| workes of fictione |
[Aug. 10th, 2009|01:37 am] |
My father was a poor man who was constantly plagued with misfortune and disappointment. He tried to be cautious, but was always looking over the wrong shoulder. He met his future wife, my mother, outside a liquor store that he was wrongly being accused of robbing. As he was being pinned to the hood of a squad car he called her, a striking blonde who he had noticed at the beginning of the ordeal, to come to his defense. My at-some-point mother, as luck would have it for my father, was dung bat blind and hadn't been witness to anything, much to the amusement of the arresting officers. Estelle and Franz would meet again, by chance of course, and would continue to meet randomly until the day they moved in together. A phone number or addressed was never transferred between the two; they could faithfully rely on my mother's blind luck to set their dates for them.
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Nine months ago I threw myself into space, and for the first time since our bonding I let the alien take shape in place of my body: I was now the little voice in the back of It's mind. Though we have no eyes I can see his body is smooth, perfectly round in shoulders and head, and an off-green shad of white like a boiled egg beginning to rot. Though the skin I am wearing is no longer mine I feel a thick layer of oil tremble on our face as we pass through moons and stars. Without a nose I smell the faint odor of burnt crayons we are emitting. I am the space between his pores, the cavities in his brain. I am the alien now.
At first the stars and rocks creep by us like distant trees on the highway; soon they're jumping by us like street lights on a night drive. We make a sharp right turn in the middle of a meteor shower and a second later the stars stand still and we're in orbit of my hosts home planet. We swoop down and skim above a great ocean of lime green wax; it's night time and this world being soothed to sleep by their ocean's thunderous saran-wrap crinkling.
We reach an angled city of mountainous tile jutting out of the wax floor. The city reflects the radioactive light from the ocean making it glow so bring that had I any eyes they would be blinded, no doubt. We land in one of the many thousands of caves carved into the tile cliffs and meet what must have been his girlfriend, or whatever they have in place of girlfriends here, because the eggy oil that covered their bodies slithered out to each other and...well, if I understood what was happening I'm sure I would have been disgusted by it. The two wound up waxing themselves into the cave wall and fell asleep looking a lot like mannequins. While my Other dreamed some nonsense about drinking neon beer with wax statue versions of my friends, I thought about Cassie, now realizing how far away I was from home I was. This was probably exactly how He felt while on Earth with me. I wondered if Cass and the wax girlfriend would get along.
In the morning we went to make our report about the Other's time with me on Earth to what must have been his employers, or some sort of officials. From what I can tell, the people communicate with some mix of telepathy and empathy; I never heard anyone make a sound that resembled language.
Over the next few months the Other began to continue his life as he had left it over a year ago; going to work, hanging out with friends, scrambling eggs with the Mrs...all of it pretty dull, to be honest. The people there were very intrigued, and more than a little disgusted, by the Other's stories about people at my home. The hair and nails, the eyes and teeth, and all that noise we made...I helped him become quite popular in the city, teaching everyone Poker (they have some interesting "tells"), how to dance (line dancing became quite the rage), and introducing the concept of "sports" (we made pucks out of black glass and sticks out of ceramic).
A report was filed to those who are considered to be government officials, and apparently is in review. Every few days, sometimes weeks, we are notified of either departure back to Earth (I dance the electrodes in his brain, he sweats that eggy sweat of his) or possible retirement from Our travels (I am frightened to the point where I almost scare His limbs to sleep, he skips his way home to the Mrs. (shouldn't have taught him how to do that)). In the end, I think we're going to be constantly in queue for some sort of approval or denial from an endless chain of officials, the next incrementally more senior than the prior. I'm not as far away from home as I first thought. |
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| True story. |
[May. 15th, 2009|03:08 am] |
I jog alongside the bus that's heading towards my appointment until the coffee and pizza in my gut tell me to stop. Without a cell phone, I walk into the only shop nearby that looks like they might let me use their phone. A squat old Asian woman tells me she won't. We both briefly glimpse the black rotary receiver on her desk, we meet eyes again and she informs me of a pay phone down the street. Restless imps in my head shout rants and slurs at her. I tell them to shut up and walk out.
Caffeine is the only thing that keeps me standing when the sun hits my eyes, an anxious acid in my stomach fuels me towards my destination. A thick colourless fog drowns the crowded street and the countless inaudible imps start to make themselves heard. I drop a quarter, from a pocket full of pennies and dimes, into the machine. As I reach to dial my finger extends farther than it should, scraping plastic and wire along it's way. The receiver cord snaps and falls to my side. The imps laugh.
