Read the previous post, and consider this:
If you like Tequila, don't date someone else who likes Tequila, because that's Trouble-Capital-T. If you don't like Rum or Vodka, don't date someone who likes Rum or Vodka because you won't get along. If you enjoy Scotch, be warned that two Scotches are more expensive than one. If you like Whiskey, enjoy the opportunity to date someone else who likes Whiskey. Expect hardships.
Someone who likes Gin is someone who doesn't like anything else. Bourbon drinkers are Scotch drinkers with less attitude, and less taste. Cordial sippers be damned.
Don't get me started on wine or beer. Different beasts, different posts, different day.
Friday
A Bartender's Personal Dating Recipes, & A Hard Lesson Learned
For a long time now, I've compared my love life to Rob Gordon's, the signature audiophile and hero of High Fidelity. For all I know I've already drawn the comparisons somewhere here on SOMETHING ELSE, but, regardless--
In the screenplay and subsequent movie, Rob has five significant relationships. He describes these, in detail to the audience, in a list-making idiom that is a predominate facet of his character. Highlight-style:
Girlfriend #1: First Kiss. Middle school, or something. The girl leaves him for another boy within the afternoon - these two eventually get married, so Rob decides to let it go.
Girlfriend #2: Prom Date, essentially, but they stay serious for some time. Rob breaks up with her because she isn't ready to sleep with him. With their demise, she sleeps with somebody else.
Girlfriend #3: Charlie. Hot Mess. The tenacious free spirit that a lot of guys are after, but can never seem to have to themselves. She leaves him in a rain-soaked affair that is full of drama ("Lo-Fi", you might say).
Girlfriend #4: Big Mess. The relationship between the two is that there is no relationship. Both parties find companionship in getting over exes. They are "In-Betweeners." She eventually finds a better fit, leaving Rob alone and flabbergasted, for what it's worth.
Girlfriend #5: The One. Rob spends most of the movie figuring out that he needs to shape up in order to keep Laura in his life.
So, I compare my love life to this. Girlfriend One was Puppy Love, and while the relationship lasted for a very long time, we were only in high school at the time and it was a small town, besides. That girl is enlisted now and married, and I don't know if we'd still understand each other like we thought we did then. In an appropriately ironic twist I lost it to Girlfriend Two, but our relationship existed in a dimension that was appropriate maybe for college or young adulthood, and certainly not a practical fit (read: long distance. A mistake many inexperienced lovers make). Girlfriend Three was the Charlie. Funny story how she and T. partied it up one night in Asbury, I'll be sure to put it up here when I need an anecdote to fill in a bland session. My only discrepancy is that She keeps popping up in my life, here and there; I'm stuck a Pip to his Stella, wondering if my big-azz book is going to end the same way that I Expected that one to end... ...(and here's a deep bit of personal philosophy: because, while we want exciting things to end this way, there's always an important reason why they don't, and that's what we learn the most from)
Girlfriend Four was without a doubt an In-Between. We both fit together because we didn't fit anywhere else, and we needed each others' company. I'm embarrassed to admit that I stumbled onto my Fidelity Epiphany while we were seeing each other (two years, mind you); I made the mistake of telling her about it, and lied about which girl she was. I think she knew. I have a box of Newport 100s, her brand of choice, in my locker at work right now because they are the only cigarettes that I really like. Nevermind that I honestly can't stand them.
Which makes Verano Girlfriend Number Five.
Now, I detail these personal affects because I am not a list-making audiophile who was invented up by Nicholas Hornby, but rather I a humble bartender with a tendency to think in comparisons. On the (return) bikeride home tonight --first unscheduled Friday I've had in Gods know how long-- I realized that each of these five significant others have different Spirit preferences.
Which is to say that: Girlfriend #1 drank Vodka. Last I checked, anyhow, and we were years beyond each other by then. It was probably the last phone conversation I had with her, in fact, before she was deployed to Afghanistan. Girlfriend #2 didn't drink. Girlfriend #3 drank Vodka, most certainly, and would be listed as my predominate Vodka drinker should one inquire. Girlfriend #4 drank Tequila. Verano prefers Scotch.
