Saturday, November 20, 2010

Topophilia and Static Shock

We walk out on the asphalt; outside are a million little lights on the skyline, somewhere up there are power lines, with those little basketball's that they suspend from the lines to help direct planes. "If a plane is gonna fly that low it deserves to get all tangled up" Its not like a spiderweb, the plane won't get tangled the power line will fall "If a power line decided to tower up there without massive plane tangling cobwebs then it shouldn't be up there at all" Imagine if we want back to the dark ages, there would be no little lights on the skyline. We are going out to the center of the little lights, to my favorite place in the city. "We have to catch a bus"
I wish I could walk everywhere, I wish, I want everything to be far away far enough to create adventures far enough so that travelers can come along the path into the shire "Bilbo let me tell a tale of a tale for travelers" At the same time I wish that that distance was good enough for walking, close enough but just far enough for an adventurous daring developing dreaming drawing walk. "A walk that would take you 3, 3 and a half hour length movies, but not one that would take you 7 movies with the last movie split into 2"
There are no adventures in story telling in the world anymore, from the beginning we are shown picture books with pictures from all over the world in it, from the beginning we are shown to meet to see people we are shown to meet to see the cultures the creations that make these individualistic sub groups of the global society. They only adventures now are in living, and this is the only place that adventures belong; experience can never be truly learnt as well as, easily as entirely as it can be lived; we jitterbug all over the sidewalk. We walk along the sidewalks and we wait for and catch and sit on the 99 bus that will take us to the center of all the hundred of little lights my favorite part in the city.
Not far from my favorite part in the city is a suburb part of the richest suburb in the city, there are big light colored pastel modern houses, they feature big open balconies and stylish futuristic yet classical curves and corners and cuts and space. Every house is built on the idea of space, not just how you can fill it but how you can leave it, and you can mold and mix space until it serves to become an aesthetic tool for place and posture, the filler that fills up and denies space. The sky is limited and vast and open and wide, everything that floats above the surface of the earth that space of air that we walk upon that we kick and breathe and blow is the sky, we can pretend to be like birds that hover and hover and hover. Big purple trees sprout of from the sidewalks, the sidewalks of that rich neighborhood near my favorite place in the world, the ones on the left of the road spread their branches as far right as they can and the ones on the right of the road spread out as far left as they can. Till they form an arc and arc like you see on the default desktop backgrounds provided on your Windows computer. They drop and shed all their little purple flowers out onto the pavement; the form that little purple arc makes above everything, they force the light to fracture before it falls, fracture and fall in little leaf like purple shapes. The main road you travel on has this arc feature except with beautiful large exceptionally expressive comforting trees, and when you pass by all the little roads on the left and right with the purple and the fragments of the sky and the sun and the sidewalks you feel like you temporarily pass by the adventures you see on your desktop and for a little moment you can feel like you have lived that adventure that that photographer has gone through that these strange people in their place space molding houses must feel everyday. They must look at us out on our road with the large comforting unpretentious green growing graceful main road, the road that provides adventures for every passerby, and from the inside of the adventure they must be so longing. To find someway to be discovered, discovered by Christopher Columbus when he set of on the gloomy Gothic beaches of Cardez past the Roman style theater past the castle overlooking the sea, the castle in Cardez.
The truth is that we all live in our own sense, an adventure, but from within the adventure everything else looks so much brighter and full of much more blossom and full of much more bloom. The flaw of humanity is the grass is always greener for us, the beauty of humanity is the willing the want to come home. I set of an adventure with you to the center of all the little lights to my favorite part of the city, and then we get lonely and then we get scared and then we go home and play PS2. The way for an adventure to become meaningful is to become part of the mind, second home from home. You can only truly love and understand and become enveloped in a foreign place when you can turn the corner when you can walk yourself back to the hotel when you can say hi in the language when you can pass by everything with a knowing sense of knowledge. The way for an adventure to become an adventure that we love that we miss that we appreciate, is when we love we miss we acknowledge it we appreciate it; when it becomes an intrinsic part of memory, when it become a second home of the mind of the thought when it becomes the place you pass by looking into and when it become the place you sink into looking out of.
There is a place by the river, the roads pass by the river, a low lying sort of bridge; there are slopping flat greens and there they built a short little building and on the base some slim little houses. The building is modern, abuses space but creates place, it has reflective blue glass, the buildings at its base a warm linear modern houses with little lights in the inside and fresh new Ikea furniture and thousands of people those young people you see on TV. Out on the river are small little sail boats, masts up in the air bobbing on the river completely at the whims of the maritime breeze never moving very far left or right but always bobbing very much a little up and down, there is always, this is always the best place for sunsets. The colored tinted lights split out from the center of the orange sun that is slowly diving back into the ocean like a bird diving smooth and graceful and splash less; they are reflected by the water that shivers and shimmers due to the endless long length waves that break and turn white at the sands of the beach there out on the right right across the river on the other side opposite the river opposite the big blue building. The light mixes and melts with the tinted blue windows making a deep sunset color; the right of the river hangs a few small buildings, shacks were the street cleaners keep their mops, people lazy to go out to the beaches, dipping their ankles in the swirling swimming surf that has bubbly frothy white foam floating on the top because of the action of the waves and the maritime breezes. And when it becomes dark, and the boats still bop and they cars still pass and the lights in the buildings still shine you can see blaring out the CBD, warm and yellow and distant and far enough, just far enough to be another adventure.
We come out to see our favorite part of the city at its favorite time of day. Eventually we will bore of the place eventually we will leave this place forever. I want to go West because all my friends are there because there are the big bright lights, that will the biggest adventure I will take. You want to go back East because there is no place like home to you and this is the biggest adventure you have ever had. Today on my way to a BBQ I passed by all these purple streets and purple roads and I was forever an outsider passing by looking into; inside me is the great desire to move forward and inside me is the great desire to pull back.
Today we go to the center of the equator and down by the sea and past all the volcanic islands of Indonesia and we pass by so many sea turtles, today I went to the center of all the little lights on the skyline and I went to my favorite part of the city.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Not in anyway a religion

In my dream there are lots of people sitting around me; about 4 or 5 people clustered on my right and 3 people clustered on my left, one of them standing. They're all Caucasian some of them blonde some of the brunette I can't see any of their faces because in dreams you can never really see anyone's face. The one closest to me on my right, the brunette in purple is saying 'Wake up the nurse wants to talk to you' to my left is the standing nurse blonde and wearing white holding a clipboard just like the nurses in those old American films. So then I open my eyes and she keeps saying wake up wake up
And when I open my eyes and look around nobody's there. No nurse wants to talk to me. The room is exactly the same except the chairs which everyone was sitting on are no longer there.

