Checking the play count on I-Tunes, I have officially listened to the aforementioned’s song Walcott 192 times since adding it last Wednesday. It’s Sunday. Sometimes, falling for a new song, I’ll set it on repeat and go on about my business. Either I spaced, left the room or got caught working on a hearty stretch of something new – something that must have spun me dizzy and orgasmic.
The reality is a likely blend of each – reason for my obsessive listening (in case you need a re-connection…some do). Everyone needs filler and this song is pretty wicked. There’s only so much of the family (Muse, Arcade Fire, R-Head & Off-Chutes, Killers, Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse) one can constantly listen.
…
This week I was out at the Coronet, saying goodbye to a friend. He was jumping ship to Rhode Island…soon to become a daddy. As if it would be poisonous to raise a child in Los Angeles…
One drink turned to…a couple, several? I don’t recall. What I do recall was a feeling, a tearing in the fibers of my heart, saying goodbye to something, someone who was leaving town. I remember the hug…more of an embrace and then wondering to self about the point in which this relationship had forged and how many others I had like it. Few? Several? Many? I lacked the time to think, had an inescapably pressing personal appointment at midnight. My feet and hands couldn’t stop kicking and tapping and pounding…not angry but unsettled, confounded, wild as usual.
On my way out of the bar, I felt eyes. It was as if some form of intense attention had shifted towards the route of my exit, following my steps. I heard yelling, someone pleading for my notice but I was in a hurry. Some girl. I kept moving, parting the crowd, out the door.
Outside, I waited to cross the street, jaywalked between passing cars because I’m rebel youth. She followed me out, calling, singing, stalking. There was tenderness in her words – I thought – I could feel it in the air. Tenderness or desperation. I glanced quickly, instantly determined she wasn’t the bed or wed type – my only two stopping types at that moment…
I judge. Then, blew a kiss without hearing a word, her voice muffled by the traffic between us. As I pulled away, she watched. I wondered where she got off, looking so sad. So disappointed. I wondered why I didn’t stop, wondered why I didn’t listen to what she had to say…even if just to hear…wondered why I act like this happens all the time, like I am above it or something worse. Is there anything worse? Does this happen all the time? I don’t know. I don’t care to remember. I had a fucking appointment.
…
I recently found myself studying the construction of the English alphabet. My definition of construction consists of straights and arcs, dots and crosses. I studied similarities between letters, how to break them into families, how fragments of some mirror fragments of others…how everything fits into a beautiful and simple puzzle. Everything.
Then I built my own. My straights and arcs, dots and crosses…to fill a specific need. To absolutely guarantee at least one comfort through the days of my life. To be foreign, when I choose…misunderstood when I need to be, to everyone save myself…as this life calls for it.
And I can’t say why.
And it makes me heavy.