There have been two other significant women in my life. Mad Dame fits somewhere between #s 2 & 4 and drank Rum; Katharine drank Whiskey by the bootload, and is mostly mentioned here as an example, but it would be nice to have her stumble unexpectedly into the restaurant. The point is that these women, who have had different but very strong effects on my person, can be attributed to the quality of their associated liquor. I have nearly a fully-stocked bar for my troubles. It's a spectrum thing. What I'm further getting at is I that I have yet to meet a Gin drinker, a Bourbon drinker, and a Cordial sipper (Gods save me if I ever meet any of them), and is this a proper way to judge relationships, besides? It makes an odd kind of sense to me, at least.
Does anybody else reconcile the relationships of his/her deep and innate psyche with appropriate job/life-maintaining metaphors? If you're in construction have you dated a backhoe, bulldozer and dumptruck? I'm just wondering.
As for a hard lesson learned, I may be out $500 because I didn't read the fine print. Always look over you lease carefully, kiddies!
In the screenplay and subsequent movie, Rob has five significant relationships. He describes these, in detail to the audience, in a list-making idiom that is a predominate facet of his character. Highlight-style:
Girlfriend #1: First Kiss. Middle school, or something. The girl leaves him for another boy within the afternoon - these two eventually get married, so Rob decides to let it go.
Girlfriend #2: Prom Date, essentially, but they stay serious for some time. Rob breaks up with her because she isn't ready to sleep with him. With their demise, she sleeps with somebody else.
Girlfriend #3: Charlie. Hot Mess. The tenacious free spirit that a lot of guys are after, but can never seem to have to themselves. She leaves him in a rain-soaked affair that is full of drama ("Lo-Fi", you might say).
Girlfriend #4: Big Mess. The relationship between the two is that there is no relationship. Both parties find companionship in getting over exes. They are "In-Betweeners." She eventually finds a better fit, leaving Rob alone and flabbergasted, for what it's worth.
Girlfriend #5: The One. Rob spends most of the movie figuring out that he needs to shape up in order to keep Laura in his life.
So, I compare my love life to this. Girlfriend One was Puppy Love, and while the relationship lasted for a very long time, we were only in high school at the time and it was a small town, besides. That girl is enlisted now and married, and I don't know if we'd still understand each other like we thought we did then. In an appropriately ironic twist I lost it to Girlfriend Two, but our relationship existed in a dimension that was appropriate maybe for college or young adulthood, and certainly not a practical fit (read: long distance. A mistake many inexperienced lovers make). Girlfriend Three was the Charlie. Funny story how she and T. partied it up one night in Asbury, I'll be sure to put it up here when I need an anecdote to fill in a bland session. My only discrepancy is that She keeps popping up in my life, here and there; I'm stuck a Pip to his Stella, wondering if my big-azz book is going to end the same way that I Expected that one to end... ...(and here's a deep bit of personal philosophy: because, while we want exciting things to end this way, there's always an important reason why they don't, and that's what we learn the most from)
Girlfriend Four was without a doubt an In-Between. We both fit together because we didn't fit anywhere else, and we needed each others' company. I'm embarrassed to admit that I stumbled onto my Fidelity Epiphany while we were seeing each other (two years, mind you); I made the mistake of telling her about it, and lied about which girl she was. I think she knew. I have a box of Newport 100s, her brand of choice, in my locker at work right now because they are the only cigarettes that I really like. Nevermind that I honestly can't stand them.
Which makes Verano Girlfriend Number Five.
Now, I detail these personal affects because I am not a list-making audiophile who was invented up by Nicholas Hornby, but rather I a humble bartender with a tendency to think in comparisons. On the (return) bikeride home tonight --first unscheduled Friday I've had in Gods know how long-- I realized that each of these five significant others have different Spirit preferences.
Which is to say that: Girlfriend #1 drank Vodka. Last I checked, anyhow, and we were years beyond each other by then. It was probably the last phone conversation I had with her, in fact, before she was deployed to Afghanistan. Girlfriend #2 didn't drink. Girlfriend #3 drank Vodka, most certainly, and would be listed as my predominate Vodka drinker should one inquire. Girlfriend #4 drank Tequila. Verano prefers Scotch.