Absolutely uninterrupted sleep; I haven't had that for months. First it was because of the nurse dreams; but they stopped as soon as I gave up smoking. I had started only about 3 months ago but I was instantly hooked; satisfying my childhood love of the second hand smoke blown out by my relatives. The dreams started coming when I started learning how to roll my cigarettes quicker and hence; when I started increasing my nicotine intake ten fold. I would wake up rub my eyes realize that I had only fallen asleep 3 hours ago; sit around spend 2 hours trying to fall asleep again; smoke; fall asleep for 3 hours; have another dream then wake up again. Quitting was easier then I thought I nailed it on my second try. It was, for me, like choosing tobacco over absolute uninterrupted sleep; sleep won. If only every smoker had to face an ultimatum like I did. Shortly after I quit I saw an anti smoking ad featuring a man with a Trachea. Just in time I guess.
The dreams stopped but my 3 hour sleeping pattern continued; it went on for days and days and weeks and weeks until I decided that I'd have to try everything. Strong alcoholic drinks before bed; failed; very unpleasant to wake up to find your drunken spew all over the floor and your clothes and stuck in the little bits of your fringe that hang down over your face and even more unpleasant to have to continually wake up to it every 3 hours for the rest of the night. Lots and lots of exercise before bed; failed; and I would wake up starving and eat all the potato salad left in the fridge. Watching boring documentaries; failed; because when you wake up and you lie there for 2 hours waiting to get back to sleep focusing completely on the documentary waiting for it to knock you out, you suddenly become entranced in it. Never have I learnt so much about the rise and fall of the Stock Exchange. Having sex because apparently after ejaculation men just roll into sleep; failed; and apparently trying to wake your date up after 3 hours and asking for another round is not romantic or spontaneous or sexy or attractive in anyway. Sleeping pills because they may be deadly but they are affective; failed; and that was the scariest failure of all.

The sort of things that I remember about dreams and that I remember about sleep are; that they are a wonderful thing to have.
I remember sleeping; and dreaming, and then; being woken up. There I was, in one instant; in this big place that looks remotely like a lollipop field but I don't know exactly everything is to blurry with people surrounding me talking to me but I could never really clearly see there faces; and suddenly something would filter in Wake up we have to go; we're gonna be late if you don't wake up. The words would at first seem almost part of the dream but then as they got thicker and thicker and more and more solid; the dream would get thinner and thinner and then just turn grey and then I would open my eyes to half see you standing there under the yellow light talking to me telling me to wake up. And those type of dreams; or those type of wakings; would only work against you because for those first 10 seconds that I'm awake I stay convinced that the reality, the warped morphed reality, of my dream still exists and still applies; my mind is convinced that even though the dream in which that reality existed disappeared a while ago into the grey. I remember rubbing my eyes saying I know I know cause the watermelon told you so right? And you would look at me funny and say What? But the minute you say it I would snap out of the dreams old reality and realize nothing I said made sense. My dream had nothing to do with watermelons; but I know if I said it in my dream it would make sense.
I remember my repeating dreams; my recurring dreams. I stopped having recurring nightmares once I became 14 but before that every year I would have the same nightmare; a yearly ritual. I would be sitting on a canoe out by this big blue lake; the sort of lakes you see in films, films called 'Return of the Swamp Monster to Jefferson Camp' , the sort of films that they parody in kid shows where the boyfriend and the girlfriend sit on a boat by the lake the girlfriend going 'Gee Joe I don't think we should be out here' and the boyfriend crooning here into premarital penetration. On one side of the canoe would be me, and on the other side a bunch of fat people, and slowly the canoe would tilt and I would be on the elevated side the canoe almost reaching a perfect vertical position, me sitting there grinding my teeth clutching the sides and-
I would sit up in bed, wake up with that feeling in my chest that you get when you swing too high on the swings, pant; find myself completely out of breath.
Though the nightmare stopped coming to me I would often get the same, almost yearly, dream about me and a group of friends at a large amusement park filled with roller coasters and water slides and fast food stores. And we would slide down the massive water slide each of us sitting in our huge individual inflatable blue and yellow doughnut shaped tubes and right before we got to the end; where there would be some sort of blockage and we would all panic; I would wake up.
I remember having fantastic dreams, and then being woken up; and feeling completely pissed at the person who woke you; at the sun or the alarm clock or just yourself. Being pissed when you find out that the fantastic reality is not. And no matter how long you lie in bed you can never get your self to fall asleep again the whole thing has left you entirely high and dry.
There are so many different types of dreams and different ways of realizing that they are in fact dreams; that I could never write them all down. The only reason I document this is because; there is something amazing about how much a dream captures you and envelops you and sucks you in. You are so convinced that this is reality even though it goes completely against what the laws of true reality had ever stated. If I wanted to end on a shocker I could say But what is true reality? But I honestly believe that this; is it; not because of life is wonderful and life is full of joy because life can be full of shit; but because this reality is the only thing that effectively strips away the fake reality the warped reality the wonderful reality of dreams. And I won't believe in any Matrix or Inception theory that tells me that this; is all some sort of well fabricated dream.

I've sort of surprised my self in this note, because I'm not religious; not like this; theory of mine is in anyway a religion. I've never had much firm unshakable beliefs before except that I hated capsicums in all form and color and that I hated the taste of blood.
But my sleep pattern was starting to change and not in the way I wanted; 3 hours of sleep followed by 2 hours of waiting became no hours of sleep followed by all hours of waiting; and if I didn't write things down and pick a side when it came to the theories of the Matrix and Inception and Vanilla Sky then I'd never see any dream again.
For the first time in months I feel sleepy; a sleepy that I know won't shake off. But more importantly this is a sleepy that I haven't felt ever before in my life, a sleepy that I know won't shake off ever; a sleepy that doesn't leave in the next 8 hours or tomorrow morning or tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow evening; a sleepy that lays itself over you and doesn't release itself until. Until it doesn't need to cling there anymore, because nothing in the world is gonna wake you up after this.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Scrap

I deleted another thing I was working on when I found this draft. I don't remember writing but it must have been in Winter when I was desperate for a little sunshine. Anyway I think its incomplete but it's been so long I don't remember how it was meant to end; or even what its called.



