6:20 p.m. - 2002-04-22
I like it there. I like that I can walk around for a half hour and have the only white face I see be in window reflections, if only for the realization that it causes no feelings of discomfort inside.
The smells—bondo from the autobody shop, pizza from the deli, charcoal briquettes from a hidden yard. Exhaust, garbage, cigar smoke…human urine, flowers, dog shit…
As I walk I begin to feel the earth beneath me again, I imagine my steps causing it to rotate beneath my feet like a circus bear on a ball. It brings my destination to me.
7-eleven. The best restaurant in the world. There is nothing for me on the shelves there, just like the last time I forgot to bring lunch on a day I took the train. I search again and again nonetheless, hoping that some new policy dictates that there be at least one food item not containing “partially de-fatted beef fatty tissue.”(I swear I read it).
I buy a protein food substitute bar and chocolate flavored bovine lactate and move on again.
Another encounter with a schizophrenic reveals that were he to have an actual fire-arm rather than his extended index finger, I would have been lucky enough to have taken a shot to the leg rather than the precisely aimed and “POW!” invisible bullets the rest of the passerby received in the head piece.
They love their own I tell ya.
She skips across my mind, then she skips across my mind. Slow indeed. There is no other way for it to go.
I begin to realize the full extent of it, the end of the middle of the ending. By virtue of itself the realization leaves as quickly as it comes.
Speaking of which, still no motherfucking release and yes I am keeping you posted.