There have been two other significant women in my life. Mad Dame fits somewhere between #s 2 & 4 and drank Rum; Katharine drank Whiskey by the bootload, and is mostly mentioned here as an example, but it would be nice to have her stumble unexpectedly into the restaurant. The point is that these women, who have had different but very strong effects on my person, can be attributed to the quality of their associated liquor. I have nearly a fully-stocked bar for my troubles. It's a spectrum thing. What I'm further getting at is I that I have yet to meet a Gin drinker, a Bourbon drinker, and a Cordial sipper (Gods save me if I ever meet any of them), and is this a proper way to judge relationships, besides? It makes an odd kind of sense to me, at least.
Does anybody else reconcile the relationships of his/her deep and innate psyche with appropriate job/life-maintaining metaphors? If you're in construction have you dated a backhoe, bulldozer and dumptruck? I'm just wondering.
As for a hard lesson learned, I may be out $500 because I didn't read the fine print. Always look over you lease carefully, kiddies!
Thursday
Gershwin on the Edge of a Major Breakthrough
Preludes (3) for Piano.
I'm not a great big Gershwin fan, but I'm pretty familiar with that one song he did. Upstairs getting dressed for work when Preludes comes on the computer downstairs, on Pandora...I've never heard it before, but I recognize bits out of the melody. "This has to be him."
It isn't George on the recording, though. It's another pianist playing Gershwin's music. Funny how a bit of one noted soul can filter through the tuned fingertips of someone else. I'm not particularly religious, but I do think that there are fewer souls than there have been human beings, and that a soul just flits around, like a fly, looking for a place to rest for a while.
I'm not a great big Gershwin fan, but I'm pretty familiar with that one song he did. Upstairs getting dressed for work when Preludes comes on the computer downstairs, on Pandora...I've never heard it before, but I recognize bits out of the melody. "This has to be him."
It isn't George on the recording, though. It's another pianist playing Gershwin's music. Funny how a bit of one noted soul can filter through the tuned fingertips of someone else. I'm not particularly religious, but I do think that there are fewer souls than there have been human beings, and that a soul just flits around, like a fly, looking for a place to rest for a while.
How Soon Is Now?
Wow.
Eyes open. Alarm off. It alternates between a rinky-tink cell song with a catchy melody that I've heard somewhere on Genetic World, and a high-pitched beep that is designed to get less of my conscious and more of my attention. Alarm off once, I roll over and tuck my arm around Verano. Alarm off twice, I roll over and she tucks her arm around me. Alarm off three times and I finally swing a leg over the side of the mattress, watch one foot and then the other settle into the office-space rug we've got under the frame. Shiver. Day's started.
A shower. The bathroom is small, I throw my bath towel over the radiator so that it will be toasty when I'm ready for it. Today the water is lukewarm because the tank needs work. This is the second time we've put in an order since we've moved in. Verano abhors it, her icy pep; condemns it with a spit and spite that question what she intends when she describes herself as a "Buddhist". I don't enjoy cold water on a chilly fall morning either, but there is a charm to the routine that keeps me from getting too upset. How many people in the world have an office that they can complain to when the water isn't running hot? I'm not blessed and I'm not thankful. I have what I have. If I want less I'll always be vulnerable to it.
By the time I'm out and dressed odds are the time is 9:45, and I'm running late for work. I have a bike, Ole' Iron Horse, it's blue and squeaks like a bad horror movie, the Cat always knows when I've come home. Down Pine Street, from 44th to 38th; along the campus walk to the Bridge; passing the Museum of Archaeology and the Palestra and Penn's new athletic grounds, with a balloon inflated over the main field in anticipation of the winter months; up over the bridge span and then it's a straight shot on South's quiet and sparse streets: 26, 25, 24; pass the liquor store, pass L2, whose owners I've met; pass Pumpkin, whose bitch of a manager was called out online, on the very libel site that V. aiding in shutting down (before it could get to Starr, much to our disappointment)...pass the hospital and the Jazz mural and the colorful Thai restaurant that I want to try, but will not be able to find when the time comes...Broad Street, along Broad for a few blocks, The Philadelphia Theater Company, The University of the Arts, the Kimmel Center with a giant inflatable rat set up outside because the stagehands are on strike...Wilma, The Academy of Music, also on strike for the weekend, Across the Street is...
