"That which is overdesigned, too highly specific, anticipates outcome; the anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of grace."
-- William Gibson, All Tomorrow's Parties
"Coulda been anything. Coulda been a woman or a man."

A good, long day starting with a walk up to Borders, always walking against the wind, reading Don di Fillipo short stories while taking a lunch at Pine St. Pizza, capping with an excellent night hanging out with the O'Donnells.

Walking home, feeling the last shot of Jim Bean right around Broad St., as I hypothesized.

Stopped at the hole in buildings between 16th and 17th, and smoked a cigarette while looking up at the towers, envisioning the cover of system, which I fear is something I will never write and will prevent me from writing anything else.

Went and saw The Incredibles tonight. Highly recommended.

I didn't talk to you today, and it affects me more than I think I like to admit. I leave you voicemails and I think how I sound like the nagging boyfriend, or whatever I am, whatever we are, so I joke about it. All day I expect a call, something, and all day I hum song lyrics to fend off thoughts that by no rights should I be having.

The ambiguity demanded by distance, trust like leaves fallen in Autumn, and every day feels fragile, waiting, wondering, will Thanksgiving ever get here? Thinking about you meeting me at the airport, what the expression on your face will be, and how long is time when you're waiting...

The gin and tonic at the theatre bar kicked the shit out of the same at Doobies. I am disappointed: The place is no longer falling apart (on passerby) and the drinks are surpassed by chain movie theatre bars. One of the bartenders at the theatre had cleavage you could lose your mind in, and looking down into it as she got something from under the bar, I admit to feeling fear; I expected, the gin starting to wash over me, to see a light coming from somewhere around her navel, hearing the voices of the few dead loved ones I have calling to me, their voices oscillating as the ethereal sound waves flow over the contours of her body, nothing like hidden under what passes for her shirt.

Alcohol and kid's movies: An excellent combination.

Drunkenly debugging code by reading documentation is a singular experience, and how Adam can program in monochrome I have no idea; it has always made me seasick. (And remembering, now, a whale-watching trip my family took out of San Diego years ago; we saw no whales, but my mother saw her fair share of the hull of the schnooner while my sister and I ran up and down the stairs, watching the ocean cut against the portholes below deck, grinning as we were covered in sea spray at the bow underneath a deep California sky. If you could bottle that color, the depth of it, you would make no money because the feeling it engenders, you would want to give away...)

Philadephia at 0400 makes its own indelible music, coating my ears with the sound of the few cars on the roads, bums and cabbies hailing each other. The sound of my blood in my ears, desire and whatever is left in me. Mostly there is the wind through fences, through alleys, catching up leaves and plastic bags and newspaper. The sleeping sounds of the city, breathing softly in time with its citizens.

Walking across Broad I look north at City Hall, and for no reason at all I kiss my Claddagh ring, heart facing in; I bought it and its mate with you standing three feet behind me at some craft store in some town whose name I can't remember, Katie and Zoe lost somewhere amongst the rows of knick-knacks and paintings and sculptures. I hushed the owner so she wouldn't say anything as she rung me up, so you wouldn't know. And driving you back from your mom's in Steve's car the next night, it's freezing; my coat seeming to envelop you, Vermillion Pt. 2 quiet on the radio, I ask you if you went through my pockets. "Of course not," you say, almost indignant. "You should do that," I quip, and you do, finding the box with the rings in them, and walking now, not entirely in what you would call a straight line, I can almost, almost taste your lips.

Here, in this city, all these miles of concrete and glass (and how in love with that phrase am I?), the opal heart tastes like cigarettes and a long day, miles of asphalt passed under my big black boots, and underneath these street lights that stretch forever into the ghetto and suburbs of this eroded concrete paradise I've come to call home, I miss you, and long for you and I hum tunelessly, the gin and bourbon making my legs feel miles and miles away, somewhere maybe in the mid-west where there's nothing but flatness and that slow drawled accent.

I think of lines from Amy Hempel short stories and I want to scream at the broken sidewalks, because I can never tell, with her, if these stories are true or a passing fancy; a day dream or a nightmare or just something that she woke up to one morning and struck her enough to put pen to paper.

Did you know people who tend cemetaries don't call them rows, but plot lines?

You said I remind you of Sinantra, and I have no idea what to think of that.

Earlier tonight, and I'm standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom, winking at myself. I do this because I was reminded, for some reason, of you sitting down the table from me at the reception, and you looking over, catching my eye, and winking. This is an art that is closed to me, I think; my eyebrows are more easily controlled, though my eyes themselves say more than I wish them to. I think about what you said about them, words barely remembered, losing myself in you, and I turn off the light.

Later, I walk down South singing Fuel's Shimmer and Black Lab's Anything to the mostly empty street; a few drunken college kids lean over the rail of their second floor balconey, talking about what I don't know; and there are always bike punks on the streets, no matter the hour; and we come, we go, we say we know, but we don't remember, and we don't recognize each other.

Could have been anything, could have been anyone.

I pull All Tomorrow's Parties off Adam's bookshelf long after Sophy has gone to bed and I read: Through this evening's tide of faces unregistered, unrecognized...

Finally at home, I look up at the moon through the bars in the gate, and I am reminded, inexplicably, of the taste of your lipstick, your hair tickling my nose, and the sway of your hips against mine.

November 7, 2004 4:23 AM
Comments

your post is aimed. thats just creepy.

but you're all stupid and happy so, I will accept it.
Ill probably bitch at you the next time I see you though, ya mushy bastard.
heh.

Posted by: Evan at November 8, 2004 2:34 AM

Y'know. There is a pretty damn good Sinatra song to go along with this.

Posted by: Stevers at November 8, 2004 8:49 AM

Steve: What song?

Evan: Bah, stfu. :)

Posted by: bda at November 8, 2004 9:00 AM

Ah. Sinatra's "Nancy".

I am the stupid.

Posted by: bda at November 8, 2004 5:03 PM
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