A plastic thud as I drop the receiver to the pavement below and as if on cue the fog around me vacuums into my mouth and up my nostrils, leaving nothing of the city behind except imprints of people, trees, cars and buildings covered with the dried up crumbs of a white eraser. In real life, a few passersby slow down and stare as I stumble forwards, choking for air. Fewer stop entirely as I collapse face first into the street. A moment passes and the small crowd, nonplussed, carry on with their day. The imps laugh again.
I wake up in the middle of my Elementary school playground, surrounded by plump, giant up-right walking birds. From this I can tell I'm dreaming. The birds stand intimidatingly at at least eight feet in height, are covered in messy grey and white fur, and waddle stupidly side to side. They're terrorizing the school children on the soccer field, the steep racing hill, the swing-set on wood chips, and are jumping up and pecking at my bride on the jungle gym - Jodie Foster. I love Jodie Foster, and must get her to safety. From my pocket I pull out a slimy green disc, a substance that strongly resembles whatever it was that Slimer from the Ghostbusters was made of, and toss it at the bird harassing Jodie foster. The feathered thing explodes in a burst of green steam that smells of strong onions. A bowl of soup wakes me up in a strangers bed.
At the kitchen table of my rescuer's home, I sit across from a familiar old Asian woman. To my right is her daughter, younger than myself, wearing a red and white polka dot dress and two long pigtails behind her head; purple lip stick make her lips look like ripe plumbs. To my left, a grizzly old man gives me perturbed glances over his dinner.
The story just gets obvious from here. |
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| boy vs. world |
[Apr. 3rd, 2009|02:06 pm] |
us vs. them
"Who cares if you're the only black guy there. They don't care."
"I care. And yes, they do care. Don't think I don't notice that second it takes for all ya'll to gloss my skin over with your eyes so it looks like you're talking to another white guy."
"...Well, I know I don't do that."
"Don't give me that. You all do. Sometimes it doesn't take a second, but none of you white boys can stand to look a brutha in the eye and talk black to white. I see you paint my skin white. With your eyes. Don't think I don't see that. I could not stand to bei in the center of 20 or 30 of you all with your half second of poorly hidden anxiety, then another half second of stone-faced scannin', like machines I swear, makin' it so they don't have to deal with no black sheep in the room."
"...Black sheep."
"You got somethin' to say??"
"No..no, you don't have to go if you don't want to. It's fine."
"That's right. Machines, man..."
"Machines. Yeah, I get that."
"That's right."
"Yeah."
"..."
"..."
me vs. you
After a long silence the brunette drops her coffee mug from her mouth and glares at the boy across the room. She hurls her coffee mug smashing it against the wall inches from the boy's head. Brunette stares at boy with hunger in her eyes, licks her lips, and lunges across the room for a kiss. Before the boy can look up in terror he is knocked back against the wall, his hands searching behind for escape. They boy has nothing to do but accept and wait for the girl to finish. Brunette opens her eyes, lips still in a death lock, seeing under her just lifted eye lids that the boy's sleepy gaze is peering uninterested to the ground. She releases the boy from her hold, a spindle of saliva tugs and snaps from the gesture, the boy still transfixed on a spot beyond her and the floor. A tearful slap sends the boy trembling from the wall to the ground, brunette storms out the room sobbing, the boy trembling between his knees on the kitchen floor, his gaze now fixed on the tears littered along the tiles.
boy vs. self
Boy leads the brunette rushing past the crowd of passengers getting off their subway car, the two lose sight of each other but her hand grasped in his makes them a paper link chain crunching their way to the inside of the car. They drop down to plastic seats as the car doors close behind the last passenger, the two finally alone on their way home. The boy sees this as his only oppurtunity and makes a lunge for the lips sitting next to him. A firm hand knocks him back into his seat, "Please," the brunette stated conclusively. A deep sigh, and a slow grin grows on the boys face.
--
So there you go, the most Teen-LiveJournal-y thing I will ever write. Hope you enjoyed it. Oh and I stole the second scene from a show I'm watching, but whatever. Now it's in writing. |
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| Come and touch me here, so I know that I'm not there |
[Mar. 23rd, 2009|01:30 am] |
I'm In my old room, in my old house above the train tracks, laying in bed with my old girlfriend. The circumstances that led us here are impossible, and slightly out of reach in my mind. Without a word she takes my hand and presses against the deep and perfect groove that runs from the top of her forehead to the center of her brow. I rub along the crease gently, from her a low moan which I take as a cue to press harder, and I do, with both thumbs as hard as I can into the groove in her head until I hear a series of small cracks like a car backing up slowly over a sheet of glass. I feel her face shift in pieces underneath my hands. As I pull my hands away to see what I've done, she turns away, embarrassed, into the shadows. I'm looking at what should be a dimple but is now an empty space where part of her cheek seems to have been chipped away.
