They giggle in the corners, spy from behind the vents, munch on the underside of my scabs and dance past my periphery.
November 14, 2005
I’m sitting in the middle of Union Square. I think I just finished my journal to Robert. I hope it does the rest of the letter justice. I don’t know maybe I will add more later. This young kid in a green shirt just sat next to me, he started water coloring. Water coloring. Like nothing. So I felt inspired to start writing again. Not even the Asian guy in black lighting match after match and blowing one out and letting them drop to the ground in some sort of silent protest, I’m guessing for how many soldiers have died in the war, inspired me. But what is the difference? Now I am writing and the sad thing is I feel that if I don’t write to Robert or about him I might not be able to continue. Is this what my writing has come to? A fore lorn man who only wants to reunite with his lost love? Blah blah blah. I refuse to let that happen. What else can I write about? Matches lit, blown out, dropped to the ground and I sit here staining with ink my own feeble attempt at meaning, something, and the twink to my right paints with water and confirms meetings with his mother and the baby girl in pin stripped pants and red hoody runs around Union Square, excited, curious, honest like I used to be. The Indian couple to my left reminisces of times only as old as yesterday and with ahs and oohs relive what the digital camera says they don’t have to use their minds or hearts to remember. And people crowd around wondering what the matches mean and still the Asian man in black lights, blows and drops and they all know better than me his quest despite the fact that I have watched him the longest. And my ass is sore, my stomach hurts and my fingers are callus with a lust for music and creativity. But still I wont get up to see what the matches burn for or burn out for. And now I draw.
Its been a week since I’ve returned from the beautiful land of San Francisco and I still haven’t unpacked all of the stuff I brought back with me. This stuff, my life in pictures, books, clothing, music and journals, and it all fit in the back seat of a Scion xa. Now its in the bedroom looming against a wall daring me to find room for it all in an already crowded apartment, and tempting me ever so subtly, to take a look. I’ve avoided it, not only because rearranging this apartment doesn’t sound like fun but also because I left that stuff behind specifically to get away from it.
When I fled San Francisco in June, I had only as much clothes as I could take with me, one book and one newly broken in journal. Everything else I organized neatly underneath a staircase, in the cold garage of a very pink house in the Sunset distract. I just didn’t want that stuff around, distracting me from a boyfriend I’d hurt time and again by fleeing to other worlds both real and imagined. I just wanted to be with him, free from… me. And I know its just stuff, but it has an energy all its own and a good six hundred miles and seven months was I hope distance and time enough for this forced catharsis to ensue. Did it?
Even now at the computer I feel its presence, beckoning me. Rifle through these photos. Tear the newspaper off that Art. Read that old writing. I want to, I do, I even want to post some old stuff on here, but I get this feeling in my stomach when I think of it, like I’m meeting up for coffee with an ex who wants closure… oh God.
I’m and old romantic I know, and flirting with ghosts of the past is one of my favorite pass times. But it seems all these entities do is bitch about shit that doesn’t really matter anymore and I don’t really feel like doing that. I’m having a good time just chillin with the present anyway. I think soon enough here, I’ll even be ready to see what the future has been hiding from me this whole time.
And when I do finally get to this stuff, I hope that that’s all it will be.