Day: November 2, 2004

Sweet world, with it’s inconsistencies between reality and observation – I love thee like a classical quintet at a birthday party. Like the dark kitchen lit by the cake, full to the wooden rafters with humming people. Like they all love you, that’s why they’re here. Let them sing the song and be filled to the brim with their silly off-key trilling music. Someone will always be attempting to harmonize, maybe this time they’ll succeed.

This time, the cupboards are painted dark blue with white handles.

Standing in line at the grocery store with Alastair seems unreal somehow. My mind is so used to having Mine away that when they’re here, it’s like an artificially constructed ghost. I’m certain if I touch him, my hand will pass right through him without any resistance. Leaving ripples across his face or not even that. Like he wouldn’t even notice. My mental hard-drive is going to run out of time here, by the time I’ve encompassed what’s truth, he’ll be gone.

Tonight we’re spending at his place. The yuppie picket fence condo across from the park. The view from the upstairs window is like a tourist postcard named “trees aflame”. I’m sure by the time he’s done with it, there will be at least one framed poster on the wall and a black piece of furniture. One day he’ll come home to find I’ve done his fridge in some horrible fun fur fabric. I expect to be a slightly less generic influence. Young Man With Tech Gear Like Turntables plus Oddball Girlchild With Strange Aesthetic should be a good mix.

Off to movies, champagne, cheesecake, and Dominique.

Today my boy gets the keys to his place. There may be some cleaning involved, but his box he bought is now His. Today he’ll be moving things from storage likely all day. It’s only my dues to help. I don’t have to care about the weight of boxes, I only have to haul. Lift like this, nothing can keep me away.

The landlord came far too early this morning, softly knocking. The professionally polite knock knock flashing me back a moment to living in hotels. How hotel time never changes. No matter where you are in the world, there is always that brass lamp on the side table and the feeling that you’re only there in stasis. Spooling until the next location event collision – a reason to leave. Fluctuations are the bathroom amenities, what comes free in the minifridge. Check the lock before you go to bed, turn the knob, depress the buttons. Don’t get trapped out shuffling for ice in the middle of your foreign TV movie of the week. Something haunted in the always empty hallways, corridors with soulless carpet and little signs gleaming in yellow lamp light. Your room is numbered like everyone else’s. Even inside you can feel it. Anonymous places always and forever. You may try to scatter your things around: laptop on the table by the window, a towel thrown over the back of a chair. It never works. You fall again into the everyroom void, conquered by the carefully chosen plants, the gideon bible in the drawer you would never have at home. A space too obviously designed by someone in a brown power suit.

Yesterday the stones finally rained on the the studio from heaven. Icarus falling. They have been given their three month notice. I’ve never been in a more beautiful place, perhaps, then standing in the burned out half of that old building in the mellow light of an oncoming electrical storm. It’s been hit by lightning so many times you can taste it over the blasted pigeons. The feathered corpses were everywhere. They flew in circling flocks as we stood inside, shush shush shush. Hundreds of them, framing us among the blackened wood beams that no-one has dared to walk across and the once dripping twisted metal. A tree grew from the basement to brush the sky slightly above the remains of the second floor. Rusty orange razorwire, rooms that looked untouched. I kissed my lover for the second time there, open to the sky, to the flashing crackle of the storm. The whole world encased in gorgeous decay.