"What's the matter," she asks, and I tell her to look into the mirror and see for herself. She gets up to see, and from the other room she tells me in shame that this happens all the time, and for me not to worry about it.
I'm called by the moonlight and breeze coming from outside my window, and I'm gone before the china doll comes back in and the dream continues for a long while, all of it pretty much like this, and I won't get into it. |
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| Writer's Block: And the Oscar Goes To |
[Feb. 24th, 2009|03:54 am] |
Not a perfect film, but Let The Right One In was my favourite. It was the most original, touching, and visually pleasing film I've seen in years and not a single nomination? Not even best foreign film? It had it's flaws, but if I was going to recommend one movie this year it would be Låt den Rätte Komma In. |
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| ghost chick |
[Feb. 24th, 2009|02:52 am] |
My dad used to tell me these stories about this haunted house he used to live in with his rocker buddies.
It was in the early nineties, late eighties, it was a big old white house made of rotting wood, about five or six of these mop haired derelicts living together with these ghosts. One of the friends, Bob, used to wear this big metal cross around his neck, and one night when they were all in the basement jamming something grabbed a hold of that cross and almost pulled the thing right through Bob's neck. People were just standing around him in awe as this cross was standing horizontally erect, anyone behind him could see Bob's neck bleed from the pulling of the necklace until the chain snapped and flew across the room.
They'd hear terrible hisses and cries from a cat they didn't have from unknown areas of the house. These anguished calls would get louder and more horrible by the day until one night it sounded like a panther was growler outside of Bob's window. As he woke to check the noise out, he could see these giant red cat eyes glowing from just outside his window, which was impossible since his room was on the top floor. He slept in the basement that night and the growl didn't leave until morning.
Anyways, I don't know why my dad told me these stories, I used to get these awful nightmares pretty much daily. I used to sleep walk and start bawling my eyes out in the middle of the kitchen or bathroom or wherever I stopped walking, and then after a few minutes stumble back into bed. I don't know why my dad told me this, either. |
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| Writer's Block: True Crime |
[Jan. 20th, 2009|03:38 am] |
Probably the murder of Hogan's Heroes star Bob Crane. I think everyone has fears of telling their pal that their friendship is over, then find yourself the next day with your head bludgeoned in with a tripod. |
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| From Russia With Fun! |
[Jan. 8th, 2009|02:19 am] |
I'm playing Tetris with this girl I've met at some party I don't want to be at and I'm being beat bad. Apparently she won some sort of Tetris competition as a kid and she's telling me how there's a Wikipedia page on her. The Nintendo is running hot by the time I wedge the wrong block into the wrong the corner and tell her that I'm willing to compromise the perfect line for a chance at love. We leave the flood and fog that is our New Years bash and are soon chased into my old neighbourhood.
She starts taking pictures of me and the concrete relics of my youth. Adjustments of the dials and knobs on her kaleidoscope looking cannon capture the light that time left over for her to find. First of me taking laundry to a room that we try to get into but cant; then on the front porch steps of a school friend whom I'm about to ostricize and out as a gay, years before the fact; and finally on a set of rusted park swings, even back then at dusk, where I've pretty much stayed the same. |
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| James Dean and Martin Scorsese together again for the first time |
[Nov. 19th, 2008|05:04 am] |
[mood| jealous]
Man in Tweed belts a sideways laugh, the cackle cut short by a leather slap. Blue eyed man with racing jacket lifts the bookey up by firm collar, the ceiling sprinkles drywall over the two as the bookey is slammed against the wall, "I ask you again...where's...the money?"
This is what pops up when I press "restore from saved draft".
The world doesn't slow down for your grief. You can stay in bed and ignore it, but it's out there waiting for you to buy a coffee or go see a movie. "Let the Right One In" isn't that great of a scary movie, but it is one of the sweetest, most original romances of recent years. Despite it's horribly cynical outlook on love and relationships. I'm currently bidding on the movie poster.
