edges of reason
What do you really know? And in any particular case, in my case, what do you really want to know? I'm afraid it won't make sense to you. I really mean that. I am genuinely afraid it won't make sense. I am not trying to sound casual or smug.
Listen - all that she was then, all that she is now, those gestures, everything I remember but won't or can't articulate anymore, the perfect words that are somehow made imperfect when used to describe her and all that should remain unsaid about her - it is all unsupported by reason. I know that. But that enigmatic calm that attaches itself to people in the presence of reason - it's something from which I haven't been able to take comfort, not reliably, not since her.
It's like the smell of burnt toast. You made the toast. You looked forward to it. You even enjoyed making it, but it burned. What were you doing? Was it your fault? It doesn't matter anymore. You open the window but only the very top layer of the smell goes away. The rest remains around you. It's on the walls. You leave the room but it's on your clothes. You change your clothes but it's in your hair. It's on the thin skin on the tops of your hands. And in the morning, it's still there.
Because I overslept, missed my lift, then couldn't be arsed driving solo to Roleystone. Because the person whose home-coming I would pike on was more a friend-of-a-friend than a friend, even if we did go to the same high school for two years. Because having set out to catch up on the week's shut-eye this afternoon, I instead spent the better part of it dreaming about the last person I should be dreaming about at this point in February and arguably, at all. Because thereafter I had to get away from me, to occupy my mind with concepts that were unlikely to find their way back to its usual troubled inhabitants. -- I offered to show Eleven, the Taiwanese tourist who'd asked me for street directions some weeks ago, a bit more of Perth. Her Korean roommate came too, which happily halved my already-slim chances of talking about myself.
Because my sense of misdirection continues to perfect itself, so as to raise transit time to at least double that of your Average Sunday Driver. Because the girls liked the beach more than they thought they would, and lingered. Because they were happy bar-hopping instead of sticking with one place and in all likelihood becoming bored/disheartened sooner. Because alfresco people-watching from any James St eatery is relaxing and therapeutic. Even counting the extra care taken to enunciate, it was a breeze passing those 4 hours. Just the innocuousness I needed, though I suspect not nearly enough thereof, to carry me through what looks to be another restless week.
The particular James St eatery randomly selected by me this evening was value-packed; for me anyway. Our waitress mesmerised me, not least because she channeled Isabella Rossellini circa Alias - and was hotter, if that's possible. I offered, and the owner/manager lady enthusiastically accepted, a Proper Hug - because it'd been a rough day, because Isabella did, because I could. And because of all that, but not only - I never had better mocha.
Listen - all that she was then, all that she is now, those gestures, everything I remember but won't or can't articulate anymore, the perfect words that are somehow made imperfect when used to describe her and all that should remain unsaid about her - it is all unsupported by reason. I know that. But that enigmatic calm that attaches itself to people in the presence of reason - it's something from which I haven't been able to take comfort, not reliably, not since her.
It's like the smell of burnt toast. You made the toast. You looked forward to it. You even enjoyed making it, but it burned. What were you doing? Was it your fault? It doesn't matter anymore. You open the window but only the very top layer of the smell goes away. The rest remains around you. It's on the walls. You leave the room but it's on your clothes. You change your clothes but it's in your hair. It's on the thin skin on the tops of your hands. And in the morning, it's still there.
Simon, on Anna, in Seven Types of Ambiguity
Because I overslept, missed my lift, then couldn't be arsed driving solo to Roleystone. Because the person whose home-coming I would pike on was more a friend-of-a-friend than a friend, even if we did go to the same high school for two years. Because having set out to catch up on the week's shut-eye this afternoon, I instead spent the better part of it dreaming about the last person I should be dreaming about at this point in February and arguably, at all. Because thereafter I had to get away from me, to occupy my mind with concepts that were unlikely to find their way back to its usual troubled inhabitants. -- I offered to show Eleven, the Taiwanese tourist who'd asked me for street directions some weeks ago, a bit more of Perth. Her Korean roommate came too, which happily halved my already-slim chances of talking about myself.
Because my sense of misdirection continues to perfect itself, so as to raise transit time to at least double that of your Average Sunday Driver. Because the girls liked the beach more than they thought they would, and lingered. Because they were happy bar-hopping instead of sticking with one place and in all likelihood becoming bored/disheartened sooner. Because alfresco people-watching from any James St eatery is relaxing and therapeutic. Even counting the extra care taken to enunciate, it was a breeze passing those 4 hours. Just the innocuousness I needed, though I suspect not nearly enough thereof, to carry me through what looks to be another restless week.
The particular James St eatery randomly selected by me this evening was value-packed; for me anyway. Our waitress mesmerised me, not least because she channeled Isabella Rossellini circa Alias - and was hotter, if that's possible. I offered, and the owner/manager lady enthusiastically accepted, a Proper Hug - because it'd been a rough day, because Isabella did, because I could. And because of all that, but not only - I never had better mocha.
posted by In2MeC at 12:04 am
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