A series of cracks in memory lane.
Today, after wandering past famed director Rian Johnson and famed semi-useless lump Lindsey Lohan in relatively quick succession, I ran into an old friend. An old friend with a cackling sort of laugh, and a mouth full of yellowed teeth. I’ve known him for most of my life. And yet, standing there in the hallowed space of the Arclight entrance, under the knowing expanse of the big movie board: he scared me, a little.
His presence, and his grin.
It makes me think, if only for a moment. Which is just as well, I suppose. Moments are all that I ever seem to have time for, these days. So! Right then: I’ll take that thought, I’ll take that moment, I’ll take what I can, and see where it lets me go.
It seems, that as a person, I can never quite handle the past. My past, I mean. My memories of days gone by seem to fall out of my head like flakes of skin taking their leave of the body; layer by layer, I build them up, and layer by layer, they’re lost to the air. Persons places things, all those nouns that combine to form the elements of a life. Gone.
Replaced by meaningless trivia and odd, dangling things, such as words that are beautiful in their specificity. Case in point:
sup·pu·rate: verb - to produce or discharge pus
See what I‘m talking about?
See how grand that is? That word, that simple bloody word which serves no other purpose than to describe the status of pustules and sores, or open wounds from motorcycle accidents that are advancing in a stage towards healing. These are the things I remember. The things that none care about, not even I. Except I do, I do care. I care about the silliest of things that fill my empty mind.
On this very same day, I came across yet another remnant, yet another person from the past. A person that was a friend, while all the while not quite being a friend at all. He was the lover, the love, the person for that friend of mine. That one friend in particular.
The one who I remember.
I remember this fellow, too. The things that happened in his wake, the things that came about. The places that he supposedly went. I’d often wondered what had happened in the end. If only because he never gave back my copy of The Dark Knight Returns. Ashes to ashes, whatever that means. I was surprised. I was confused.
I didn’t know what I should say.
If there was anything to be said, anyway. Because c’mon…we weren’t really friends. He would give me discounts on my cup of coffee as an act of civil recognition, an act pointed more towards his special lovely than anything really having to do with me. I was her friend, and he chose to respect that. That, and he was nice. He still is.
I can hope that he always will be.
But I won’t…I won’t know. Because I’ll let this encounter drift, just like so many other things. Just like all those people from my past, the ones that others choose to keep in their spectrum, learning about their lives, the things that they’ve been doing, the people that they’ve chosen to kiss. My old, cackle-mouthed friend, he spoke of people whose names I had nearly forgotten, whose time might as well have stood still. My younger, not-quite-designated-an-acquaintance friend, he told me of the things that he’d been doing, the places that he hoped he might reach.
If I could just tell you what they were…
de·fen·es·trate: tr. verb - to throw out of a window.
There they go, there they go, there they go.
Out of the window, out of my world.
Out of the places that I can understand.
After all that, I went for a walk, through that shithole of a town that has slowly endeared itself to me through its gleeful tolerance of madness. So I walked through the madness, and I found a group of the mad. A sprawling, singing, drinking, laughing carpet of people, waiting for amusement in the waning light of day.
Together, they were.
All of them together, old and new friends, coming there to make a memory. Hardly caring about the weekly event that was scheduled to take place, not even noticing the monoliths of stone that surrounded the single oasis of this location, locking us in, trapping us within a wall of the things that have been done, and days that have since ended. So happy, they all were. Together. No singular person, no one fellow looking out over that bunching of banditry, looking for another to summon close and call companion. Except of course, there was indeed one. One person.
It didn’t take long before I walked away.
To do the things that I do, to think the things that I try to think. To be afraid of the things that frighten me, clawing out from the corners of sight, in such a narrow field of vision that I can’t quite make them out. I ate ramen, in the corner.
It was pretty good. Way of the world.
There hasn’t been much thought in my narrow head of late, and if I were being honest, I’d say that there aren’t very many thoughts on this page.
But there are facts, of sorts. There are useless things.