Sometime when the rain stops pouring and the wind stops blowing and the clouds stop covering; thats the time when the sun will and the blue sky will emerge. If it doesn't happen now; if it doesn't happen ever. Then I escape to the past; where these things happened. There are jars all over the house and nobody associated them with their previous contents. We keep the labels on saying "Spagetti Sauce" or "Strawberry Jam" but their insides are clean and clear and if not for the labels; transparent. Nobody looks at them as spagetti sauce jars or jam jars they have become the jars for the chocolate biscuits the jars were there is money that I sometimes put in and sometimes take out. There is nothing in this house that gives me indiciation of the previous owner. I sometimes find something of mine; that is old and dusty and mine; and I pretend its the former occupant's. I pretend I've stumbled into something significant of someone else's lives. Better still if the thing I find actually is something significant of mine. Then me and the former occupant have, so much in common.



Umbrellas out but for once "For once it does not look like rain"

You looked at me then the sky and smiled; the past so the sky was turning blue and the sun was emerging from the clouds, and at the same time the cloud as wisping away from the sun. Then you talked but I can't remember of what and then after many hours we departed I decided to walk home and you took the train to meet your old friends. On sunny days like those I wished we had more open train stations old fashioned train stations with old fashioned trains but sometimes, all the time, I want things over sentimentalised.

Despite all my efforts I could never bottle days like that and how wonderful if I could. I tried taking pictures but its magic was limited to the fact that outside the frame things were still wet and grey. The thing I hate most about wet and grey days is that I can't leave the houe on wet and grey days and I'm forced to stay at home, and pretend to find significance in others because I have already fully explored the significant things in me, in my own life. I can bottle rain, and this rain, even on sunny days has a penetrating darkness in it. If I break the bottle of rain its completely likely it will escape all over the white tile floors and change the weather. I feel jealous you and all my friends can leave on grey rainy days.


And the whole mood of the day permeiates into my life faucets. I must, to keep to the occasion, wear dark moody clothes and sit on the coach reading books. Ah summertime, the light airy dresses and shorts and the potato chips and TV shows.

Lomography

There is no greater sport; lomography! Go down to the river, that goes down to the sea; and see everything through a lens with a shutter that clicks. Sometime see things; as if it was seconds away from a polaroid. There is the ocean that you've followed from the river that, has birds swooping over and blends darlingly into the sky, ah what a day. And you see it with white borders equal in length at the two sides and the top; but extended at the bottom like all polaroids are. There is no greater recreation; sometimes go down to the beach when the ocean is calling and shaken of its nervousness and the deepest cleanest blue. There are endless stretches of sand; along with endless stretches of sky. There's a long flat line out there that you can't always see because the sun is sitting flashing in your eye. Go out with a hat and a wicker bag and its so bright you have to put your hand over your eyes.
The sand is completely toasty and deep and it moves aside for you; but gently and only when you ask it too. The water keeps asking you to dip in forever. And when you are in there; when you just get in and your lungs are fill to the top with atmosphere; there is a feeling like jelly is encassing you. But it's not exactly jelly; it adjusts itself perfectly to your shape like jelly; but its not as suffcocating it is light breezy effortless and when you first get down there you lose all clarity of what is wet and dry. When you have to resurface you lose the senseless shapeless escape that is down there; here returns the sensations of soaking and dry; of hot and cold. Then you take 3 steady breaths again; and one big one; then you dive in submerge yourself in the understanding salt.

I Decided To Be

I decided to be a dancer
But I could not move my feet
I decided to be a writer
But I had no words to speak
I decided to be a leader
But revolutions are never easy
I decided to be an ocean
That makes things seasick, quesy.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Dear Me

I'm submitting this for something so I revised it

Dear Me

She sometimes sends me emails in the middle of the night. She never has, set times on anything. They could be short one sentence pieces; they could be 5 miles long. Sometimes I never read them I just, like looking at the number 1 standing there by the word Inbox. And when I do read them I will think of too many too long multiple replies. I couldn't show her I was laughing; a

'hahahahaha'

sometimes just didn't cut it. The obstructive-ness of language; of writing to her and not speaking with her and talking to and her watching her react to me reacting to everything she says. I would think constantly of French philosophers; if I could find some way to make my

'hahahahaha'

come off the screen with the same tone I would use and all those 3 dimensional feelings I had would come through to. I tried so many different variations of smiley faces but this

:D

could never really simulate me laughing and smiling and acting how I do when I talk to her.

I sometimes think that maybe; I only love her because she loves me. I only love her because I am delusional and I will accept anyone who told me anything with the letter L in it. But then I’ll remember that she doesn’t love me that way; and I just imagined and wished; that she loved me that way. I must love her then I guess.

Come pull me closer to the walls so I can feel how you have an instant pull that flows through concrete. After all; there are no after all's in a world where you're gravity's everlasting.

How many times do I have to write things down until they lift themselves off the table? I don't think it could ever actually happen. Jump into me for god’s sake; jump into me the ability to fly to her or at least; to write to her a little more three dimensionally.

Sometimes we plot 3 dimensional graphs on our calculator because we have nothing better to do in maths class and we sit there in the sun seeping through the window and everything is warm and sleepy and she’s next to me and she’s warm and sleepy.

Television taught me how life could never be so wonderfully edited with the perfect soundtrack and perfect timing and the perfect punch lines over hovering sunsets; she taught me life does not have to be like that to be perfect.

Sometimes we listen to Chopin nocturne in C minor but then she says that it upsets her. It upsets me a little bit too. Should we be more impressed by Mozart the boy genies or Beethoven the deaf wonder god? It doesn't matter they are both dead; when I close my eyes and when I can't see the titles on the CD I cannot tell them apart. Except I know Beethoven made

tun tun tun tun TUN TUN TUN TUN

and Mozart didn't. I can't tell the difference between Italian and French either.

