old scraps of half-thoughts

well, i'm scratching away at the last sad pages of my notebook. and so before it's all filled up and no longer follows me on my daily grind, i thought i'd flip through it and resurrect the old scraps of half-thoughts for you...

***

i think i'm a little bit in love with the character the piano man plays. smoky, absurd, distant. flesh, blood and brandy. pity that isn't who he really is.. but despite this - even though i know he sips apple juice, not whiskey, the fact is i can't stop writing every time i hear him play. he sparks that deep uncertain part of my spirit, rubs up against the flint of my disquiet and lulls me to write, write. and i guess even if he isn't his persona, i can forgive him and still love him a little.

***

my instincts are crying GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HIM! but i WILL. NOT. LISTEN. i'm actually vehemently resisting, and why?? because when we're not trapped in the riddle of "us" - when we can just be and do together, it's so so nice and natural and leaves me feeling happy and charged. like glacier spring water sucked through chapped and bleeding fingers at the top, finally, of the climbed rock. that cold. that hard-earned. that gratifying.

***

oh comfortable self-obsession, oh unchallenging drama. sinking into the couch of my tedium instead of living, doing. stupid lure.

***

we're sitting, drinking vodka.

"too strong," he sighs, stumbling through the phrase and dismissively sliding the glass over to me. "let's trade."

i sip and slip into my best white trash impersonation, "ya call this strong? i danno what the hell yur tawkin about, there isn't even any damned vadka in 'ere!!" we laugh.

"was that good?" i ask. "i was going for the bukowski thing."

"yea, that was really good actually."

"oh good. i need to get some practice, since it's who i'm going to be when i grow up..."

we chuckle and take lazy drags from our cigarettes, fondling the sweating tumblers.

***

the lake lies snoring under the weather, a dust of dew making everything smoky. this is how the shop looks. this is how my memory looks.

***

i'm walking up the street and this man catches my eye. a big, sloppy smile spreads across his face (holy sibiliance batman! -seriously unconscious. heh) he smiles heartily and i smile back.
one step.
two steps.
"excuse me, miss!"
i turn, because i'm hoping he's going to tell me about some astronomical phenomenon, like a comet that will only be seen tonight - this cool, clear-skied night. but he just asks for a smoke. and then turns it down when i tell him they're menthol. it seems beggars can be choosers...

***

i'm writing about myself in the third person, who talks to herself in the second person.

***