Wednesday, November 9, 2016

12 20 2012

"If Death--who was out there all the time, possibly sitting on the hood--if Death stepped miraculously through a glass and came in after you, in all probability you just got up and went along with him, ferociously but quietly."

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

sell out train

I haven't felt insightful in years. It's like every thought I have slips away so elusively that I can't recall moments at all. 

I'm sitting at my desk with a coffee much too cold to sip right but still much too warm to pretend iced. I'm difficult so I can't just say that the damn thing is lukewarm. See what I mean? The thought process that I am meant to have to even compose that sentence is so far away from me that I wouldn't know it was far from me. I wouldn't even know that the thought process existed because I don't stop to think about things like that anymore. Enter my bone to pick. Enter working for The Man. Enter the corporate sell outs. 

Here I am, coordinating conferences and events and the catering and the room configuration and making sure that the temperatures of every room will not be something anyone complains to me about. Because if I get another floaty attorney asking me to provide a goddamn blanket for their frigid office, I will fucking... eh. Maybe laugh pathetically to myself. It's the numbness of the corporate air. I always thought I'd hate it, but I am so indifferent and checked out. Enter the drone. 

"You'll get a story out of this one day. You'll write about your youth one day. You'll write about your friends one day. And your stupid shit one day. And you'll write about how it all brought you to Anna. One day." I am not at the point where I am telling myself to stop waiting for One day to come. I am at the point where I am waiting to tell myself to stop waiting for One day to come. 

25 arrived and I didn't sit on my bench all day, smoking cigarettes or reading books or scribbling on my little notebooks.

Last year was the first time I spent my birthday on my bench with company. And I remember noting how it was a beautiful day. How I loved my birthdays alone on my bench, but I loved it more with fluttery light eyes, squinting at me through long blondes. We hardly even sat on my bench. We sat on the grass across each other. I chased spiders while we played charades. I was falling so madly in love. There was a certainty and clarity there. I had never felt that way before. That I was simultaneously falling in love with someone and with life. Not just life, but living. Doing things. Being things. Wanting and dreaming and imagining something beyond my nows. I love my nows, but it was refreshing wanting more.
Enter delicious dreaminess. 

25 arrived and I didn't sit on my bench all day. Anna surprised me with a trip. She took me to Mammoth Lakes. Just like every trip we have ever taken, it rained that weekend. Stormed that weekend, in fact. She drove and we listened to an audiobook about some girl on some train. She took us to the mountains. Winding roads were steep and incredibly narrow as we trudged up and up. High beams on loud. No reception. She was getting sleepy, so I took the wheel. I refused to have her sleep on me so... enter the temptress. There isn't anything more distracting from sleep than the tug and pull. The temptress laid back on the headrest, tilted at me. Eyes dark. This look cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is. She began to talk, and whenever she talked like that, it sounded like purring to me. The siren; my only siren smiled. It was dark and snowing, we parked by a cliff overlooking something of a view. The temptress, the purring cat, my only siren... "Happy birthday," she whispered to me.  Kissing anywhere she hasn't. My throat felt raw, and my voice was hoarse as I smiled through a thank you.
Best birthday I have ever, ever had. 


Maybe I should be more concerned about being a sell out. My youth warned me not to sell out. But really, I'm just more concerned about how the lighting will be when she's walking down the aisle. Or what song will be playing. What her expression will be the moment she sees me standing there. What color our bedsheets will be. How often we'll eat Chinese during the weekday. What her nightmares will sound like. If we'll ever argue about the dogs. Or money. Or the dishes. How it'll feel walking into our home after being away on vacation. As long as I can give us a great life, I can't really be bothered with whatever used to bother me. 

ARCHIVE, FUCKERS (for Ace-like purposes)