this is the best
throwing off the light covers
feet on the cold floor
and buzzing around the house on espresso
Whenever I read a certain author for a few days, their unique style begins to permeate my thoughts. I begin to see things as I imagine they would see things. When I read Etgar Keret, the sharp and anguished voice of contemporary Israel, I feel compelled to do bizarre things just for the sake of doing them. I want to play tricks on everybody that I see, shrink down and hop into a glass of gin and tonic. I want to walk around with a knife blade. All so I can can live like the cutting, absurd characters inside The Nimrod Flip Out.
Lately, I've been listening to The Best Cigarette during the day and reading 1Q84 at night. Between Murakami's wrought-iron impossibilities and Collins simple, eloquent observations, my perspective in the past week has shifted. I am less caught up with how things feel, what they might mean, and absolutely entranced by how they appear on the surface.
I get absorbed in very simple things like texture, contrast, light, weather. I find myself staring at things.
That night we went touring through the narrow streets of Capitol hill, skis hissing as we skinned past the absurdly sized brick mansions. The snow glowed yellow in the sodium glare of street lights.
After a few days like this, the temperature inched up a few degrees and another type of storm took the reins. Rain began to pound, hour after hour. The snow crumbled into grey slush, which melted into streams that ran ankle deep in the streets. It was impossible to stay dry. Walking the dog was miserable. Driving was still not recommended. Just stay home, pleaded the man on the radio. So we stayed home. It was the only sane thing to do- seek out friends, pour more drinks, let the vacation continue. We're very safety minded.
I want to watch the rest of the winter go by like this, water in its many forms throwing the city into chaos as we give in and stay in and hang out with each other. Windows in the packed cafes were fogged up and steam was everywhere. There was literally water everywhere.
And then, the very next day, the sun came out bright and hard, shrinking the last bits of snow. Suddenly there was green grass everywhere, and black shadows. Hardly a trace of winter at all. It felt like when someone yells at you all night long, exploding in anger, throwing dishes into walls. And then that person collapses in a chair, falls asleep, and wakes up the next morning smiling. How are you this morning? They ask. Would you like some coffee? Do you want to go for a walk? You hesitate. You want to believe that this peaceful spell will last, but you're walking on eggshells.
We don't trust sunlight.
The city felt like the rubbery rain planet in the Ray Bradbury story, the one that suggests children are cruel by nature. The rain stops only once every seven years. On that one single day when they can go outside, they shove the earth-kid into a closet and lock the door. When I ran into friends around the lake, they were doing the same thing as I was: looking around, blinking, grateful but bewildered. Feeling the almost alien sensation of solar heat on our bare arms.
In the middle of the night I woke up suddenly, sleeping like a star in my bed with my arms thrown out, every door and window banging loudly in the misaligned fixtures of the old wooden house.
lust is like the sand where the beach meets the ocean
There was blue glass on top of the alter. Blue glass is a symbol for good luck in love. I read that in a book somewhere. I once wrote a short story that ended with a scene on the beach, two people smashing blue vodka bottles and throwing the pieces into the ocean for somebody else to find. I could never think of a proper beginning for that story.
That morning, I'd been collecting pieces of sea glass to put in the glass jar that lights up, a lantern Will made me for my 25th birthday. He'd given it to me halfway filled with Watauga river glass. I put the pieces I'd found on top of that pile of rocks instead. Good luck to somebody, somewhere. I hope it finds you, and you do good things with it. Try not to fuck it up. It's so easy to fuck it up.
My mother says I need to swear less but I can't seem to quit- just one more, mom: Holy Fuck, what a week.