Weekend in Brief 15

Nov 10 On Broadway with Alex, Sean, Willis, Francis, Angela, and Tim. Encore to the late night ramblings at Tajima, a packed ramen house that sleeps when we sleep, 4 AM and counting.

Nov 11 Philosophical discussions with David, affirmations and directed optimism. Croce’s jazz night and Red C’s house jams along the Gaslamp crawl. Jumpin’ with the dancing queens.

Nov 12 Brunch with David and Alison, a stroll along the bay, and strange thoughts: how far is the sun and wouldn’t it be lovely having these conversation companions closer to home.

Weekend in Brief 13 & 14

Oct 28-29 Monster Massive w/ Willis, Amy, Naoko. Crashed with eight other sardines in a Le Meridien single room. L.A. day-trippin.

Nov 04-05 Elevate @ Detroit Bar in O.C. w/ Willis, Amy, Naoko. A walk in the park.

* * *

The point of a story is exactly that, there is a point and you reach it. Conversely, the point of reality is that you never really find a point. You think you have a story but it only blends together, and the locus gets lost in mid-delivery. Maybe there are too many points and they stop mattering. Simply put, once you think you understand the situation, it changes. There’s one thing certain, though. Strange times are a’ coming; you can smell it in the air.

* * *

“I had the weirdest day,” I say, pushing the door open.

“What, a chicken in a pin-stripe suit walks into the office and starts talking?”

“Metaphorically speaking, yes. That is exactly what happened.”

* * *

There is a waking moment. The back of my throat hurts. Inside the porcelain sink, a red puddle so dark it looks black stares back with an unblinking pupil. I inhale deeply; no, my lungs don’t hurt any more than the occasional pack-a-night binge, but my stomach does feel abnormal. Heavy. It is decided then. I had suffered a nosebleed in my sleep and it has trickled down and filled my insides with revulsion. A self-revolution. Denial is a man’s best friend: it has no teeth and is always loyal.

* * *

“I am emotionally unstable,” he says, on freeway 5, “And I’m going to therapy.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill anyone.”

* * *

I watch her laugh in the park. We are sitting beside the swing sets, the four of us, and I’m burying a cigarette, putting out the flame to an imagined relationship. It’s difficult not to feel attached, her energy is contagious. She turns around and smiles. This isn’t a story, it’s reality; in the end, a smile is a smile: pointless. She’s lovely alright and a funny devil. But I have no idea what to say. And that’s the problem. There’s nothing to say. Not now, not ever, especially not when she’s in another game.

* * *

A list tells no story, like a carton of cigarettes, coaxing the red tide.

Me and My Friend by Julie Doiron

Me and my friend, we are not friendly anymore
We have not talked for so long.
And if we had to talk, what could we say, sitting side by side.
So long ago, we were dancing and singing
We could be together saying nothing.
So long ago, it all meant much more than this.
The pond, it seems so quiet tonight
And the swans are all huddled together.
Well I sound alone here on my way home,
Again when no one is there waiting.
So long ago we were dancing and singing
And it all meant something.
So long ago, me and my friend we were friendly
And now we don’t see each other no more.