And there are words. One by one, brick by brick, layer by layer. Perhaps, that's enough for I myself to remember them.
And if I'm lucky -- if I'm so, so lucky -- I could call them a memory, someday.
His presence, and his grin.
It makes me think, if only for a moment. Which is just as well, I suppose. Moments are all that I ever seem to have time for, these days. So! Right then: I’ll take that thought, I’ll take that moment, I’ll take what I can, and see where it lets me go.
It seems, that as a person, I can never quite handle the past. My past, I mean. My memories of days gone by seem to fall out of my head like flakes of skin taking their leave of the body; layer by layer, I build them up, and layer by layer, they’re lost to the air. Persons places things, all those nouns that combine to form the elements of a life. Gone.
Replaced by meaningless trivia and odd, dangling things, such as words that are beautiful in their specificity. Case in point:
sup·pu·rate: verb - to produce or discharge pus
See what I‘m talking about?
See how grand that is? That word, that simple bloody word which serves no other purpose than to describe the status of pustules and sores, or open wounds from motorcycle accidents that are advancing in a stage towards healing. These are the things I remember. The things that none care about, not even I. Except I do, I do care. I care about the silliest of things that fill my empty mind.
On this very same day, I came across yet another remnant, yet another person from the past. A person that was a friend, while all the while not quite being a friend at all. He was the lover, the love, the person for that friend of mine. That one friend in particular.
The one who I remember.
I remember this fellow, too. The things that happened in his wake, the things that came about. The places that he supposedly went. I’d often wondered what had happened in the end. If only because he never gave back my copy of The Dark Knight Returns. Ashes to ashes, whatever that means. I was surprised. I was confused.
I didn’t know what I should say.
If there was anything to be said, anyway. Because c’mon…we weren’t really friends. He would give me discounts on my cup of coffee as an act of civil recognition, an act pointed more towards his special lovely than anything really having to do with me. I was her friend, and he chose to respect that. That, and he was nice. He still is.
I can hope that he always will be.
But I won’t…I won’t know. Because I’ll let this encounter drift, just like so many other things. Just like all those people from my past, the ones that others choose to keep in their spectrum, learning about their lives, the things that they’ve been doing, the people that they’ve chosen to kiss. My old, cackle-mouthed friend, he spoke of people whose names I had nearly forgotten, whose time might as well have stood still. My younger, not-quite-designated-an-acquaintance friend, he told me of the things that he’d been doing, the places that he hoped he might reach.
If I could just tell you what they were…
de·fen·es·trate: tr. verb - to throw out of a window.
There they go, there they go, there they go.
Out of the window, out of my world.
Out of the places that I can understand.
After all that, I went for a walk, through that shithole of a town that has slowly endeared itself to me through its gleeful tolerance of madness. So I walked through the madness, and I found a group of the mad. A sprawling, singing, drinking, laughing carpet of people, waiting for amusement in the waning light of day.
Together, they were.
All of them together, old and new friends, coming there to make a memory. Hardly caring about the weekly event that was scheduled to take place, not even noticing the monoliths of stone that surrounded the single oasis of this location, locking us in, trapping us within a wall of the things that have been done, and days that have since ended. So happy, they all were. Together. No singular person, no one fellow looking out over that bunching of banditry, looking for another to summon close and call companion. Except of course, there was indeed one. One person.
It didn’t take long before I walked away.
To do the things that I do, to think the things that I try to think. To be afraid of the things that frighten me, clawing out from the corners of sight, in such a narrow field of vision that I can’t quite make them out. I ate ramen, in the corner.
It was pretty good. Way of the world.
There hasn’t been much thought in my narrow head of late, and if I were being honest, I’d say that there aren’t very many thoughts on this page.
But there are facts, of sorts. There are useless things.
And there are words. One by one, brick by brick, layer by layer. Perhaps, that's enough for I myself to remember them.
And if I'm lucky -- if I'm so, so lucky -- I could call them a memory, someday.
posted by Your friend, the fool at 3:35 PM
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