he nearly called you last night. can you image that, after all this time? he can. he imagines calling you or running into by chance. depending on the weather, he imagines you in one of those cotton dresses of yours with flowers on it or in faded blue jeans and a thick woolen button-up cardigan over a checked shirt, drinking coffee from a mug, looking through your tortoiseshell glasses at a book of poetry while it rains. he thinks of you with your hair tied back and characteristic sweet scent on your neck. he imagines you this way when he is on the train, in the supermarket, at his parents’ house, at night, alone, and when he is with a woman.
he is wrong though. you didn’t read poetry at all. he had wanted you to read poetry, but you didn’t. if pressed, he confesses to an imprecise recollection of what it was you read, anyway, it wasn’t your reading that started this. it was the laughter, the carefree laughter, the three-dimensional coca-cola ad advertisement that you were, the chain telephone calls, the in-jokes, the instant music, the sunlight you carried with you, the way he felt when you spoke to his parents, the introductory undergraduate courses, the inevitability of your success, the beach houses, the white lace underwear, the private dancing, the good-graced acceptance of part-time shift work, the apparent absence of expectations, the classical, the modern, the post-modern, the impoverished, the sleekly deregulated, the orgasm, the feminine, and then the way you canceled with the air of one making a salad.
(c) elliot perlman, seven types of ambiguity (2003)
just the other day i realized i could make him laugh. i made him laugh by revealing little bits and pieces of my childish personality, which i try to put away as much as possible. but i almost never do because i think it’s fun enough to watch people notice the contradictions. and there are many. they were having a practice but they didn’t need him so he came out, we sat on a bench and talked. daylight private little conversation. each time i talk to him i realize more and more that he is stuck just like i was during my first year in hong kong. i never know what to tell him when i notice another symptom. but maybe i am wrong. you’ve got so much time on your hands.
i woke up late as i couldn’t sleep last night and watched chris rock’s stand ups till three o’clock in the morning. when finally awake i watched two episodes of boston legal but then i thought what the fuck am i doing watching tv at four o’clock in the afternoon and went out. i visited the art house. it’s not actually called the art house but that’s what i call the complex made of broadway cinematheque cinema, kubrick dvd and bookshop. lesbian and gay film festival is on now. should i go?
i managed to drink three black coffees in various starbucks around the city, i spent most of the time reading the story of psychology and my own writings worth two months of insomnia. i also printed out my first script. i am in the process of editing it. also i realized that i have only ten pages left in my moleskine and thereâ€™s a month and a half to go in 2008. i will hate having to start a new one just before the end of the year. my rhythm of writing is very funny.
i am a slacker.