Saturday
All you need to know is that it is still Saturday. It is still Saturday, and J.R. has just dropped me off to go wherever-the-fuck. I march to the Plaza, the sun on my neck. Part of me is wondering if I should run back for some SPF. Part of me is wondering if, with all this new skin. bloodwork. fat. cell formation. plasma, we are anywhere near what we were five years ago. Someone once told me the body completely regenerates itself after seven years, but that dude was hardly an expert. On anything.
No, we are not the same body of things we were five years ago, even though we may have similar markings,
which is to say that most of our stories need updating.
The sky is immense - a sudden blue that could soak up all the world’s great problems if we wanted. I wish everything were flipped upside down, and I could get lost in the blue, thrown mercilessly upstream. I swim-walk back to the hotel room, which feels less daunting after the time outside. There, I read a turquoise collection of short stories. In the first story, a girl is in love with an older woman (an artist) who loves another woman (a thief) who sadly ends up in prison for murder. At least, we think it’s prison, and we believe it’s murder. All’s going great for the young girl because she has no real competition with the thief seemingly out of the way. It ends in a very open-ended way. We don’t get to find out who ends up with whom. I guess that’s the author’s prerogative. I’m a little lost, though, having arrived at the end of this with no real answers.
I tell myself it’s Great to be away from California for a few days, under a more pointed, directional blue, even though my brain is trying to do a what’s the point of anything loop.
I watch the penultimate episode of And Just Like That. Carrie is doing very well, so something is about to go wrong and does. Miranda’s feelings are pretty hurt, and she lets the person know about it. Charlotte is tired, so very tired of everyone. The perfect companion to all of this is cornbread with a side of sweet potato butter. Sleep comes as if out of nowhere.
Sunday
I wake up with the sudden threat of Empty. “Oh hell nah,” I tell my brain. “Oh no, you will not,” I say, this time in my natural accent.
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