One Hour Upstairs.
"Suffering," is what i hear their eyes saying. At the crux of the entire thing: do you believe in reincarnation? My immediate thought is simply, wouldn't I remember something if reincarnation were an actuality? Otherwise what's the point? "well emily," she says to herself, "you could be an SUV driving corporate soccer mom." Certainly that's true. Have I forgotten how to think? This is my fear. THIS IS MY FEAR. "I got personality. I got interesting things to say."
In the feve bar not 5 minutes and I've gotten the phone number of some drunk bloke who says that he would "never rape me so hard for a tattoo." But Dan has the gentle touch, and he accomodates my yoga breath. Oy, this bar. Matt tells me that he will let me read some of his poetry when he's sober. He looks like a North African prince, piercings in the nose and ears, sleek leather jacket, he's here with Shiloh (the one who has given me his phone number) and some english fellow who keeps asking the cute barmaid for "black label and water." Matt tells me that Kerouac has been his companion for many years and he figures him a role model. I ask him if he ever writes when he's drunk. (When I arrived he was passed out on the table and his friends asked me for my tube of lipstick to adorn his face with the hieroglyphics that friends give the first one to pass out.) Beck on the radio. Matt replies, "Kerouac has a maxim: never drink outside of your house, and never write when you're drunk. And I abide." I want to retort with my one maxim from Kerouac, but before my brain catches up he says, "well you're writing, and I don't want to annoy you. What was your name again..." and it is forgotten as soon as I utter it but he offers his hand. And every ten seconds or so my mind races to thoughts of Ryan, of how much more fun this would be if he were here. But then these drunk and strange blokes probably wouldn't have approached me and I think of Candide. "All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds." Fucking myopic.
Shut up Beck, your melody is flat and uninspiring.
The guy at the bar who was giving me scotch 101 has left. "I stick to Glen Livet," I tell him. "Single malt."
"You've got to read this," I overhear Matt say to the english fellow, "It will change your life." My curiosity is piqued but not enough to get up. A bandana clad lesbian enters and Matt recognizes her. "Hey what's going on. We're just up here hanging out." She is non-plussed and chooses to sit at a table by herself. Like me. Thinking she can just shrug them off, she becomes my silent comrade across the room. Shiloh reenters the scene and I am thankful that he doesn't come back to my table and tell me more tattoo stories. "Let me see your tattoo again," I remember him saying for the fourth time.
This beer will be my last and the lesbian's reading is cut short by the table of the four drunk men. She tries doggedly to return to the book and her decidedly fruify drink but the drunk men are determined. "There's mediocre, and there's great..." but his thought is cut short.
Nate is at the bar, I think he's well on his way to a hangover tomorrow. But then Nate's natural state is drunkenness. "Are you a writer," they ask me, and the question seems so silly. "Well," I offer, "I write," and it seems enough. I am crazy, and confused, and my life feels up for grabs. That is such a fucked up thing to say! But there it is. Today. I checked New Zealand's tourism website to see if I could be a candidate for citizenship. "I've been jaded my whole life," Matt says to the barmaid who is losing interest.
Matt comes back to me and tells me to read Kerouac's "visions of cody," while Shiloh makes walrus faces behind him with two straws. We're talking about philosophical guide books and I tell him to read Notes From Underground. They get back to their table and Shiloh mouths something to me that I don't understand but I laugh anyway, lest he come back over here to explain.
They want to see my tattoo again and it's time to go. Long past time. The english guy says something to me but my mind is fixed upon leaving and calling Ryan. To hear his voice. One sip left and I'm down the stairs and out the door.
In the feve bar not 5 minutes and I've gotten the phone number of some drunk bloke who says that he would "never rape me so hard for a tattoo." But Dan has the gentle touch, and he accomodates my yoga breath. Oy, this bar. Matt tells me that he will let me read some of his poetry when he's sober. He looks like a North African prince, piercings in the nose and ears, sleek leather jacket, he's here with Shiloh (the one who has given me his phone number) and some english fellow who keeps asking the cute barmaid for "black label and water." Matt tells me that Kerouac has been his companion for many years and he figures him a role model. I ask him if he ever writes when he's drunk. (When I arrived he was passed out on the table and his friends asked me for my tube of lipstick to adorn his face with the hieroglyphics that friends give the first one to pass out.) Beck on the radio. Matt replies, "Kerouac has a maxim: never drink outside of your house, and never write when you're drunk. And I abide." I want to retort with my one maxim from Kerouac, but before my brain catches up he says, "well you're writing, and I don't want to annoy you. What was your name again..." and it is forgotten as soon as I utter it but he offers his hand. And every ten seconds or so my mind races to thoughts of Ryan, of how much more fun this would be if he were here. But then these drunk and strange blokes probably wouldn't have approached me and I think of Candide. "All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds." Fucking myopic.
Shut up Beck, your melody is flat and uninspiring.
The guy at the bar who was giving me scotch 101 has left. "I stick to Glen Livet," I tell him. "Single malt."
"You've got to read this," I overhear Matt say to the english fellow, "It will change your life." My curiosity is piqued but not enough to get up. A bandana clad lesbian enters and Matt recognizes her. "Hey what's going on. We're just up here hanging out." She is non-plussed and chooses to sit at a table by herself. Like me. Thinking she can just shrug them off, she becomes my silent comrade across the room. Shiloh reenters the scene and I am thankful that he doesn't come back to my table and tell me more tattoo stories. "Let me see your tattoo again," I remember him saying for the fourth time.
This beer will be my last and the lesbian's reading is cut short by the table of the four drunk men. She tries doggedly to return to the book and her decidedly fruify drink but the drunk men are determined. "There's mediocre, and there's great..." but his thought is cut short.
Nate is at the bar, I think he's well on his way to a hangover tomorrow. But then Nate's natural state is drunkenness. "Are you a writer," they ask me, and the question seems so silly. "Well," I offer, "I write," and it seems enough. I am crazy, and confused, and my life feels up for grabs. That is such a fucked up thing to say! But there it is. Today. I checked New Zealand's tourism website to see if I could be a candidate for citizenship. "I've been jaded my whole life," Matt says to the barmaid who is losing interest.
Matt comes back to me and tells me to read Kerouac's "visions of cody," while Shiloh makes walrus faces behind him with two straws. We're talking about philosophical guide books and I tell him to read Notes From Underground. They get back to their table and Shiloh mouths something to me that I don't understand but I laugh anyway, lest he come back over here to explain.
They want to see my tattoo again and it's time to go. Long past time. The english guy says something to me but my mind is fixed upon leaving and calling Ryan. To hear his voice. One sip left and I'm down the stairs and out the door.
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