Sometimes it feels like everyone is out of the country. Everyone in the entire world. But it only rarely feels like this, and even more rarely when I realize it makes no sense. I have no idea how long it was like this; it seems like a month, but it was probably more like two weeks.
But today is a particular day, a day that remains vividly in my memory, the way a dream might right before you forget it. It is maybe 7 A.M., and it is June 4th, and I am arguing with myself over going to McDonalds to get breakfast. When I finally decide to go I take "Narrow Road to the Deep North" by Basho with me. When I arrive I left my wallet at home. I smoke a cigarette when I leave and one when I get back. At home, I read a few more Haikus and then write her a message on facebook. I was reading Basho for something to say. I include a few of his Haikus and mostly talk about movies and feelings and songs. Nothing of real importance.
Less than a month later we go out for coffee. We spoke about 8 cigarettes between us and talk for six hours, talk long after everyone has left and the place is closed and dark. We drive for a while, and we sing "Yankee Bayonet," The Crane Wife, the Decemberists. I sing the girl part and she sings the boy part. I spend most of the first verse convincing her to play along.
She invites me to a house-show on Saturday. All accounted for it goes horribly. The worse it goes the worse I feel, and the less I talk.
The messages slow but don't stop.
We see one another one other time besides this. I have mixed feelings about that night, I did then and I do now. I can't find any evidence outside of those messages that we were more than awkward acquaintances.
But in the messages we talked at length about anything, nothing. Mostly nothing. But I haven't talked to someone the say way since or before, but I haven't since felt as understood. Eventually I made an idiot out of myself. I pushed the shame away yesterday and reread it, and I am now as confused as I was then.
So I name her the one that got away. So, sorry, I lied in that poem.
I have had my one that got away, and it has been awful.
It is May, before Luis leaves the country. He makes it seem like he'll be gone for two weeks, but time stretches so curiously when you have nothing to do I don't remember it only being two weeks.
I still play World of Warcraft a lot, and after 3 years I don't think I'll really stop anytime soon, not stop for good.
We raid with
When Eric and I drive home we listen to Iron and Wine. He usually complains that I listen to the same CD too many times, but I've gotten away with listening to this one for about a week. I usually, while we aren't talking, switch to "Each Coming Night."
I listened to that song last Friday and it was nice again. I listened to that CD a lot more later in the summer, when I hated my job and never saw any friends. I listened to Songs for Dustmites a lot too.
It's 12P.M. and the sun is sitting up in the sky with a magnifying glass, burning all the little ants that run around planet Earth. When I go outside I gloss with sweat, almost instantly, as though it is a condition of the environment. When in water you are wet, when outside you are sweaty.
I light up a cigarette. Eric is asleep on the couch. The smoke burns my lungs like the air burns my skin. Birds sing or cough, I can't tell which. I have to close the door so quietly. Partially because Eric is still asleep and partially because I told him I quit a month ago. I don't think he believes me, but I'm always paranoid.
I should try and find a job. I should try and make plans. I should try and get to Kroger. I should try and quit smoking. I should try a lot of things, but I won't try anything. I'll try and finish this cigarette and keep my mind busy until Eric wakes up. He can be a pain, but mostly he's okay, and now he's the only friend I have really. Soon, I'll leave him in my apartment and move home for a month to work before school starts. I should get better used to this type of living.
Some nights Don comes over. Some nights we order pizza. Some nights I find a good reason to sneak away for a smoke. I usually "go for a walk" right before bed. I miss this a lot. Just having my own place, just being there, sleeping there, smoking there, reading there. Now, those days feel so far behind me it's unnerving. It grates at me, and I wonder how far I am behind newer times, in a new apartment, with newer friends. And I can live there and eat there and smoke there and drink there and smile there and frown there.
And lay on the floor with some pretty little black haired someone and drink $15 worth of rum and cokes. We can listen to Songs for Dustmites, because it's one of the best love songs I've ever heard. It's my favorite.
I've been trying to find a reason to feel sad about all these things I know I should and want to feel sad about. I've been trying to find a reason that this year hasn't been good. Even though I know with my insides it hasn't been so good, I can't name one reason why. I couldn't tell you if forced why I know (but don't feel) like this year has been awful and this summer with be awful.
But I don't want to end on a downer, because against all odds I have hope. I couldn't begin to describe why, I don't know myself, but something tugs at my eyebrows and whispers in my ears. It won't be all bad, it won't.
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