Listening to: Von Bondies.
Reading: On The Road again.
Quote: "We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time." *
I was at work, working late last night, just working through midnight and then some, and then suddenly this:
oh you were a sickly kid and a sickly lover, but how
sweet and good to me and proud of me you were
that when I laid you down on the bed you were thin
as a sheet, white, and I laid on you carefully
that I could hear gulls' voices across grey smooth water
when I put my ear to the shell of your ribcage
that you smiled still when you were cold, chattering
like a telegram from poor speakers, blood on your teeth
that you tasted when I kissed you like tap water,
clear with minerals and an aftertaste of spare change
that you had this swagger and a thin brown sweater
and this way of falling softly out of conversations now
that I tried to save you by writing about you, that I couldn't,
that you had to be let go of, shaken clean like a bedsheet,
a rustle of feathers around the ceiling and then gone
out the window, one cry in the cold clear morning air
oh that I couldn't make you last was not a surprise but
it's what I thought; I couldn't make you do anything, not
even stay, not even survive.
I couldn't help that. It was too much coffee and the effect of Uh Huh Her, most specifically songs 11 through 14. I don't know what will ever happen to it, but it needed to be written.
I've spent too much money on music. And I've spent too much time with Karen and Shane, so that I'm wearing old thrifty sweaters and unlaced boots. Shannon is at the lake so that I don't smoke enough. All my classes are fucked up for this year-- 15 credits of Psych, only 6 in Drama, 6 in English, and 3 more that need to go somewhere (Creative Writing with Guy Vanderhaege if he likes my application). Scholarhsips won't be handed out until the second week of September, but somehow I've already gotten 1500. I'm not complaining, but I'd still like more. I'd rather not pay for my classes at all. That would be nice.
It would be really nice if I could move into a different place. But I need to find a roomie. I have a few requirements, though. My roomie must:
a) Not detest my poor cooking abilities. b) Like good music. c) Permit lots of smoking and whisky. d) Permit large inflows of company, followed by my hermit-like solitude. e) Not watch TV all the time. f) Not be someone I would fuck all the time, or even much of the time. g) Enjoy grocery shopping with me. h) Not exercise, be vegetarian, or participate in any such activities that promote good health or any healthy habits that may be contagious. i) Like good movies. j) Flush the toilet. k) Be independent. l) Not snore. m) Frequently fist-fight with me. n) Not leave hair in the tub.
I think I should just live alone.
I'm not doing very well with this regular updating thing. So I'll cut this off here, before I binge, and then I'll have something left to come back with.
* Jack Kerouac.
Listening to: Bright Eyes. Lifted, or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground.
Hurting: In my shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints.
Quote: "You must learn to suffer better than that if you want them to weary of punishing you." *
This CD is so good that it hurts. And it's just what I need right now.
Lewis came to the city for a visit on Wednesday. I learned he was here while driving by the river, where the houses are big and remind you of something, where the streets are sloped and curved, and where there are parks set on cliffs over Spadina. I was supposed to be going out with Shannon, Heather, and Brad (which is anamolous enough). My stomach filled with worried excitement. I pulled into a court where there is a break in the houses on a cliff overlooking the Circle Drive freeway near Preston, and a path that leads to a pedestrian bridge high above the traffic. It was chilly. I got out, smoked, paced, listened to the traffic and the murmur of the sun going down. I remember it clearly, and I always will, just as I always remember the details surrounding L's visits. I get super-sensitive. I pay attention. I'm on my game.
Sat on my hood and called Shannon. I said I'd catch up later, L was in town and I had to sort some shit out. She heard something in my voice and asked if she needed any help. She was looking out for me. I appreciated that.
But in the end L and I didn't fight much. He'd gotten a hair cut, and it looked good. He had an expensive jacket that I liked, and a big rip in his jeans, which made them somehow nicer. We had a small scrap when he asked me to take him round to his old dealers in the city and get his connections back up, which was bizarre for me. He bought lots of substances, gave me a small gift. We sat around with some people at Twenty's labrinthyne apartment. She got new furniture. You could play tic-tac-toe on the couches by running your finger through the fabric. She had a new slate coffee table, and glass friendship balls strung up with lights inside... it was like being underwater, wet-mouthed and brushed by the current. I love that apartment.
I told L that I still didn't forgive him. That until he'd known what it was to fear for his life, that I couldn't forgive him. At one point L said to me, "If I was your parent, I'd have never let you out of the house." I told him, "If I was your parent, I'd have molested you."