If aliens came down and formed a symbiotic relationship with a lot of us humans and as a result gave us control over matter on a molecular level, there would be no super-villainy or super-heroics, just a lot of gender bending. It would start with just some basic imperfections with complexion, maybe make your nose a bit straighter, give your hair a bit more oomph. Then you'd get ideas about making yourself taller, or tanner, which gets a little scary, so you promise yourself to remember exactly what you looked like before this whole crazy alien makeover thing began. With this freedom, human hosts everywhere will eventually say, "and you know what, I've always wanted breasts and a dick. Just for today." These hosts will be scrutinized at first, then there will be tolerance, and soon enough you'll be dodging eye contact from the waiter at White Spot, feigning comfort with the fact that you're being served by an amoebous ball of flesh.
If aliens came down while I was trying to have dinner in my nice home with my nice family and shined their big scanning flood lights through our kitchen window, I would be the first to run and not look back or say good bye to anyone. "Not me," I'd say, "oh god oh god, it won't happen to me." I'd run out the back yard and leap over our picket fence and continue running through the yards of my neighbours, who are screaming obscenities at me, with that alien light blinding my heels. Soon I run out of neighbours and fences and yards, and at the edge of the last lawn on Earth is a deep red canyon, and over the pit the light chases me. My feet catch a slope, and instead of tumbling down, I keep running. I run faster down that hill, which doesn't seem to end and only gets steeper, until I go so fast and the hill gets so steep that I can't tell if I'm running or falling. I stop dreaming somewhere around there. |
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| more Amelia |
[Sep. 27th, 2008|05:08 am] |
The best part about Fridays is that the mall is open for an hour longer. This Friday was even better because of the serious criminal activity we had witnessed. From the food court where Janis and I were sharing a cheap plate of chow mein we heard something crash from one of the second floor shops above us, almost at the same time an echoing "Hey!", and as we turned around a boy dropped down right in front of us with with a crumpled cardboard clump of sneaker boxes clutched in his lanky arms. Time stopped for a second as we saw the shiver of pain in the boy's feet crawl it's way up through his body. Things sped up again as a thunder of stomping security boots make their way down the stairs from the floor above, no sooner than the kid who I recognized from gym class was off and out the front door. Mall doors are kinda slow to react to things, so if you fling 'em harder than you're supposed to they'll stay open for as long a time it takes them to figure out what just happened; in this case long enough for a wave of we-mean-serious-business suits and jackets to flow out after our young fugitive. The entire time both Janis and I had our mouths stuck open making stupid "O" shapes and it wasn't until the mall door had closed placidly behind the chase that Janis proclaims, with a look of shock, "I have a class with that kid!"
On days like today when my mom doesn't come home from the previous night I am free to stay out late and not get hasseled about my homework. It's a guilt thing which I don't understand, since we both know I love the alone time it gives me. These freebies are often spent taking long bus rides out to nowhere with my journal, often writing nothing but shapes and letters. I spend a lot of time on today's ride thinking about what it would be like to be friends with the two teenage skater guys sitting across from me. This always happens when I'm trying to think of something to write and a high school student comes on the bus, because I've assured myself that television is right, that your teenage years are the years where everything finally comes together. I dream about how I get to be in their crowd, how I'll wind up with their matching moppy hair and skateboards, and trips to the beach with people who wouldn't normally dare talk to me, and before I can get another thought out I'm woken up by the clack of the teens' matching skateboards hitting together as the two lean in, matching moppy hair beginning to mesh, to make out right there in front of me and not even on an empty bus. Public displays of affection always makes me blush, but this time it wasn't in a bad way.
My gym teacher thinks he's Superman. He dresses up and everything. The real Superman doesn't resort to cronyism and bullying though, I'm pretty sure. When I joined Wrestling with Janis, he started to turn around though. Stood up for me when other kids teased in the halls and in the cafeteria. When I quit the team, he didn't take it so well. Apparently that day he realized what the other kids always saw in me, and at lunch that day in the cafeteria he cut in line right ahead of me and bought all of the Big Macs. Yeah, I know. How did he even know I liked those so much. |
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| "A God that cares what I think of him is not a God I care to think about", and other poetic notions |
[Aug. 8th, 2008|03:27 am] |
Pilot - "Oh, how we yearn to breathe free. She welcomes us, brother." Charles and Erik arrive at Liberty's doorstep. "If only she knew."
Episode 2 - Two princesses of rival schools share a cold lunch.
Episode 3 - Memories and seduction in the Red Room.
Episode 4 - Riots and roadtrips.
Interlude - The cast is sent to Arizona to meet new friends.