Dear You

There are no, actual borders, that separate countries from countries; your country from my country. And that disappoints me; there are no thick black lines between countries that might have, at least slowed down the Nazi's approach to Poland. There is no equator or Capricorn or Cancer and there is no compass that points North. I can't ever remember where North point is; let’s see if the sun rises; in the east; and sets; in the west then I should be able to pinpoint North but I look up and its midday. The sun is dead centre and my eyes hurt from looking. Sometimes you tie up your hair real tight in a bun cause it's so hot. And we walk around pretending like nobody else lives here and that its only you and me and the dead centre sun. My hair is always on my neck and there's nothing I can do about it I suffer. You walk in such a way that you stay in my shadow so you stay cool and I don’t know how you do it with the dead centre sun but if anyone can do it it’s you and anyone did do it and it was You.

Maybe I use my commas and semi colons in all the wrong ways.

'There is no wrong way it’s just grammar you're not in high school anymore'

But we are wrong grammar counts in every aspect of your life you can never shake of its importance. You can shake off the importance of drawing 3D graphs on your calculator but you can't shake off grammar. The only thing that is constant is change, one thing is certain in life and that is uncertainty; when I was younger my parents owned a Foucault book and I never read it.

Don't over analyse things you tell me. I'm not; I'm just stating what some bald gay philosopher said years ago. Is it certain then; that my love for you is uncertain? And; movable, changeable, unsteady? If the only certainty is uncertainty then the certainty that my love is uncertain must be uncertain itself. I don't want it to be though, I want certainty that this; this inner chest motion this contraction in my ribcage when I think about; that this will go away because it’s almost annoying like hiccups.

I feel like it’s been 500 days; and sometimes I have the feeling it’s been more. You are so infuriatingly spectacular in my mind; yet so modestly yet confidently amazing; so very contradictory in my head. You're so contradictory, that I feel like you are fragmented; I hate your giggle. That way that you giggle and you look at everyone and you tilt your head down with your eyes to the table, and at them you smile and with their jokes you laugh and I sit there shuffling my feet feeling terrible down in the depths of my gut. That is the most annoying giggle I've ever heard. But I remember that you don’t smile at me that way and you don’t laugh with me that way because with me you look up and you look right at me burning your eyes in my cornea and you laugh big cucumber triangle shaped sandwich laughs and you smile lemonade on a summer day. And you never say anything that I hate when you’re with me because with me you say everything that is you, everything that is you from its centre to its core everything that you emulate when you wake up in the morning and I could never hate anything that was so you in that way. And with them you say everything that you can just form with your tongue and you stare at the table and you shuffle your feet. Once you told me that you felt terrible down in the depths of your gut and we went walking around town pretending we were alone and you paced in my shadow in the noonday heat.

Sometimes when you ask me to let you listen to my MP3 with me then I give you one earphone for the left ear and I keep one for my right. And I hate how the right ear is so overexposed and I start to get annoyed at you for asking. But you never complain no matter what song I put on you never tell me to change to something else; and you also bought me these headphones when I dropped mine in the fish pond. You watched me drop them in the fishpond, you helped me pull them out, you took me to the repair shop and you bought me new ones, handed them to me and you didn’t say anything, you never wanted anything back for them. And sometimes when we go out you ask me do you have your MP3 player with you? Then I go back to the restaurant because I check at your request and find it not there. And when I get back you look and me and you smile like Lemonade and you day lets go and you don’t say anything that I don’t like to talk about.

When we sat together and we shuffled our feet tired of walking and the sun was moving down the hill we would watch ants swarming around things, food, leaves, and other dead ants. What do they do at night? I don’t know I guess they just sleep. Ants don’t sleep. Oh, well then I don’t know. It’s actually starting to feel cold. Isn’t that funny how that works.

The different parts of you; are so split apart so completely un-whole that I have to split you up in my head; to try and fully understand you; to try and fully understand this. And then there you are all over in ever segment in every sphere of my mind. I fail at trying to understand this; this chest ache this Inbox Impatience; but I want to dive into you and discover you.

Dear Everything

Sometimes I go out and buy a Winnie the Pooh book; I like looking at the original illustrations I like reading the book. If there are never ever any tomorrows, then that must mean by default there must never ever be any today’s. Dear You; sometimes I love you and sometimes I don't love loving you. Often I don't love loving you; but even more often I forget that I do; because I feel like this hiccup annoying but fantastic splendid far from annoying feeling I get; is perfectly natural. Is perfectly expected; by anyone who hangs around you because you have a force that flows through concrete. But the point is I love you all the time whether I notice it or not whether I like it or not. If the only certainty is uncertainty then I'm fine; then you are fine but remember you are better than fine you are beyond expectations you are an A++; because what I feel is so very uncertain in the way it rises and falls. Because you are so very uncertain you have predictable -only predictable to me- wonderful, perfect, broken but perfect, characteristics but when you choose to assert them is random. And if you are so uncertain and if the things you invoke in others- not only me because you have a force that doesn't just flow through concrete it flows through oceans it flows through seas- if you are so uncertain in a definite certain way; it is undeniable your force but when and where it catches me I can never tell; then you are forever. Dear You; I sometimes write to you about my cat I sometimes write to you about my fictitious dog; I sometimes write to you about my friends and I sometimes write to you about MacDonald’s. But dear you I always seem to write to you about you; and I always seem to write to you about me. Dear You, Dear Me; Dear Everything: I love you like some chasm has opened inside me and its all your fault and I love you like some chasm was deep inside me and its all filled up and stuffed and its all your fault. I love you in such a way that my words come out 3 dimensional from the screen. I love you like oh; it is such a relief.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

My Wishy Washy Love Affair

Another one of those ones that I wrote a while ago but I never finished. I remember how this go's but it be wrong to finish it. Its quite a good ending for a short story anyway.


Other then my other loves, I loved it when she made decisions for me; honestly I loved it when most anyone would make decisions for me; but she did it best. She would say to me Look What Do You Wanna Do? And - if I just shrugged my shoulders she'd get mad- I'd tell her a few things I'd like to do then she'd say Probably Best You Do This. She didn't make decisions for anyone but me, everyone was grown up to make up their own minds; and sometimes she let others make her mind for her. But she knew what I was like, my absolute irreputable unseparatable love affair with indecisiveness, and she was nice enough to access situations to find the best option -my least favourite part fo decision making- and nice enough to let everyone else think she was bossy.