...where I lock up, and punch in to. If it's a Saturday I might be the manager, I might be the bartender. If it's a weekday I'm likely managing, especially now that the fantastics T. & t. are on their ways out. If it's a Sunday I'm here on my day off.
It doesn't matter if it's six hours or twelve, time passes here in a consistent fashion that rarely changes for the day. People come, people eat, people go. We watch Broad Street give birth as the offices empty and the theaters fill; we watch Broad Street blossom into life during parades and festivals and motorcades and Happy Hour; We watch Broad Street pine when City Hall decides it's eleven, or midnight; and die hand-in-hand with the late hours of the evening, or early hours of the morning, whichever have you. When Broad Street is little more than a corpse ready for burial, I lock a door behind me, get back on my bicycle, and go home.
Verano is upset if I come home and she can smell beer, or cigarette smoke; it's different in the morning, when she's not tired and we can make breakfast together. She doesn't like that I spend so much time working, but money is money and her pay rate is much better than mine. She spends less time on the clock. I theorize that she spends more time finding ways to avoid her responsibilities, which is more or less where Schooling and I parted ways, too...my work now is much more cut and dry, and I bring very little of it home with me. I wonder where her line is, and now more than ever, because she wants to be the things that she can be, and deserves to be, but can't take the clear steps to get there. I don't think she wants to do the work.
I realized this weekend, with an uneven dread, that the woman I am sharing life with bears a closer resemblance in attitude and world-view to my Father than she does to my Mother...and with a certain degree of self-analysis I forgive myself for this, because I wouldn't be able to live with any body that reminds me of my Mother. That's what getting over the last girlfriend was about. Regardless, I find myself worried. Dad lived in a cloud of mountain fog for most of his life, and now that the temperature is changing and the mist has dissipated, he sees what could have been different. I don't want Verano to have the same revelation in twenty years, she needs to have that revelation now. At the same time, she needs to admit a temporary defeat, something of an armistice, so she can take care of herself. I'm not pulling these hours that she doesn't like so that in five years I can claim asylum: I'm trying to establish myself.
Biking is a great time to think, I pulled an anecdote together while I was pedaling home last night. We're both infants. She wants to crawl, crawl and crawl and crawl, until she finds a place where she is happy enough to figure out how to stand. Which is one way of doing it, right? You see a lot if you're mobile, and you're sooner to discover what it is and where it is that works the best for you. She doesn't even crawl, she sort of half-walks, because she is an avid and impatient little breath of sparkle-eyed, happy life. Of course, that means a lot of bruised knees early in life, but bruises go away when you don't think of them.
But I don't want to crawl. It means I'm static, but I've decided that I'd rather learn how to stand, so that when I'm finally walking I'll be able to explore the world on steady legs. I'll miss a lot of perspective that Verano has, but I'll have the confidence and security that I need, personally, in order to enjoy life when I decide to seek it out. I sometimes imagine that I am clawing through a translucent latex barrier that has hindered my blood for generations...
I admit that the imagery is egocentric (and trite), but I've gotten out of small town, too, and to my knowledge I don't have common ground with any body else in the families.
So what happens with such different, fundamental attitudes?
It's been a very long time since I've written here; so long, in fact, that I had to reactivate my account in order to log in. I'm inspired by a fellow writer whom I work with, who sent me a link to her wayside work. I plan on making it work--writing, I mean--in the long run; right now I'm trying to clear the necessary room off of a messy desk. I don't want this place, Something Else, to be only an account of my struggles, but I do want the benchmark. So much has happened in eight months, and I'm so sorry for only giving you an idea of what it all is. If that's why you're here.
With that, I hope that my next post is a little less subjective (read: a little more interesting). I need to get the old voice back, too, but the whiskey I've put into my coffee--it's 2:20 pm and I have work in less than two hours--needs to vent a little. Ta.