When she was in middle school, Amelia never had any food in her house. So when her friends came over, she had nothing to offer. Most nights she is a guest at her best friend Janis' house for dinner, where parents would humbly serve an all-American meal of meat loaf and mashed potatoes....sometimes a salad. Sometimes a small salad, with Thousand Island Dressing that was clearly without a name. She would imagine herself in space, after a long night of astronoming, sitting up (sitting down, but upside down) to a nice meal of meat mush. All she could think about on days without seeing Janis was when she was next getting her astronaut mush. |
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| Log |
[May. 7th, 2008|10:14 pm] |
Dear M: Meet me. Let's play soccer.
Dear M: There are crabs under rocks. Let's flip em.
Dear M: Goin' tree plantin'. Don't wait up.
Dear M: I lied. Wait for me.
Dear M: It's time for you to leave.
Dear M: No I don't wanna go fishing.
Dear M: You lied on your resume, didn't you.
Dear M: Happy birthday, hope you like the surprise.
Dear M: Surprise.
Dear M: Oh no. Time to stop.
Dear M: There's a light on above my door with your name on it. It says "In case of emergency, please break glass." It's going, "buzzzzzz."
Dear M: There's nothing new in my room, please bring over a plant. I'll be sick until you get here.
Dear M: You've sunk my battleship.
I'm staying at a spiral house by the rocks. It's a place for all my sick teenage kids, their skin alive with worms and flies. There's a man in a hat and all in black, my book can't ever leave his hand. We're in a spiral house and it's all we got. |
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| I don't wanna be your friend, I just wanna be your lover |
[Jan. 11th, 2008|12:50 am] |
[mood|  moody]
[music| Sebastian Tellier]
Saw "Margot at the Wedding" by myself tonight. It happened to be in the same theater that I saw "Science of Sleep" in with Charisma about a year ago. I made a point of not sitting in the same seat that we made out in. During the previews something big and dark darted past my foot, I thought it was a giant spider. I jumped up and screamed, it was embarrassing, "Uh, it was a mouse," but nobody even looked at me. There was a scene where Margot finds an earwig crawling on her hand, which makes me spaz out and drop my onion rings. I could never live in a big house out in the country, not with all those insects.
I thought maybe I could have this disorder where I couldn't reveal anything about myself or anything else to anyone. I couldn't even lie. So when someone asks me a question I wouldn't say anything and they would go, "oh, that's right." I could have those cards to give out to people, like how mutes have cards tell others that they're mutes, only mine would say "Hi, I am unable to reveal information of any kind. Please be patient and don't be offended." I could ask girls about themselves and not have to answer the same thing back about me. This way only the people who truly cared to know would have answers, because they'd learn simply by spending time with me, through osmosis. This would also make me more mysterious and aloof. That's always sexy. |
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| alien chick |
[Dec. 29th, 2007|11:36 pm] |
[mood|  exhausted]
[music|Sonic Youth - She is not alone ]
A strong young blonde takes her time ascending the staircase of her lover’s apartment. Her stride is long yet calm and her mind is decidedly clear despite the urgency of the phone call that has brought her here. Oliver Dresden’s living room jumps to it’s feet in anxiety and surprise as the blonde strides through the front door. She stops to wipe the sweat that had splattered across her brow. “Oh! You must be Miss Kyle,” spat a tall and awkward boy with Indian skin. “Please,” interrupted the blonde, “call me K.” The Indian’s heart shook at the deep voice that was not expected from the girl‘s petite shell. “Miss Kay,” he started once again, “Mister Ollie is in his room down the hall.” K’s silence only made the Indian more frantic. “I really think you should hurry.”
In the room down the hall there was a small wreck of a man curled up on the carpet of his room. The Indian stood and watched in the doorway as K rolled the wreck onto his back, revealing two claws hooked into his own chest. The room was filled with impossibly deep and long breaths and a heartbeat that sounded like the skipping a record makes after all of it’s songs have finished playing. K slid her hands underneath his, relieving Ollie’s fingers from the catacombs in his chest. The Indian thought that Miss K looked exactly like a woman he saw in an old black-and-white photograph once. “Can I ask what is going on?” “Oliver, do you want to tell your client what is going on?” “My name is Ethan,” the client butted in with. “K,” whimpered Ollie, “I can’t speak.” After a short silence, Ollie laughed where his best friend had not. “I really would like to know what’s going on.”
--
That was one of those things that I couldn't sleep until I wrote down...and then stopped writing before I got to the part that I really wanted to write. The idea is that this kid gets abducted by aliens a lot so he holds this support group for abductees...I never really got to that part though. The ending I really want to write but the middle just bores me so I doubt I'll get around to it.
