johnny cash cover tunes on in caffe vita this morning. mortgage talks at the table to the left, motorcycle man at the table to the right, and me, late for a date with myself. I'm trying to give the music a shot, but the conversations are drowning out the purity of it and distracting me. headphones, go.
omg that rules. it's all drowned out now, there's all the same movements and all the same light, and - cripes. pantomimes and everything washes over like a wave. this is better than drugs, better than drinks, checking out in the present to focus - kind of like meditating then I guess. how have I lived my whole life without having these and doing this all the time?
I consult the oracle of the shuffle: engine driver > golden years / bowie. perfect.
would I were beside her... ngh.
so I was writing in my head this morning on my way to work, because I was late, and then I realized that I was just running late for myself. so I decided to save the walk for lunch to go to the post office, and to just park in front of the cafe and make sure I had the time for myself this morning. and in an instant, all right then, it hit me - that I had become important to myself. or, more important, I should say, important enough to be concerned about being late, important enough to get out of bed early and don't let me hear you say that life's taking you nowhere write or work out or just maybe walk instead of driving and rushing and pushing and wishing I had made the time for myself to do more, be more, want more. this beautiful, beautiful girl just walked in in a - irridescent purple - I want to call it chartreuse or charmuse or something, even though I know that's the wrong word - dress, and all modern farrah fawcett hair, and she is SO going to be a character in my book. she hes on red strappy wedges and her toenails are pink. I wish I had a polaroid, but the reality of her in that bright, harsh light would probably not be as good as she is all made up in my mind this moment. I want to call her violet, but that would be a cliche. she needs a better name, like carlita or francesca or something. perfect little eyelets detailing the back of her dress, with a single button, a made up face, two bangles, a green clutch, well-accessoried, perfectly vintage, vintage made better like the apartments I hear about on the radio. if you don't take her out tonight, she's going to change her mind... that will be her theme. nameless girl in a dress I'm calling the wrong color, you're gonna lose that girl will play over the speakers as you get followed out the door of the cafe with a camera just like in slacker. perfectly. only you needed sunglasses to help with the glare, or maybe you didn't need them because you wanted to make sure you saw everything so clearly, so that you could feel all the glare and the burns and the good parts too.
maybe here is where I will nano. stranger delivery. omg. and stranger delivery! mixed metaphors! bell on a desk going off, rapidly. I am going to write kristin this morning, like, dude, one of my characters for the book walked into the cafe this morning while I was writing before work, all having to push away the novel because I'm not supposed to write it yet. it was stranger delivery. and then the stranger delivery guy came in, and... omg. coldplay, that I would usually not voluntarily put on.
I missed the good part
I started looking, and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses
come on in, I've got to tell you
what a state I'm in
I've got to tell you
in my loudest tones
I started looking for a warning sign
when the truth is,
I miss you...
I'm just going to melt up into a puddle all over the floor. and right this morning I was like, maybe I need to go to a show or smoke some cigarettes and create some kind of reverb or delay, to put the shine back on, but there's plenty of it all right here.
I realized that you were an island, and I passed you by - I am just going to show up and move my fingers around, on a little less sleep than I'd like, and the book is going to wind up writing itself. typing. but still. shiny clean windows, stars that say "best places", the smell of fuel and cake, wobbly stools, dark enclaves, and eventually I'm sure all rain against the window in the grey morning time. dave matthews? mighty purple? riverside? alright, I'll go with it. it's a sign, right? everyone in here must think I'm insane, all typing and laughing at myself. I will not take the time here to remit the lines about cheese that are assaulting me currently... oh wait, I just did.
ten minute warning. so what else - I'm debating whether or not to go to okkervil river next week, they will be *fabulous* I'm sure, but I think they're at a place where the ticket price starts with a 2. and there are not many people I am willing to push that amount of money out of my checkbook for. beastie boys. omg. I am getting such total sensory overload. do the headphones ever have to come off? kristin said something about existing out of my comfort zone, just a little. they're staying on. the mike stands for money, and the d is for diamonds... right. I want to say something right now about how writing the book is going to be easy, but I will refrain, because I know it most likely will not. I know a lot of def girls that'll do anything I think it's just that I am aware, with all the white noise blocked out, that same white noise that I invite in the nighttime, just how much fucking copy there is everyplace. my copy. stranger copy. stranger delivery copy. headphones copy.
and the big unmarked van pulls away from the curb, another branch, and I wonder about piercing my lip, but that's quite the commitment to make - it's kind of like when I had pinkish hair, and sometimes things didn't match, and I had to take it all day, every day, there was no departure from it. maybe I could get like, a magnetic one. but then, where's the fun in that? again, kristin, with the wisdom - why don't you get a job before you go putting anymore holes in yourself. is that the modern version of our moms telling us to wear pantyhose and sit up straight? those pearls, literal and proverbial, that we take with us - filtering through, and the only other things I hear over my music is the slamming of the espresso machine parts and pieces of moments of johnny cash through the speakers, and there's a hat sitting there on the table that's so fucking perfect that I can't believe I don't have my camera with me fumbling with your blouse to make it a page in the book.
oh wait, I do. thanks, steve jobs, and everyone that the light and the half-light was able to help me bring you a moment from this morning. angle and size notwithstanding.
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vvb
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