Oh, The Cat likes Garbanzos. He's an odd duck. He almost cost you this posting too, and interrupted the IIO song that was on Pandora. He's a Russian Spy.
Eyes open. Alarm off. It alternates between a rinky-tink cell song with a catchy melody that I've heard somewhere on Genetic World, and a high-pitched beep that is designed to get less of my conscious and more of my attention. Alarm off once, I roll over and tuck my arm around Verano. Alarm off twice, I roll over and she tucks her arm around me. Alarm off three times and I finally swing a leg over the side of the mattress, watch one foot and then the other settle into the office-space rug we've got under the frame. Shiver. Day's started.
A shower. The bathroom is small, I throw my bath towel over the radiator so that it will be toasty when I'm ready for it. Today the water is lukewarm because the tank needs work. This is the second time we've put in an order since we've moved in. Verano abhors it, her icy pep; condemns it with a spit and spite that question what she intends when she describes herself as a "Buddhist". I don't enjoy cold water on a chilly fall morning either, but there is a charm to the routine that keeps me from getting too upset. How many people in the world have an office that they can complain to when the water isn't running hot? I'm not blessed and I'm not thankful. I have what I have. If I want less I'll always be vulnerable to it.
By the time I'm out and dressed odds are the time is 9:45, and I'm running late for work. I have a bike, Ole' Iron Horse, it's blue and squeaks like a bad horror movie, the Cat always knows when I've come home. Down Pine Street, from 44th to 38th; along the campus walk to the Bridge; passing the Museum of Archaeology and the Palestra and Penn's new athletic grounds, with a balloon inflated over the main field in anticipation of the winter months; up over the bridge span and then it's a straight shot on South's quiet and sparse streets: 26, 25, 24; pass the liquor store, pass L2, whose owners I've met; pass Pumpkin, whose bitch of a manager was called out online, on the very libel site that V. aiding in shutting down (before it could get to Starr, much to our disappointment)...pass the hospital and the Jazz mural and the colorful Thai restaurant that I want to try, but will not be able to find when the time comes...Broad Street, along Broad for a few blocks, The Philadelphia Theater Company, The University of the Arts, the Kimmel Center with a giant inflatable rat set up outside because the stagehands are on strike...Wilma, The Academy of Music, also on strike for the weekend, Across the Street is...
...where I lock up, and punch in to. If it's a Saturday I might be the manager, I might be the bartender. If it's a weekday I'm likely managing, especially now that the fantastics T. & t. are on their ways out. If it's a Sunday I'm here on my day off.
It doesn't matter if it's six hours or twelve, time passes here in a consistent fashion that rarely changes for the day. People come, people eat, people go. We watch Broad Street give birth as the offices empty and the theaters fill; we watch Broad Street blossom into life during parades and festivals and motorcades and Happy Hour; We watch Broad Street pine when City Hall decides it's eleven, or midnight; and die hand-in-hand with the late hours of the evening, or early hours of the morning, whichever have you. When Broad Street is little more than a corpse ready for burial, I lock a door behind me, get back on my bicycle, and go home.
Verano is upset if I come home and she can smell beer, or cigarette smoke; it's different in the morning, when she's not tired and we can make breakfast together. She doesn't like that I spend so much time working, but money is money and her pay rate is much better than mine. She spends less time on the clock. I theorize that she spends more time finding ways to avoid her responsibilities, which is more or less where Schooling and I parted ways, too...my work now is much more cut and dry, and I bring very little of it home with me. I wonder where her line is, and now more than ever, because she wants to be the things that she can be, and deserves to be, but can't take the clear steps to get there. I don't think she wants to do the work.
I realized this weekend, with an uneven dread, that the woman I am sharing life with bears a closer resemblance in attitude and world-view to my Father than she does to my Mother...and with a certain degree of self-analysis I forgive myself for this, because I wouldn't be able to live with any body that reminds me of my Mother. That's what getting over the last girlfriend was about. Regardless, I find myself worried. Dad lived in a cloud of mountain fog for most of his life, and now that the temperature is changing and the mist has dissipated, he sees what could have been different. I don't want Verano to have the same revelation in twenty years, she needs to have that revelation now. At the same time, she needs to admit a temporary defeat, something of an armistice, so she can take care of herself. I'm not pulling these hours that she doesn't like so that in five years I can claim asylum: I'm trying to establish myself.
