3.5.2001Non-Fiction

I went not knowing what to expect. Two overindulgent twenty-somethings with a cello and a saxophone, tearing clumsily at the worn instruments of sound? No. Two men, grown weary with time. Two men with the instruments of their pasts at their fingers and lips. Making sounds I had never before concieved of. I met a young man named Sam at the counter, and he was kind, but left when I asked for some tea.
I grasped my mug and settled onto a loveseat, breathing in the spiced steam. Then they took us by surprise, noise like God was crushing the universe. Four college students with computers and electric machines and everything else. Our bones were crushed by the sound, and we were lulled into dreams. I lost myself there.
When the eruption ended and I was brought back into the room, I stood up and returned my mug to the cafe window. I walked out into the wind (for it is a windy night!) and climbed the broken concrete path towards the parking lot. On my way, a young man began to speak to me. Hello, did you like the show? Yes, it was interesting, and so on for a bit. And later on in the conversation, I asked him his name. "Sam". Ah, plethora of Sams! Once we reached the parking lot, we parted, wishing each other good luck... in what, I do not know, but it is always important to wish someone good luck. So it was. I drove home, in wonder from the mind-crushing noise and co-incidence of Sam and Sam. I walked in the front door, and I was hit by a great sense of familiarity. The smell of garlic and the inevitable empty quality of posessions. This is the end of the story.

1.20.01. Fiction.

He traced along my jawline with his finger as he told me of India. His Southern California drawl emphasized the last word of every sentence, his green eyes watching his delicate tracery. He grabbed for my ear, and caught it, rubbing the delicate pressure points on the lobe.
I asked him what he thought about Merry. She was always a troublesome girl, and I never knew what to make of her. She was slow, and didn't understand social graces, but she always knocked on our door before the sun went down on Friday, asking to join us for Sabbath. Usually we would let her in and eat with us, but tonight was special, and I didn't want anything to ruin my plans.
He responded that he didn't mind her so much, though she so often strode up unannounced. She had a sweet demeanor, and he didn't like to hurt people who meant no harm. Her lonliness troubled him but, he supposed, there was nothing he could do.
He leant down over the bed and kissed my eyebrow softly. I sighed. I looked at him, remembering why I loved him, and then reached out to stroke his hand.
I suppose it will all work out in the end, I said.

I am 17 years old. I am listening to an mp3 of the Dandy Warhols. I am reading voyeuristic quasi-fiction by ex punk rockers, who are daydreaming of the good old days, those days when the furniture in their apartemnt was made of plastic crates and cinder blocks. Apparantly I missed out on the best days they ever had. Because in the year 2000 it is nothing like that. Everyone manages to live the good life, and its okay. Every Day Should Be A Holiday. There is no one to talk to in this room, in this household. Every string is out of tune, and I cannot practice.

I spent the day participating in that great American tradition: holiday shopping. I waited in lines longer than I had imahined possible. I bought useless items, and am preparing to foist them upon unsuspecting individuals. Colorful socks and cloth-covered notebooks. 12-inch singles on virgin vinyl, the softest blanket. They all wait in my closet, wrapped in last weeks comics. But the holidays have lost their magic. There is no anticipatory glee crawling under every inch of my skin, only the comfort of being able to sleep in for a few weeks. I guess this is what it means to become an adult.

Tomorrow will hopefully be spent in a rented darkroom, cursing at chemicals and painstakingly cutting paper without getting it covered in developer fingerprints. Dizzy from inhaling the chemicals, I will slowly drive home (holiday traffic). Perhaps something good will come out of tomorrow. Something better than today.

There is nothing like a homemade zine. The toner wears off on your fingers, and edges of the pages are mismatched under the stapler's lazy grip. There is nothing I am more sick of than zines. The one homemade magazine I love is Cometbuus (but who doesn't). That one, however, is impossible to find. I picked up a fairly new zine today. It was its third issue. To clarify, the second printing of the third issue. Its topic was depression. The introduction at the beginning of the issue implied that it meant to educate about depression, and help people. I read about three pages in, and became extremely unhappy. I put the little folded paper book down... okay well I threw it at the wall. It was not a very good thing to read when lonely and tired.

Depression is when I am bored but don't want to do anything. When I walk out of my room, talk to my sister or someone, make them laugh, and laugh hysterically at myself. Then I go back into my room and cry. That is what happens when I am not in a good mood. Try not to care too much. Depression is when I lie on my bed and stare blankly at nothing. And I feel nothing, excpet an occasional tinge of restlessness.

But I digress.

If you have read to this point, you have some reason. I am not certain what that reason could be... but that is okay. We all have our secrets.

Some are just harder to tell.