happenstance

It is hot, it is hot and it is dry. I can’t remember if I got here on a plane or if I had a car. I’m telling A:

—yeah I drove down here in a car,

she says

—with WHO

and I tell her again she’s like

—you gotta be fuckin kidding me

and I’m sitting there telling her

—no, I’m back on my shit. We’ve “got our fucked up thing going on”

Not the direction I want the conversation to lead but the conversation: it is here. My stupid fucking brain is lost in the stupid fucking idea that (circles): I can’t get out of the idea that: I’m here on my own that: that’s the only thing that’s ever been “here for me on my own”. She looks at me because she can see the future, more: she knows. She knows better than I ever will (at/in that god-awful-present) that I am throwing myself into a hole.

When I think about all the different holes and all the shovels and how dull they’ve become with tha constant use (destruction), it’s a stupid pattern. Stupid like a motherfuckin 2 or a number called the hausdorff dimension. Stupid like the shovel that is: Imagining I’d Like to Waste Any of My Time on That.

It is digging and digging with the platinum until

It is stupid like having sex to music.

A Number Called the Hausdorff Dimension

We’re holding on tight to the steering wheel: arms pinned out straight in front of us and we’re freaking each other out both feeding into the mania (that’s a whole lot of fun) that is the more default *unregulated way of us walking down the street. We’re there with our arms pinned out trying not to hit the gas, trying to drift our way into the gas station, somewhere: Eagle Rock?

Driving down (north) to the, to the fuckin Ralph’s. When’s the last time you been to, the-fuckin-Ralph’s.

On NYDrive. The east side coming home and Arden, windows down, the illusion of I don’t know: those sunglasses (fell of your face onto the floor of Vallejo Costco). Oye Cómo Va, hand patting (palm to the) hot dirty hot dirty car dirt door.

It’s important I look back on this with a little bit of anger. A little’ bit’ of anger’.

So I can sit here in the perfect place I’m in and feel good. Not feel bad about feeling good. Not worry too much about it either. I’ll just sit here in my perfect place and tell myself this sort of “delusion that everything is going to work out” is different from the rest of times. (It was the rest of times, it was the rest of times.)

This for me is Driving Up Mar Vista and Screaming Fantastic Cat Straight Into Either a Honda or Toyota Symbol (the one on the steering wheel (horn)). And now that’s done so we can get to the sweet center part.

Happenstance

Center core of fruit, what I really make in my hands. I’m freaking out so bad I’m itching and I’ve got to get this out. Feel it real on a piece of paper (MacBook).

How one thing it’s January and I’m sitting under the door and it’s pouring rain and I’m holding a slice of combo pizza in my hand, big talking about how sad I am to be home. Next it’s March, I don’t know, two years later and I’m standing new, whole, spinning in circles, and I’m pulled back by my own hand until somehow it’s: I don’t know when I first started putting things in, July. July, earliest July that same year. Maybe August. At the earliest July, at the latest August. And I’m out. Feeling

I’ve gotten pretty good about just walking up to the edge of the pool where the concrete curls up and cracks. Maybe looking down in, sticking my foot in: to play around with that old feeling of emptiness.

It’s when I’m standing in a room with all these new people faces some of the sweet you used to hear about. Like when we’re sitting in the Honda/Toyota. Or when we’re walking up the hills or moving boxes around.

When I’d be sitting there: hair unwashed purple pom-poms. Or crashing into the Prius.

Sitting there on the hot patio on the bench chair with probably a smoothie and something awful: thirty dollars, on the phone in tears in a place burn-ed down about how I want to be home. Yeah moving to Paris, on that shit.

How it was to sit in the driveway with two drinks for one more last time. In the car in the driveway covered in sap.

Here I am: place I used to live. A barista is an evil thing.

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