Spitting is the most disgusting thing ever, I swear to fucking god. I was taking the escalator down from the train stop and this girl SPIT on the fucking ESCALATOR. Like, in the middle of a crowd of people. I think I'll have to alter my 101 to somehow reflect my hate for spitting.
Hey, look, Buffy moods. |
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| Jaguar Awareness Month |
[Dec. 8th, 2007|06:35 pm] |
I have all these cool ideas for Buffy: The Animated Series. If I were a famous Hollywood writer, I would so co-executive produce it. I've always wanted to be a Co-Executive Producer. The show would be a totally new concept, as original and groundbreaking as the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer series was. It would be a hard pitch, with the humour being akin to Recess or any other Saturday morning cartoon, but the action would be all out balls to the wall KIll Bill gore and violence, like a more traditional anime. Like, Amerime, or something stupid sounding like that. The show would have kind of an integrated continuity from the original show, similar to how the Marvel cartoons in the 90's were made. Not that anybody really asked "what if Gambit and Jubilee were a part of the Dark Phoenix Saga?" but they did it anyways. As much of a serial as BtVS was, BtAS would be episodic. No continually rotating cast, just a core team (in my mind it's Buffy/Willow/Xander/Anya/Tara, but whatever works) in an "Adventures" like cartoon. Continuity would be new and interesting, yet rewarding to long time fans, so think "Ultimate" Sunnydale, but not as x-treme. The cool thing about animation is you can go from one style of humour to another, and from one style of action/adventure to another, all in the same show. So in one scene you would have a chibi Willow (cause her character was made to be drawn chibi, let's not kid ourselves) petitioning kitten awareness or something (ala Tom Goes to the Mayor) to Mayor Wilkins, and in the next scene it's all Hellsing style zombie fights, crazy, and gore.
Anyways, just thinking out loud. |
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| and it loops |
[Dec. 7th, 2007|07:07 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | kara | ] |
| [ | Limit Break |
| | innie | ] |
I never want to be seen twice. When I come home I want to have made an impression on the day, and when I leave the next morning I'll do it all over again. I need to spend more time on wigs and powders. I need to spend more time with a scalpel. I'll wear a new set of lenses every day. I could travel the world under whatever identity the day calls for, or stay still and live a hundred different lives at once.
There's a pill you can take that can turn you completely hairless. There's a pill that makes everything feel real again. There's a pill for everything.
Every morning a man brings me an envelope to open, like clockwork. Every morning a man comes to my door and gives me a new name.
For the past two weeks I've been getting physicals, every afternoon, from a doctor in a local clinic. I fool him from the inside out.
A deli down the road makes a point of putting guacamole on all of their sandwiches, and even on the most unlikely orders it always works. Lately I've been ordering the soup.
I'm getting bored. |
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| my finger is on the button |
[Nov. 21st, 2007|06:08 am] |
I meet you a hundred times over again in high school and I'm always someone else. Every conversation we ever had goes a hundred different ways, each time you find something new to like in me. I wish I had a flower, I wish I wore a leather jacket, I wish I were tough, I wish boots, I wish there was a school play, a guitar, a pill, a cup, a coup, fistacuffs, a little more to drink, leather boots. I wish I wore leather boots.
Adam came in to the store with a presumably pretty girl that I refused to look at or think about. Later I thought it might have been Jean. He bought something like chips but it was obvious he was only in to see me which must have been planned for weeks, ever since his mother found me working in the old neighbourhood. Wait, then why would he bring the girl? WAS it Jean? He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me again, but I wasn't having any of it. After he left (disappointed, surely) I then realized that he seemed like an alright guy, albeit with alarmingly long and dirty hair, and could have maybe made an old friend. I want to ask him if he knows Japhy still, the hippie kid who claims to have hung out with me on the playground. I want to ask Japhy if he's named after Japhy Ryder, the great Buddhist mountain climber of America.
Four hour drive across an island spent mostly sleeping. Sleeping is spent mostly thinking about another old friend, from another island, and the life we lead after we meet each other once again. She's crazy, and absurdly emotional, just like me. We live in a secluded cabin somewhere on yet another island that looks just like this one. We have friends stay with us during the winter, when it gets lonely. I bring home wine, and when she says I've had enough, I laugh and poor us both another glass. "To cold friends!" She can't be older than seven years old when I last see her crying in her mother's arms. As we drive off through the rain, I wonder if she can see me still watching her. |
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