The Start of My Indecisive Adventure:


She initally decided it would be morally obscure for her to pick which university to go to. I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to do the subjects I was best at and the subjects I liked more; I just didn't know where to do them. Best one in the country this, most suitable for your corse that; please make the decision for me. She thought it be wrong because for the whole week she'd had people arrange and set her mind for her. Whenever this happened I would be in a state of freefall trying to figure out which way to go; towards the electrons or the protons; towards the North pole or the South. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the big farm on campus, what a trivial reason to base one's future on. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the highest entry requirements; what a nerdy reason to base one's future one. I called her everyday to find her in the same state of decided undecided prearranged despair.


I decided not to tell her when I left; because she was already arranged enough as it was. If I told her, she would just arrange herself more. Best not tell her; best let her figure it out for herself; realize I'm not around anymore; and then come to her own conclusions on what to do. If I told her she'd have no thrill in figuring it out on her own and hence would take no initiative in making her own mind. I knew her well enough to make a few decisions for her benefit; I didn't think I knew myself well enough to make my own decisions when on the road. But there I was on the road. I took a few usefull useless essentials; put it all in a very large very old van I bought. I, with my P liscense went out on the road, a huge decision, to avoid having to stay home, and make other smaller decisions. I brought my ladder with me.




A Wife


Maybe if I had a wife she'd make all my decisions for me. Back home my friend would make all the decisions for me and she knew me well enough to make the best ones. So a wife should, a wife would do the same thing. I wondered where I could find a wife; as if they wandered around wearing veils and holding bouquets. I gave my friend a phonecall


"I think I wanna get married"

"Big life choice there"

"My wife could make all my decisions for me you see"

"Try a bar?"


I drove but didn'd find any bars that looked like they had women in them . It was getting dark. Other then fieldtrips for school, I'd never spent a night away from my matress with my two pillows and digital alarm clock with taped down snooze button. I had a matress in the back; not my mattress but a mattress from one of the guests room. If my friend found my matress missing she'd catch on to early and the thrill would be lost. I left the house at 9am it was 7. I wondered how long I could keep driving.




Breakfast Lunch and Dinner


I brought a hotplate but I didn't have any plugs in my van so its relevance seemed futile to me. I brought boxes of bread; that would expire in a few days. And so much peanut butter. I never understood how well of I was until I saw how much peanutbutter I managed to get. Only a rich kid could get so much peanutbutter. I forgot to bring a knife. I didn't want to stop driving, the closer I got to; the pointed end of the road sitting on the horizon; the better I would feel. How long can a person go without food? A week without water a month without food; I had brought lots of water. More water then peanutbutter. I didn't need any kitchen utensils to drink water. I very often needed to stop and piss. When I pissed in the wind I constantly feared the wind would blow it back onto my jeans. I'd forgotten to pack more jeans. I packed 12 pairs of boxers and two more shirts but no jeans. I tried pissing when there was no wind; but there was always wind. I learned to pee with my back to the wind; so the wind would help blow my piss further and further away from my solitary jeans. I wondered if anybody would pass by and stare at me taking a leak; but nobody passed by. I ate bread and sometimes crammed my fingers in the peanutbutter jars and licked them clean. I saw lots of stores as I drove by; but I refused to stop. I had to take shits in the bushes but it was ok. The sight of the sun rising and the wind rustlng through made it; a relaxing experience. I didn't see any hitchhikers so far and I wondered whether; if I did; should I pick them up. A hitch hiker might have a knife for my peanutbutter. As a guy old enough to get a P Liscencse for a manual car I didn't have to worry about a knife wielding hitch hikers. What if the hitchiker was a girl? Are hitch hikers marrying material. My friend called me as I was pulling over somewhere to sleep.


"Did you try a bar?" She started listing local bars in our neighbourhood; that we sometimes went to to get chocolate milk.

"No. Hey"

"?"

"Are hitch hikers marrying material?"

"Did you see one today?"

"No"

"They can be. But girls don't hitch hike"

"Rapists?"

"Rapists. Rapists are the reason we don't do anything anymore. There were loads of rapists in the old days but; back then a stranger was just as likely to rape you as your uncle was. It was better to be away from home back then."

"Lots of Oedipus complexes"




No More Bush Shitting


Early in the morning; around 9. Driving I wondered if eating peanutbutter of the same hands that I used to touch the steering wheel and clutch of this mysterious old van was the alriight thing to do. I saw a few people walking by and pulled over to ask them if they had butter knifes they could give me. Nobody ever did. Did nobody leave the house with butter knifes anymore; how many people now compared to the amount of people back then had Oedipus complexes. I knew I didn't have one but those aren't the things that are very obvious; it might rise up from the dark suddenly. All the better I was leaving home. I was taking a piss in the sand and just as I was zipping up my jeans somebody approached the van. I saw the person from a distance; had to run all the way back to the van; back to the main road. Luckily that person hadn't seen me taking a leak. It was a girl; she was wearing sunglasses eventhough It wasn't particularly sunny. She looked at me and it was if she didn't see me; she had to take of her sunglasses and put on a pair of ridicolously large almost Dumbledore glasses from her pocket. When she did; and when she looked at me; then I finally felt recognized; ah she see's me now. I did the only thing I could think to do; I pulled out my hand stretched it towards her big framed face. She grasped it firmly; we shook hands, one shake looking each other in the eye.


"Is this your van" She was absolutely casual as if the handshake had elminated the formailty required in the conversation. That was the objective of the handshake.

"Yeah; hey do you..."

"?"

"Have a knife?"

She pulled out from her pocket a very small cracked here and there plactic knife that you get from fast food joints as well as a napkin. I liked her instantly.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Too Short Maybe

I felt like writing something with no interpretations necessary, sometime it can be so fun to
write things like that. Its an absolute relief for the writer sometimes. I kept changing my mind
mid way about where the whole thing was headed. It was fun writing something that didn't
need very much thinking I could just type away uninterrupted. I know writing is supposed
to be a heavy editing real trial and error thing but its a real joy to sit down and let something light
and crisp; something salad-y and light winded come out.






