this is dedicated to those who have gone away from this place, who have gone out into the world and seen things.
i was inspired to write it from something that i'd said to [t] in passing and over our quickly cooling coffees. it had to do with "private" school. that's what she calls it. i call it "parochial" because it was a faith-based education firstly and because yes our parents paid through the nose for it, but only incidentally. but that's not the point anyhow. the point is what was said in the conversation that lead me to think on how to present the rest of the evenings events.
i was out of parochial/private school by the end of the third grade. so, things were still pleasant for me. i was still a burst of innocence and (anyway to some degree) my memories were pleasant because i don't remember what i was supposed to remember of what they taught me. my memories of Star of the Sea are an out-of-sequence string of images that had nothing to do with the school's particular curriculum. i remember a sense of tenuous stability, a sort of impermanent shield covering everything and everyone involved with my school.
[t] on the otherhand remembers growing older and more aware of the corruption and the decay of ideals, dreams, theories... hopes? i don't know. perhaps i go too far but the point is that she grew to know things that i could not know, being that i was out of the game so very early on. but that's not the point anyhow.. not really and now i think i'm starting to forget what the point is so i'll go on.
and so with that long-winded round-about introduction, here i attempt to record in snapshots what kind of night it was in the city --what kind of city it was in the kind of dark that never gets dark.
onethe icecream was at times silky thick with bits of crunchy chocolate. we gobbled up our cones and nodding our talk, shuffled our flojo-clad foots.
two
nine o'clock. i know because i often can't peal my eyes away from the amber colored digital-clock backdrop. we have an hour at seaport village. i keep thinking how long it had been since i'd ever been for just a walk. and if i pace myself my feet won't hurt.three
at ten o'clock they'll want us all to be gone from the meters, gone. toni complains but i bravely reply, "oh don't worry. time enough for everything, time enough for all" and i half believe it too.
though it's true that i am preoccupied i am determined to sink myself into the slow waltz walk i want. we drift, sidestepping the side-walk vendor selling framed images. a left-over man, from the day. maybe the images are sketches, i don't know because i look away. the cookies and coffee shop is near. the small coffee is $1.62 and [t] shrugs, scratching one shoulder. its only a ploy on my part, its a chance to put some solid distance between us and the shuffling families with their too-loud teasing, their inside jokes contaminating my space.
a new elevator bisects the original convention center area and the expansion. this plexi-glass elevator moves up to floor two of the convention centers. it is my first try and i think its novel because it doesn't go straight up and down but follows, instead, the grade increase of said convention steps. i'm easily amused as i am easily annoyed at the crowd baseball fan crowd that mashes inside with us. they must think its novel too. i am distracted by grimey windows. i wave at strangers because it happens to be a habit with me now, at least in the face of slow-moving crowds that shrink from perspective.
at the top and looking over a small hedge, onto an unpeopled convention space, "under the sails." i can't pull myself away from the sight of uniform round tables, blue plastic folding chairs, a jigsaw puzzle shaped stage, centered and grey. all of it a glorious inhabiting of drab open-ness.
to be continued.... (because i'm weak and when i close my eyes all i see is bed)the rest was a reckless use of turn signal, spanish negotiations, sleazy one-night stand motels and their rates, and playing pretend and me trying --so desperate not to forget and falling back onto a discouraging slump. and elizabeth taylor, what a nice face.
01:22 - Wednesday, Aug. 18, 2004
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