Biking is a great time to think, I pulled an anecdote together while I was pedaling home last night. We're both infants. She wants to crawl, crawl and crawl and crawl, until she finds a place where she is happy enough to figure out how to stand. Which is one way of doing it, right? You see a lot if you're mobile, and you're sooner to discover what it is and where it is that works the best for you. She doesn't even crawl, she sort of half-walks, because she is an avid and impatient little breath of sparkle-eyed, happy life. Of course, that means a lot of bruised knees early in life, but bruises go away when you don't think of them.
But I don't want to crawl. It means I'm static, but I've decided that I'd rather learn how to stand, so that when I'm finally walking I'll be able to explore the world on steady legs. I'll miss a lot of perspective that Verano has, but I'll have the confidence and security that I need, personally, in order to enjoy life when I decide to seek it out. I sometimes imagine that I am clawing through a translucent latex barrier that has hindered my blood for generations...
I admit that the imagery is egocentric (and trite), but I've gotten out of small town, too, and to my knowledge I don't have common ground with any body else in the families.
So what happens with such different, fundamental attitudes?
It's been a very long time since I've written here; so long, in fact, that I had to reactivate my account in order to log in. I'm inspired by a fellow writer whom I work with, who sent me a link to her wayside work. I plan on making it work--writing, I mean--in the long run; right now I'm trying to clear the necessary room off of a messy desk. I don't want this place, Something Else, to be only an account of my struggles, but I do want the benchmark. So much has happened in eight months, and I'm so sorry for only giving you an idea of what it all is. If that's why you're here.
With that, I hope that my next post is a little less subjective (read: a little more interesting). I need to get the old voice back, too, but the whiskey I've put into my coffee--it's 2:20 pm and I have work in less than two hours--needs to vent a little. Ta.
Oh, The Cat likes Garbanzos. He's an odd duck. He almost cost you this posting too, and interrupted the IIO song that was on Pandora. He's a Russian Spy.
Tuesday
She is the White Rabbit.
She is. And, she's always late. I'm in it pretty deep with her, and that's where I want to stay.
Dueling Hand Dryers & Life Is Not All Wonderful
First post of the year goes to today! What is today, February? Almost March. As usual, my level of activity has been in ebb and flow. Right now, it's flowing.
Why? Well, life and relationship with Verano is beginning to level. The first months are always so exciting! They'll stay that way, of this I am sure, but we're beginning to make time for ourselves, too. Right now we're on a double date at the Stubb & Flask's coffee shop on 34th (if you've read a bit this isn't too much a stretch; alternatively, Stubb & Flask's would be a great name for a bar) because Mad has paid Internet out of the apartment. If you will. I've said it, that I like having to make time to use the Internet, because then I don't do too many silly things. Verano is researching for a project, a music video, that she wants to do with...Mix, we'll call her? I don't know if she's come up before. What difference does it make?
Much has happened and much hassn't happened. Yes, I typoed on purpose. I finished my first play and I haven't really looked at it since, mostly because I made the mistake of producing three copies and giving two of them to two different people. I'll get back to it. Verano looks good in her favorite pair of jeans. I started work on another play and I don't want to give too much away, in case they're listening. But, it should be good, when it's done.
I've also started a band.
So I'm beginning different projects, so is she. It's encouraging to finally be at work with somebody who is artistic, even if we're not collaborating yet. That will come in time. And, she's a doer. She likes to do things. This isn't your high-school comrade clique, this isn't your college circle. This is the world outside of it all, and she's the first person that I've met in it, and I've fallen in love with her. She looks very good in brown.
Dueling dryers, here and there, I wait to get inside the door but I can wait the longer. Dueling hand dryers, ha. I was waiting to use the bathroom and they both went off in each the men's and women's, and I was caught in the middle. Not a metaphor, although somehow I'm sure it could be.
