It’s a mopey Friday on this side of the world. The kind to curl up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of cocoa, This Year’s Love crooning behind your ears without even pressing play. Flashes from last night make me smile. The red wristband from the concert is going to need scissors to be taken off, that's how tight the security wrapped it. Only one band member got naked this time. Or maybe fishnet overalls don’t count as naked. The rest were dressed like priests. Another gorgeous night of belonging and being out of place. Of removedly admiring being taken care of, and looked after, and reciprocating. Friends, opiates, music aligned perfect and melancholy because unnarrated upon coming home to an empty bed.
It’s a mopey Friday on this side of the world, and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I head out for a walk. I have been striating my neighborhood into perfect routes. I could tell you the exact streets I need to take for a fifteen-minute, thirty-minute, and hour’s walk. It wants to rain out there, but it doesn’t. It is chilly, but I warm up fast, and even break a sweat in this late September noon. I take pictures of underpass graffiti. I have been having bad dreams lately.
It’s a mopey Friday over here, and I run the bath as hot as it will go. The optics of my skin seemingly breaking underneath the surface amuses me, and I watch the bubbles of air cling to my thighs, then close my eyes and feel the droplets of water slide down my shoulders. They meet in the middle. I arrange my body into a zig-zaggy bend, not unlike Marat’s though far less dramatic, where I can just breathe and feel the hot vapors wrap themselves around me. David Gray has been replaced by Take This Longing… because everything depends upon how near you sleep to me. It does really, doesn’t it. I think I will fall asleep before sunrise tonight.
It’s a mopey Friday and I have spent the day in perfect silence. The cinematic reel in my mind’s eye runs faster than the music that’s been playing in my head, a dream/caricature 16 fps of highways and libraries, airplanes and seasons, passion and suspension. Story of my life. Search and wait. Wait and search. Create magic inbetween. Trade silence for a precious howl, without pressing play.