sells for hundreds...
I promise you I feel the same though. If you'd just believe me, we could stop. I feel the exact exact same. Seriously. Seriously. Seriously. The same. Admit it. Let’s admit it and leave. continue reading...
Posted by And And And And at Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Frequency - unouomedude
I was lost & confused so I thought about organizing my life on paper. I thought if I could nail some corner of it down, get a toe-hold on a part of it, just get my head above water; it’d help. I wanted it on paper.
I thought about formatting my social circles to a flight map that shows where each airline is based in & flies to & from.
I ended up getting frozen yogurt with Kaley. She’s my Elaine. When I met up with her, I saw she had brought Will; the Joey to her Rachel. I wasn’t sure who he was to me. I only kinda knew him. Kaley thought we’d be good friends so she decided to force it. Sometimes I was scared I was Ross not Jerry to her.
I had fruity pebbles, cookie dough, & gummi worms in my frozen yogurt. Will had Oreos & caramel. Kaley had strawberries & three orange Tic-Tacs Will snuck into her cup when she went to the bathroom. We laughed. I laughed. I thought about making Will my Joey & being Chandler. Or maybe Kelso to my Eric.
Kaley bit into the first Tic-Tac, startled. She spit the second into Will’s cup. The third she sucked down till it was white; then till it was no longer a solid. It was fun. We had fun.
As we were leaving, we ran into Tara. Tara was my LC. I was Stephen. I usually felt guilty when I saw her. We had some awesome times together. The last time we spoke was bad. We were pleasant. She was nice. She looked nice. It made me want to call her again. I posted on her wall about it being good to see her. I also included an old inside joke about dieting. We’ll see.
Tara is Karen to Kaley’s Pam. They were pleasant. Each was nice. Tara met Will. I wonder if she thought of him as a possible Barney. I hoped not.
I climbed into the backseat of Kaley’s Cherokee. We drove around dancing in the car. We were just kidding around. It was fun at the time. Maybe you had to be there though.
I thought about using the template of a TV schedule & tracking myself via channels of id, ego, & superego.
In the late morning I went to the gym with Maren. We’d been hanging out a good amount lately. I could see us dating as some point. It mostly depended on how well we texted.
I didn’t worry about us working or lasting. She was my Izzie.
Every once in a while I would look at her & smile. She would smile back, then look down bashfully, then look at me again; smile. It was fun. We enjoyed it. She used the stairs, treadmill, & elliptical.
After, we ate sandwiches at the place in the gym. We saw Choi. He had been swimming laps. He was from China. He came to America to study. I liked Choi. He joined us. Choi was our Fez.
We stayed awhile talking, then left. Maren & I made plans to ride bikes Thursday. Bikes.
I showered & met Sierra at the mall. I was the Will to her Grace. Or maybe I was her Jack. I don’t know. I’ve only seen ads for it.
It was just because I was the only guy she knew who liked to shop. I was also the only person in the world she liked to shop with.
She invited me to a party at her house that night. I already had plans with Ethan & Desean. I told her I might drop by. I told her we might drop by.
Ethan, Desean, & I went to Sonic. We play this game where we randomly pick drink & syrup combos to try. Ethan was my George. Desean was our Turk. Neither of us was really JD to him though. I guess if I’m honest, he’s more my Charlie Young.
We left & drove towards downtown. When we only had ice left in our cups, we threw them.
I threw mine at a yield sign. Ethan threw his at the trailer of a semi. Desean threw his up at a stoplight. We all missed though. We all laughed though.
We met up with Seimonne & some of her friends. Desean & Seimonne had a Theo-Justine thing. We ate dinner at this place called Salt. Our waitress wasn’t hot. I’m always kinda disappointed if the waitress isn’t attractive.
I flirted with a Keisha. I hoped she might be an Uhura to me. George flirted with a Noelle. I think he saw her as an Angela to his Sean. Maybe.
We were enjoying ourselves so we all decided to go chill in the restaurant bar for a bit. I got this weird white chocolate cake for dessert. I kept talking to Keisha. She was very attractive. She prefaced many of her phrases by saying real talk. I texted Kaley & Maren. The rest of the night pretty much passed in the same manner.
Everyone Gets A Star - Albert Hammond, Jr.
When I woke up I thought about mapping my wants, needs, & priorities to a Monopoly board. Instead I closed my eyes. An hour & a half later I thought the same thing. Only clearer. Then I thought about making a periodic table of my emotions.
Rather than that, I met up with Elise for lunch. We were like Rory & Jess. It was annoying I know. It made me feel uncomfortable.
Clippings stuck in your collar after a haircut. The time I was in a suit at my sister’s outdoor graduation. A sweater that’s scratchy like voices on a walkie-talkie. Clothes I want off.
I kinda had to see her because she was only in town for a couple days. I had to I guess.
I got Kaley & Ethan to come. She brought her boyfriend. I saw them as Hilary-Trevor. It was awkward. It went as well as it probably could have possibly gone. We told stories from middle school dances. We took a group picture. Elise had her hand on her hip.
Later that afternoon I saw she tweeted about having lunched with me. Lunched.
I was at the park when I saw that. Ethan, Kaley, & I went there. Kaley called Will to come. She made me talk because she thought it’d be fun. I talked because I’d pretty much do anything a girl told me to. It was fun though.
Will showed up with a remote controlled car. We took it all over the park. Down the slides & such too. It ended up breaking. That car kinda made my day.
We take ourselves way too seriously. For real.
Posted by And And And And at Friday, July 08, 2011