So I just thought I'd drop a line here to benchmark Feb. 22nd. I'm still at the Chain with a job interview in two days, a place down on 13th. I haven't caught up with Karfilov in nearly two months, but I sent him an email today all the same. I'm trying to get into the world without losing myself in myself anymore, if that makes sense. It's good to be out in public. It's good to be out in a place where no one is paying attention to any one, and we're all still a part of each others' lives, if just for tonight's performance. I'm going to read this post later and wonder what exactly was going on in the part of the author, but between the coffee I had at the Green Line Cafe earlier, and the cup of coffee I've just finished (Stubb & Flask's always overroasts its beans, another subtle clue) I'm wired. Not jittery, but I can't seem to concentrate, and at the same time I can't not concentrate because to look away would be to miss an important opportunity. In a few weeks it will be warm again, we got a little preview last week, and then, as Verano assures me, we'll see if it really is the Year of the Rabbit. The White Rabbit? People use the Rabbithole almost to a cliche, but once you're down it every thing is a dream until you wake up. I prefer to climb through the Looking Glass, where everything appears as it used to be, but isn't really at all.
Life is Not All Wonderful. Eventually you've let go of structure and have to carve your own way. I wonder if, for all our education, we'll lose that important part of the journey? Or maybe I'm just overthinking it all, again. It's impossible to be ten years older when you're not.
Why? Well, life and relationship with Verano is beginning to level. The first months are always so exciting! They'll stay that way, of this I am sure, but we're beginning to make time for ourselves, too. Right now we're on a double date at the Stubb & Flask's coffee shop on 34th (if you've read a bit this isn't too much a stretch; alternatively, Stubb & Flask's would be a great name for a bar) because Mad has paid Internet out of the apartment. If you will. I've said it, that I like having to make time to use the Internet, because then I don't do too many silly things. Verano is researching for a project, a music video, that she wants to do with...Mix, we'll call her? I don't know if she's come up before. What difference does it make?
Much has happened and much hassn't happened. Yes, I typoed on purpose. I finished my first play and I haven't really looked at it since, mostly because I made the mistake of producing three copies and giving two of them to two different people. I'll get back to it. Verano looks good in her favorite pair of jeans. I started work on another play and I don't want to give too much away, in case they're listening. But, it should be good, when it's done.
I've also started a band.
So I'm beginning different projects, so is she. It's encouraging to finally be at work with somebody who is artistic, even if we're not collaborating yet. That will come in time. And, she's a doer. She likes to do things. This isn't your high-school comrade clique, this isn't your college circle. This is the world outside of it all, and she's the first person that I've met in it, and I've fallen in love with her. She looks very good in brown.
Dueling dryers, here and there, I wait to get inside the door but I can wait the longer. Dueling hand dryers, ha. I was waiting to use the bathroom and they both went off in each the men's and women's, and I was caught in the middle. Not a metaphor, although somehow I'm sure it could be.
So I just thought I'd drop a line here to benchmark Feb. 22nd. I'm still at the Chain with a job interview in two days, a place down on 13th. I haven't caught up with Karfilov in nearly two months, but I sent him an email today all the same. I'm trying to get into the world without losing myself in myself anymore, if that makes sense. It's good to be out in public. It's good to be out in a place where no one is paying attention to any one, and we're all still a part of each others' lives, if just for tonight's performance. I'm going to read this post later and wonder what exactly was going on in the part of the author, but between the coffee I had at the Green Line Cafe earlier, and the cup of coffee I've just finished (Stubb & Flask's always overroasts its beans, another subtle clue) I'm wired. Not jittery, but I can't seem to concentrate, and at the same time I can't not concentrate because to look away would be to miss an important opportunity. In a few weeks it will be warm again, we got a little preview last week, and then, as Verano assures me, we'll see if it really is the Year of the Rabbit. The White Rabbit? People use the Rabbithole almost to a cliche, but once you're down it every thing is a dream until you wake up. I prefer to climb through the Looking Glass, where everything appears as it used to be, but isn't really at all.
Life is Not All Wonderful. Eventually you've let go of structure and have to carve your own way. I wonder if, for all our education, we'll lose that important part of the journey? Or maybe I'm just overthinking it all, again. It's impossible to be ten years older when you're not.
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