For the summer me and my friend decided to get a job painting houses. Not the best idea we've ever had; we would arrive at houses fresh faced and lacking in paint splattered overalls; and no matter how little we charged nobody seemed to be into the ideas of two kids painting a house. We agreed that we wouldn't paint outsides only insides. Only rooms with air conditioning and possible lemonade; my friend bought $200 worth of painting equipment: paintbrushes, ladders, tarp all that stuff. I liked the determined look on his face when he got back from the hardware store. He put his hand on my shoulder looked me in the eyes and said: we can fucking do this. We never fucking did it.
We spent most of the summer; sitting around; waiting for calls. Sometimes an old lady would call us in and ask us to paint her dog house or maybe just touch up the smallest room in the house. We could never make enough to balance our $200 expenses. I would wake up every morning 8am sharp and walk to his house. A half an hour walk through the traffic and the grime and the squishing squashing heat; ignoring all the motorists passing by whistling at me cause I choose to wear shorts. He would buzzer me into the house; a huge house with fresh modern furniture and fixtures and panelings. It wasn't one of those modern charming -expensive- houses you'd see on TV. It was possible tacky but it most definitely would sweat this sort of I have a lot of fucking cash in my bank account feel. It was so hot; that I imagined the house sweating.
They had no maids or houseworkers; my friend did all the cleaning and he did all the cooking. Every month he would wake up at 7 to polish and mop the floors. Every 2 months he would wake up at 9 to clean all the shining stair railings. It was a Cinderella's step mothers house; tile and golden banisters. When I arrived he would always be cleaning something; I would make him breakfast. Then we would sit around in his room and wait for phone calls to come and they almost never did.
I loved his house because he would put the air con on full blast whenever I came over. There was always something in the pantry for us to cook. He had nutmegs and cardamom seeds a whole god damn spice rack that felt two feet tall. He would put nutmeg in his pancakes and I always felt it must be good to be able to eat so grandly. When we weren't eating we would sit around and read Peanuts comics. I would walk back home at 5 just before it would get dark. I wouldn't take any of the shortcuts through the bushes or parks; I would avoid all dark corners; I would constantly try and pull my shorts so they'd stretch across my legs more and pull my top up to show considerable less cleavage and wonder whether it was really that hot that I had to dress like a slut and get possible raped. I wonder whether women should really be this frightened. When I got home he would always call just to make sure I wasn't mugged shot kidnapped gang raped on the way back. Despite all his worrying he never walked me home. He was not much of a walker.

"Do you think we should go get a more; successful job? Waiter; fast food attendant; delivery"

"No I don't really care about getting money" I really didn't; I just wanted to spend the summer the best I could. And the best I could in a way that allowed me to stay cool refreshed lounging in a big bed in an air con room sipping lemonade in some sort of crystal cup with Indonesian sugar cane sugar and European Lemons. "What about you?"

"I just want to paint houses" I assumed that as a rich kid he always had someone else painting rooms for him; some professional hired from the South of France or something; hence driving his dire to do his own painting. I noticed that whenever he painted he would focus and focus like his mind would explode.


We painted a few more places; the inside of a small school cupboard that had spaghetti sauce dripping from the walls; somebody's large wooden Ikea table. I did not see him after that; I stopped going to his house for a few days- the newspaper reported a bank robbery with the suspects still at large and even though I wasn't sure what a bank robber would want with me I could not bring myself to leave the house- and when I went again I rang the doorbell to have nobody answer me. I tried a few times before guessing that he was out on vacation or something.
He did show up to my house two weeks later. I found him sitting on my bed playing with the curtains when I came back from a job interview ; I never locked my bedroom window and I could imagine him finally putting that shiny $70 ladder to use. I glanced out the window and could see the shine of its slime steel frame. He was very very tan all of a sudden I didn't like looking at him it was too much like looking at a carrot; a over sized carrot sitting on my bed. He looked at me not the least bit upset by his new carroty appearance

"Hey where have you been?"

"Job interview; you?"

"Camping. There I brought you a pine cone!"

There was a pine cone sitting on my table and a glossy plastic bag with pictures of trees on it. There were shorts and lumberjack button up cotton shirts in there "My family insisted I buy you something" There was also a rape alarm in there.

He left at around midnight so that I could finally fall asleep with being self conscious about drooling or saying strange names in my sleep. I assume he left the way he came in. I woke up again 3 hours later; restless restless restless; the ladder was gone. I tried on his gifts before dozing off to sleep again.
He kept going back and forth; first here then back camping then here then back camping then here then back camping. He always came back with the same tan carrot colored never darker or lighter; as if he had reached the point of no return. I would always get different things as souvenirs; a pile of rocks, a pile of leaves; vast amounts of lumberjack shirts and at one point sturdy hiking shoes. Every time he came back he would climb his way into my unlocked room and bring me my gifts; then we would put on the computer and on the PS2 and play Pacman all day. Honestly I was pissed I did not have the opportunity to try out my new rape alarm. I never left the house anymore except to buy nutmegs.
It was his 8th time back from camping and this time he brought me 3 cotton t shirts and a large towel. The window was open and there was a breeze drifting through. A breeze is not as wonderful as an air con. A breeze keeps coming and going and there is nothing you can do to control it.
"Do you want to come on the next trip with me?"

I gave him an odd look; he never told me anything about his trips. He wasn't the type "Why?"

"I enjoy your company"

We put on Pacman on the PS2 again. On the 8th level I agreed. Finally, a place to go out and possible use my rape alarm. He said he would bring everything else; flashlights, first aid kit, sleeping bags, pillows, the whole set. He helped me put a few shirts and shorts into a small backpack; with my rape alarm and a fresh toothbrush. At 3am he stumbled out of the room climbing down the ladder; I envied his masculine confidence of the shadows and the alleys.
When we left he drove up in a small old car; there was a lot of crap crammed in the back. Half way along the journey he admitted that his parents would one out of the two nights. I did not care.

We didn't do anything romantic or inappropriate up there; I felt like I wanted too but at the same time I didn't. We took cold showers in the river and laid out to dry in the stony banks. We baked fish. We didn't talk as much as usual when we were there; he never looked like he wanted to talk. Not that he was, upset, or anything like that. He just always looked like he was out of words, like he was born a mute and this was crisp clear apple flavored silence was natural completely natural. There was no lemonade out there that was the furthest away I had ever been to any source of lemonade. There was no Indonesian sugar cane sugar out there. I loved how the water was clean and cold and how the stones were round and smooth; I kept wondering how rocks could be so round and smooth. I never touched my rape alarm; there were other campers around here and there; but I never felt I needed it. Maybe I could smash someone in the head with a smooth round rock if they tried anything. But I didn't worry about it. I spent hours sitting near the waters trying to trace the little streams that trickled from the forest into the rivers I would use the stones to block the stream; re route the stream; make a dam; make a waterfall. All sorts of things. I was like those little kids who can spend hours absorbed in elementary wooden blocks. I felt bad that, as an adult, I grew out of toys. But things can remain timeless; building sandcastles and rerouting little streams. Well, I hoped that those things were timeless. I liked dropping leaves and sticks into the currents; running to a meander barefoot and wet and then squatting on the shores waiting for the leaf or stick to blow past me so I could pick it up.

