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Wasted On the Living
Jun. 17th, 2003 10:46 amCup of strong coffee and an empty house. Gray sky with a sultry feel: purple bougainvillea in my front yard seem to have concentrated all the available color wavelengths in a monochrome universe.
The Santa Cruz Mystery Spot bumper sticker got them as far as Sacramento before one of the front tires developed an aneurysm -- so much for JiffyLube's road-worthy diagnostics. Ben's a good driver, noticed the wobble and pulled over before the tire blew out. Thank God for Triple A. They got as far as Winnemucca, camped in an RV lot outside the Golden Nugget. "Don't do any gambling," I warned Ben. "You don't sound lucky."
If they get to Salt Lake City without further disaster, they'll be fine. Right now I feel as though most of my consciousness is involved in blowing the protective bubble around them — like staring out the window of a plane and thinking: fuck those guys in the cockpit, it's me who's keeping the plane in the air with my uplifting thoughts.
My house smells like a California mission. In San Diego Abe took me to this Catholic-Christian religious supply store -- spookier by far than any East Harlem botanica -- and I loaded up on frankincense and myrrh. I'm giving my counter offer to Frank today. Then I'm going to pick up with Hatcher and voyeur.com in the parallel, fictive universe.
Meanwhile -- ( Big Bash... Notes for a short story )
The Santa Cruz Mystery Spot bumper sticker got them as far as Sacramento before one of the front tires developed an aneurysm -- so much for JiffyLube's road-worthy diagnostics. Ben's a good driver, noticed the wobble and pulled over before the tire blew out. Thank God for Triple A. They got as far as Winnemucca, camped in an RV lot outside the Golden Nugget. "Don't do any gambling," I warned Ben. "You don't sound lucky."
If they get to Salt Lake City without further disaster, they'll be fine. Right now I feel as though most of my consciousness is involved in blowing the protective bubble around them — like staring out the window of a plane and thinking: fuck those guys in the cockpit, it's me who's keeping the plane in the air with my uplifting thoughts.
My house smells like a California mission. In San Diego Abe took me to this Catholic-Christian religious supply store -- spookier by far than any East Harlem botanica -- and I loaded up on frankincense and myrrh. I'm giving my counter offer to Frank today. Then I'm going to pick up with Hatcher and voyeur.com in the parallel, fictive universe.
Meanwhile -- ( Big Bash... Notes for a short story )
