give me a bottle of wine and a naked woman. everything else is extra.
we were talking about the ghetto. and how fabulous it can all be. she said something about a woman in high heels. Gold studs. tacky taken to the extreme. "its a thing unto itself" i proclaimed. "thats why its beautiful".
every bodies got opinions. yea I got opinions too. I think we're all crazy. time is short. and whatever chances you've got to take you better take em while you can cuz most don't come twice.
so I cut natalias hair for her. straightened out some edges. so I'm an emo faggot that cuts hair now I suppose. I learned how to use scissors in the 2nd grade. I remember watching one of the kids eat glue. is Emo still a word? or have we done away with it yet like we did disco. I just can't afford a hair cut. so I either cut my own or I end up lookin like a hippie. and now I dress well because of my ex. luckily we're in san francisco though where no one can tell the difference. otherwise a guy like me could never get laid.
I spoke about Katja and how unbelievably perfect I believe her to be . she had called me on the phone the night before. sad from news that her child hood pet had died. she was in utter disarray. no matter her condition though she is always graceful in all of her actions. we were talking on the phone but then came the sound of her tumbling out of bed followed by the clunk and the phone going dead. even falling out of bed drunk she's elegant. an absolute dream. a hand full but still not enough. I told natalia. "she's like the girl that takes boys behind the tree at recess and does things you're not supposed to" she is holy to me. K asked me why I had slept with so many girls when I was younger. "because I'm a whore" I replied. to which she bursted out with laughter then singing the chorus to an old familiar big black song. girls. girls and their meaning. but there's something to be said about a man that knows what girls like. how she wants it where and why , when, and for what reason. there's always gotta be a reason. yet we're all unreasonable. we all want everything to be perfect but yet we all want something different.
we noticed "mark" across the street had a girl with him. and he was wearing sunglasses for the first time. I guess that gig he has playing cello for van morrison finally paid off a little. or a lot just not at home at least. what do I know. she was talking about 1984. and the new speak. I mentioned my parody once again. we drank more cheap wine and tried to play music. her songs are all needing an orchestra. mine all needing a tavern.
jason awoke to a jovial crew. the wine having done its trick. they ordered pizza. we talked and waited for the pizza. Nalalia was talking about her choir and songs and arangements while waving her finger in the air pete came charging into the driveway putting two bright spot lights on natalia as she conducted the pretend orchestra in her head.
once the pizza arrived they turned on a television show on the computer. like the internet never was. next will come beer advertisements, super bowl games, and presidential elections. but anyways. the show went on...something about time travel and some bald guy running around a cemetery... all was fine and exciting until
wham.
a car crash.
6 friends dead, myself having survived 6 crashes myself. having seen dead bodies. broken bones and blood covered faces and here it was being used as a climatic scene in a generic broadcast tv show. ptsd is a bitch. it's like a parrot that only squawks when you don't want him to. like a chalk board that's only made for scratching.
television.
the scenery. the lighting. the sets. the costumes. the photography. all that's interesting I guess. but the story. the acting . the direction. it's always miscalculated in my view. too much at once. the actors never say their lines right. they never have the right punctuation. they don't stress the right words. they pause and blink too much. it's not real like it is in my head. when you read you're stopping yourself and giving yourself a moment to think. when you watch you're not thinking. you're reacting. it's like the difference between eating and being fed. to me that is.
every day I wake up feeling reminded by something of how tough I am. or how tough I have to be. most things unwanted. every direction exhausted. all avenues explored. every experience granted now charted and having now become ashed remains. most of the real magic in safe keeping. like a secret not worth telling because no one knows the story anyways. like a joke without a punchline. every step. every breath. every thought. all a thing unto itself.
