Oh that red

Aside

Riding the metro is becoming a great resource? Exercise?

The doors are closing

She hung up the phone, looked out the window, and undid her hair. Liberated, it came down in waves, draping her shoulders in exquisite luxury. The beautiful tresses effortlessly matched the labored perfection of movies and commercials. The dark red curls became a slow-churning, burning waterfall. The intensity paled the rest of the car.

Unaware of the amazing transformation she had just effected on her surroundings, she simply continued to sit calmly and look out the window.

On the train #1

Aside

People are fascinating.

Around

His head is against the uncomfortable warm plexiglass of the window. Shoulders drawn up, neck stiff, back straight, thin hand clenched over the eyes – a classic expression of being tired. It is a greater tiredness than just the physical – it is a painful, emotion exhaustion, tired of seeing, of being here, of shuffling one’s own body around.

She stately, beautiful, with a hint of a confident smirk hovering on her lips. Looks striking even in the simplest of things. The patterns of her outfit are reserved and plain, but effectively accentuated by her bearing. The only that’s out of sync is a yellow leather purse stamped with hearts and XOs all over. It’s the sort of thing you pick up and say, “Isn’t this cute and goofy and over the top?” It’s also the sort of thing that you’ve had for so long – it’s a bit worn and there are threads coming out – that you’ve forgotten why you have it, and how it looks. It’s just part of the routine.

The man on the stage

The felt shadows wove together to make the bluesman. No colors to him, not even much of a shape. Just gradients. Just a sense that he is there. The feeling, the rhythm, the broken rhythm. He leans forward, stretches out his hand – plucked a string and let it ring – the walls and the felt shadows bend and lean with him. He’s got roots in that stage. Parts of his being melted, seeped into the floorboards. That’s not a performer. He’s the joint itself now.

Not much light here, but it shimmers. Not too much color to it, just the gradient. Dark to light. Shadow to shimmer. Alcohol in the glass is just another candle. A rare spot of gold.

He leans forward, stretches his out his hand – plucked a string and let it ring – makes you sit back down. Doesn’t actually touch you, doesn’t even point at you, doesn’t even do anything different, but just lets you know. This is not the time to leave.

Red-blooded

Aside

Who is reading this, anyway? Also, I really need to up the frequency of writing.

Rights

“This is a stupid idea. There’s going to be cops there!”

“Crisp, this is the perfect thing to do! We have our rights. We speak for the community. I’m a red-blooded American and I have my rights, brother!”

“Benny you’re a fucking pimp!”

“And what’s not American about that?”

“The part where the first cop that see you cuffs you and puts you in the slammer, you idiot.”

“I provide a service, a valuable one! What’s the difference between and a dude that works in a bank? Or the guy who sells carrots? And you know I think of my girls better than just carrots. When you get down to it, I’m really just in HR.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m just starting to take this civic thing seriously. Maybe if you watched some documentaries, you’d understand.”

“Fucking documentaries?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously, fuck you. You’re going to be the first pimp in the world to go down because he watches too much TV. That’s stupid. You just couldn’t get stabbed or overdose on blow like everyone else.”

Dusty blues

Aside

Dan Auerbach may not be required listening for this journal, but it is highly recommended.

Walk a while

So many miles, so many layers of dust on his shoes. So much road behind that all the turns and scenes have started to run together. It’s gotten hard to remember which bar was in which town, which song he played when and where, and how it’d come out. As far as he could think, all he’s done was drink, walk, and play music. Couldn’t recall any good sleep, even.

This moment, this here and now, is in focus. The last time things were as sharp was when he left the house. That dead, empty, silent house. By the time everything had settled down in his mind, by the time he got a clean shirt and got that blood out of his skin, everything of importance was already gone. The house turned into a pile of things. So he grabbed the guitar, walked away, and kept walking ever since.

He stopped.

Over the years the pain had grown into something of a comfort, like a companion on this endless journey. Everything else had come and gone, buried under layers of dust, rain, winter snow and summer heat. The pain had changed though. He thought for a while it was gone, but it wasn’t. It was there in the burn of cheap whiskey. In the cracked and broken skin of his finger tips. In the eyes red from smoke and insomnia. In the hunger. In the cruel dreams that took him back to the house every single time.

He stopped. It was strange not hear his own footsteps.

He looked around. For the first time, he turned around and looked back.