It’s rainy today and I think it must be sunny in California. Blue skies stretching out across a limitless horizon. Driving in a white jeep, music buried under the sound of freeway wind but for the drums. His hand on the steering wheel, how the fur on his wrist was nothing like mine. We would leave our hand on the others leg, old fashioned touch of appreciation. I’m wondering what’s going to happen today. Who I’ll see, who I’ll talk to, how the interaction dances will play out. I went to dinner last night with James and he explained his theory of why there’s more disturbed people down south. “The lesser crazies are scared of the guns.”
Oh, for a bit of architecture, this place with it’s several parts. Small town listlessness, I’m not under the spell. This city still does not feel like home. Remembering where everything is does not justify staying, but only the opposite. It’s not comfortable, it’s more of a trap. It wants to skin me for my pelt, take my hair and pull my head back, a knife of pleasantries drawn across my throat to catch the intelligence which spills forth. I woke up this morning to my clock radio playing Walking In Memphis. Strata of living in Toronto when I was a kid slowly opened my eyes and I looked at the time uncomprehendingly. I was too big suddenly, too tall for the bed. Where was this place and where were my parents? I was tiny and just learning how to read. I walked in spurts, falling down all the time. My parents scraped the sky.