January 19, 2017

Down And Out.

It's been 70 degrees all week. I've felt a slow displacement. It's January, but the seasons are meaningless now. Donald Trump will be Inaugurated tomorrow. The word "surreal" was the most Googled word the day after the election. It's true. None of it feels real. Not the weather, not the world.

The past week has been weird. I have too much time on my hands. But I can see my new life unfolding before me: phantasmagorical and hazy. I always wanted a Hunter S. Thompson year, and I think I've woken up into it. 

On Monday night, Grant and I walked through Cabbage Town. Drank whiskey neat at Carroll Street Cafe, followed the moon around and around. At midnight we hurled ourselves into my twin bed. His long body hardly fit. I looked over in the morning and he'd slept with one foot on the floor. In the daylight he asked me to cut his hair, so we dragged my only chair and a long mirror out the front door. I wore jean cut-offs and muddy moccasins, felt tangly and vacant. He looked so handsome I could hardly look at him. Red towel draped around his bare neck, barefoot, long cigarette dangling from his crooked mouth. I was happy just to sweep up after him. Marveling at his wet, brown hair mingled with the dust and leaves of the porch. 

On Tuesday night I walked to Trackside with Jay. We drank Guinness and I listed every flaw in me that I could think of: happy to be honest. Happy to be a rat. 

Today was 2pm gin and limes, heavy Mexican food on a humid back-patio, the ceiling fans turned off. Shrieking with laughter when I dropped a cigarette on the pair of jeans I haven't washed in weeks. We got sweet coffee and sage sourdough at the Mexican bakery. We listened to half of "When The Levee Breaks."

Erin drove me home and I could see it -- this year of my life in one long stretch of potholed road. All sweat and sex and longing. All ashtray beer and cigarettes. Learning to cook late at night. Long runs in the middle of the day. The weekend farmer's market, ordering Palo Santos off the Internet, driving to Tennessee, reading alone on the lawn of the women's college.

No money, but I'm scrappy.  No car, but I've got long legs. No plan, but I don't want one.