The middle of the last night; we had moved camp right by the rocky river so I could play all night long. I wasn't allowed to swim but I didn't need to. There was no moon out and we were a bit to close to the city to see many stars. It was still light for some reason; I could still see. I could spot my rocky towers and my rocky arches, caves and waterfalls. I would keep mounting them up so that they stuck up even more and were even more distinct. He couldn't sleep; he hadn't slept since we got here. After I had finished up my monuments; made them so perfect and so wonderfully complete; I walked up to him in his sleeping bag "Are you tired?"

He didn't answer. He hadn't talked much all day. Today less then yesterday "Why do you think we failed so badly at painting?"

"I don't know, too young I guess"

"Too short?"

"Maybe"

He didn't have the born mute born natural face on, he looked the same sort of troubled he looked back home when he couldn't find his mop or when he was too sick to make Pancakes. I got him to go back into the tent but it didn't make a difference. I could feel his worry stir up into the surrounding air; it made everything thick like yogurt and I couldn't sleep because of it. I twisted and turned in my sleeping bag because it was hot and uncomfortable; he didn't move like he was weighted down by a specially strong gravitational pull. Sometimes I felt he might sink into the ground and I would wake up and he would be in a 6 foot hole with the same sort of face and I would have to try and pull him out.

"I can't sleep"

"I'm sorry" he assumed insomnia was contagious at that moment. Insomnia is when you can't sleep. I was trapped in some sort of yogurt flavored insomnia. The last thing I wanted was for the sun to come up. I wanted to go out and play with my rocks but for the first time was too afraid to go outside. "I wandered lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills" I didn't know he was a poetry reciter

"I didn't know you were a poetry reciter" I pulled the sleeping bag as high up as I could; but I couldn't get it over my head.

"Are you scared of something?" I was scared he would sink into the ground; I was so scared of something, so very scared of not knowing what to be scared of. And I couldn't pull anything over my head; not like at home where I could pull a blanket over my head and be completely shielded in my vortex of cotton and polyester. That worried me even more; not having my polyester cotton shield.

"I'm bloody terrified"

He didn't ask me any questions he just kept on reciting
"I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host, of golden daffodils
Beside the lake beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze"

I had to bury my head in his chest to make up for the lack of cotton polyester protection over my head. I was afraid I would wet his t-shirt so I tried to squeeze my eyes shut till they were sealed. "Continuous as the stars that shine" Continuous as the stars that shine. I sensed that he felt like a Romantic poet then and there; Byron Shelley Wordsworth were the only one's I knew. I sensed it through the yogurt filled air. Maybe then I could pretend to be Mary Shelley; but the I thought of Frankenstein's monster and got even more terrified. His orange-ness didn't glow in the dark as I had once assumed; I comforted myself thinking of his carrot color and all the other colors I knew. "And twinkle in the Milky Way" And twinkle in the Milky Way; how I wanted a candy bar. I clenched my fist keeping my thumbs tucked in; a terrible habit. I shoke my head a little side to side. "They stretch'd in never ending line along the margin of the bay."
In a never fucking ending line. I don't know how long I managed to keep my eyes and my fists clenched shut I was gonna squeeze the life out of my thumbs; I resisted putting them in my mouth so I could suck my thumb like an infant. He patted me on the back; with a determined voice "I'm not ever gonna sink into the ground no matter how much the earth's pushing me"
I had to think about what he had said 3 times before I understood it "Pulling"

"?"

"The earth would be pulling you"

"Right" He had a determined silence; a concentrated focused silence. He yawned, a good sign.
As if that was the end of the poem he recited the whole thing again
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden Daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the Milky Way The stretch'd in never ending line across the margin of the bay.
There are no such thing as perfect imperfect nights; if you were to look at it scientifically literally. In the same way it could be argued that you can't say that a perfectly imperfect night with your head buried in a poet singing chest can happen non romantically non inappropriately non in love. I wasn't in love with that boy no matter what is said; I loved him only in that way that people love people that friends love friends that pine cones love pines and that rocks love rivers.

"I feel like Mary Shelley" I told him

"I like Mary Shelley"
Eventhough there was no moon out and we were too close to the city to see stars; it was still light out.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Paul the Octopus or Aims and Ambition

Dedicated To Benioff and Paul

Having missed out on betting on the fucking octopus's predictions I wasn't sure who to be annoyed at; never again would the octopus grace me again with his predictions his money making predictions. He was apparently retired; and raking in 20g through sponsorship and shit. Instead of investing my $100 I let it lie in my wallet; sitting there brushing against the lint and faded reciepts that sat there with it.

I took the very last train out; if I took the very last train out nobody else from my neighborhood could call me "Hey you're out in the city? I'll catch the last train we'll hang out" I took the last train which gave me maybe a 3 hour interval before they started again into their early morning shift. I don't know who would be wandering at these times and what would open.

There was hardly anything going around. All the homeless people and streetwalkers retired somewhere dry. I had an umbrella; nights like these I always had an umbrella handy. Someone lanky walked ahead of me but he heard my footsteps and kept slowing down and trying to look back at me. Finally he turned around and stopped; surveyed me as I approached him.

"Hey did you miss the last train?"

"No I like being around at this hour"

The guy wore loafers and a tie; he looked all dolled up. You could tell he was a student he had that absolute EAGER face framed by wispy hair he probably spent hours on. He was maybe 10 years younger then me. He annoyed me cause when he looked at me he had this fascinated pleased look. Maybe he wanted to hang out with me for a social science project. I could imagine the clibboard and papers in his backpack with A STUDY ON THE BEHAVIOUR OF DRUGGIES PROSTITUTES AND OTHER UNSAVOURY CHARACTERS. I'm not sure if assignment would ever be that unsophisticated but what did I know.

