5-6-99 Th 11:48 AM
I don't have to come here tomorrow. I've got to go downtown for some stupid-ass training. Anais helps me to write. I didn't want to do this. I didn't write last night or this morning. It's lunch time now. I'm alone in my room. There's nothing to do, but I couldn't bear to write, so I reluctantly read a few pages of her diary, and now I feel a little better about this. I rode my bike home after school yesterday, and typed a page (worthless but for the exercise), drank a beer, smoked half a bongload, and rode over to El Cholo. I was happy with the street. I felt part of life, riding past all the people waiting at the bus stops, they seeing me as much as I see them, mothers with children, teenage sweethearts embracing. It was sunny, just warm enough to be warm. You could smell the tortillas frying a mile from el Cholo. Candy King, Jean Rohman, and Adrian were there. Florelle showed up with Jackie. It was uneasy around the table. I was because I had to go to work. I don't know if the others were already uneasy or if I was the contagion. Florelle was desperate to live. I knew the feeling. I, too, was torn between prudence and desperation to live. She wanted closeness, love, camaraderie, exotica, newness. I knew I could have her if I had the desire and courage. She was touching me a lot and interrupting the others' stories with her own. She was telling me of a dream she had involving three coins, one with a city on it, one with a Madonna, and one with a woman's veiled face. I thought they were symbols for motherhood, chastity, and whoredom. When it was time for me to go, she pleaded with me to go with her. I reluctantly refused and rode my bike to work. I relented. She followed me in her car, insisting I put my bike in her trunk. I was afraid she would kidnap me from going to work, but she dropped me off. I was drunk at class. I think some students suspected. When I rode home again, it was dark. The city was entirely changed. The sky could not be seen past the dim streetlights. It was like an artificial place, no sign of nature anywhere. A woman stood at Pico and Crenshaw with a swaddled baby. I couldn't write when I got home. I went to bed. Fell asleep. I didn't shower this morning.
I don't have to come here tomorrow. I've got to go downtown for some stupid-ass training. Anais helps me to write. I didn't want to do this. I didn't write last night or this morning. It's lunch time now. I'm alone in my room. There's nothing to do, but I couldn't bear to write, so I reluctantly read a few pages of her diary, and now I feel a little better about this. I rode my bike home after school yesterday, and typed a page (worthless but for the exercise), drank a beer, smoked half a bongload, and rode over to El Cholo. I was happy with the street. I felt part of life, riding past all the people waiting at the bus stops, they seeing me as much as I see them, mothers with children, teenage sweethearts embracing. It was sunny, just warm enough to be warm. You could smell the tortillas frying a mile from el Cholo. Candy King, Jean Rohman, and Adrian were there. Florelle showed up with Jackie. It was uneasy around the table. I was because I had to go to work. I don't know if the others were already uneasy or if I was the contagion. Florelle was desperate to live. I knew the feeling. I, too, was torn between prudence and desperation to live. She wanted closeness, love, camaraderie, exotica, newness. I knew I could have her if I had the desire and courage. She was touching me a lot and interrupting the others' stories with her own. She was telling me of a dream she had involving three coins, one with a city on it, one with a Madonna, and one with a woman's veiled face. I thought they were symbols for motherhood, chastity, and whoredom. When it was time for me to go, she pleaded with me to go with her. I reluctantly refused and rode my bike to work. I relented. She followed me in her car, insisting I put my bike in her trunk. I was afraid she would kidnap me from going to work, but she dropped me off. I was drunk at class. I think some students suspected. When I rode home again, it was dark. The city was entirely changed. The sky could not be seen past the dim streetlights. It was like an artificial place, no sign of nature anywhere. A woman stood at Pico and Crenshaw with a swaddled baby. I couldn't write when I got home. I went to bed. Fell asleep. I didn't shower this morning.
posted by johnz at 7:44 PM
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