"Me too; but I'm not as cool as all that; I was running running running trying to get to the station just in time but I missed it by a minute. Always happens to me. So I guess I've learned to relish this time of night"

It was more very very early morning but I didn't feel like contradicting him. He kept on talking; he was a talker which made me dislike him a little more

"Where are you going" he asked

I told him I wasn't going anywhere. He asked if I would like to follow him he knew a place to get a drink. I shrugged and followed him. If I really was his little social assignment then he'd probably pay for me. We, with both our umbrella's standing far apart from each other,walked past all the closed juice bars and chick little boutiques. We'd go down tons of streets; every street we went down he would suddenly turn towards a coffee shop or something and knock knock knock. Someone; always a girl who worked there; would open the door. They would have idle conversation.

-Hey you -(Playful wink) -What are you doing here shouldn't you be doing your homework (has a flirtatious 'naughty naughty boy' tone -(Smile) Can you offer me and my friend a bite or something?

And they would always oblige. We recived warm coffees and stale bagles and packs of smokes.He explained that they were all girls in his school whhose father owned the little stores we stopped by. He said they liked to stay in the stores overnight with some matresses and blankets from the storage room so they would be in quick and easy access to the night clubs and bars that they loved going to.

All the senseless childish flirting I would have to listen to ticked me off abit more each time. But smokes helped.

"What next? A library? A student bar?" it was cold out; our breath would fog up as if we were blowing white ash

He laughed an annoying student laugh "No no I'll take you somewhere with people your age"

He took me to an old bar sitting in between two sad short office buildings. There was light and noise pouring emitting from the dark pane green windows of the place but the door was locked. He had a key. The place was filled with people -somewhat- my age. And a few young people as well. They immediately took to us and poured us more drinks then I could drink.
I asked him about this place; how he had come across here. He told me one of the owners was his previous step-mom. He told me he worked here every weekend; he didn't look old enough to have a liquor licence. He didn't look old enough for anything. He looked at his watch

"The trains are gonna start running soon"

Even though I was pretty plastered I felt confident I could hide my red eyes and blurry slurs; at least for the transit officers. He sprayed me over with cologne and gave me a suitcase from the back room; "It makes you look more like a salary man, transit officers don't bug drunk salary men" I asked him how he knew that and he said he sometimes watched the people pass in and out of the trains and had picked up a few tips. I knew it; he must be some sort of cultural studies kid. We left the bar; everyone patted us on the back and let us go offering us peanuts and chips for the ride home. "It's like Cheers!" I told him. "What the fuck is Cheers"

The rain stopped and the day was a soft gentle hazy grey; little drops of water leaked down from the jutting out roofs and balconies. They were thin sad puddles on the street. We arrived at the station; people were pushing past us already; the dedicated worker always on time at the office. They clutched their little paper train tickets in their hands. We bought two tickets for opposite directions and waited at the platforms; sitting on the silver freezing to the tough metallic chairs.

"Are you gonna ask me questions now?"

"What?" He's obviously confused

"Nothing. Anyway thanks for the beer and stuff"

"No problem"

When we get on each others separate we wave to each other and then the doors close and the trains pull into the dark hollow tunnels.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Burning Midnight

Dedicated to the creator of Jaws :D


Night 1
The lampposts flicker and burn, every 10 seconds they turn silently dim and their light looks like fatty yellow butter in deep puddles on the asphalt. Then they turn off for 30 seconds, burn back brightly for 10 seconds, deep intense white shallow light. From outside I don't know whether anyone can see me our not. See me sitting on the bed wrapped in two jackets hood pulled up track pants long socks thick blanket, because I'm right by the window I'm freezing my ass of but I don't really wanna move away. Burn burn flicker.

Night 2
The tiny portable heater is on and burring on a chair at the foot of the bed; there are many people here lightning cigarettes standing near the heater staring out the window. The room becomes filled with smoke but nobody wants to or knows how to open the windows. Someone fiddles with it but gives up. Most people fade out of my room to go to different parts of the very large house. Some people stay and sleep on the floor; someone opens the door for a while and all the smoke blows away except for a small cloud that blows in an out of my vision. The lights are kept on.

Night 3
There is only one person here tonight my friend. He is my only friend staying in the house he keeps moving in and out of the room. He finds the remote for the dual air conditioner, it starts blowing hot air. The portable heater sits in the corner. He comes in with a mattress, then later pillows, then later sheets and later two large blankets. He moves around the room tense for lack of nicotine. I offer him something to smoke and he lits up leaning his head out the window blowing out ash; teeth clattering every time he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He moves through 1 and a half packs at one go. He shuts the window whens hes done and hides the second half finished box under his pillow. He turns the lights off and gets under the blanket. I leave the curtain slightly open so I can still look outside while lying down. I don't fall asleep until the sun starts to come up.

Night 4
My friend is here still. We have a hot plate here and plugged into the wall. There are, as usual, no cars on the street; there are no cars on the nearby highway. When I was a kid I used to count the time interval between passing cars on the freeway. The maximum it could get to was 10 seconds. The dual conditioner is still on and we are still wrapped up in thick clothes and thick blankets. He eats 12 peanut butter sandwiches and smokes 2 packs head out the window. There is a couple on the far side of the room on a very small mattress one of them is talking while the other one listens.

Night 5
My friend isn't here; but there are so many people here now. Just like the first night. We are all staring out the window now not just me. The heater has been on and has been always on ever since. Nobody is smoking, sometimes people leave the room to go smoke in the hall. The couple are staring out the round glass window in their section of the room, they're kneeling on their mattress their hair is ruffled. There are no cars on the highway same as always. The lights keep burning and flickering and when they turn off everyone holds their breath a little longer till they burn back on again; except me. I keep breathing small shallow breaths the whole time street lamps on or off.
A car finally pulls up on the street; a very old car that we all share. My friend walks out and looks up at the window of the very large house. But he can't see us; everyone sighs relieved and some people pat each other on the back and laugh. Somebody pulls out booze from the inner coat of his jacket, every other guy follows suit. The all pull the cigarette out of their pockets and a girl in trench coat walks around lighting them all. The couple lean back down on the mattress the boy kisses the girl on the nose; I pull the curtains closed and brush my pillow. Everyone enjoys themselves; I can hear my friend in the kitchen gathering food and drinks too bring in. Somebody turns to me; someone who went out too; who we all waited for once before; he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a cigarette and a lighter. Everyone looks at me as a lit up. First one everyone asks. Yes, I reply. I inhale eyes closed and I don't choke any of it out. I take second and third blows.
My friend comes in and looks at me; he gives me a nod cause I'm next. I look at him: yeah I know. He comes down to sit beside me and we never look out the window again.