22 x 22 = 484 little dots on every ceiling panel in the Emerald
office, Brook knows how to touch-type (with his pinky on the “a”),
Mason smokes cigars and drinks gin on Valentine’s Day. Pat has “Star
Trek” cards, Mike blares house techno, much to the dismay of Adam’s
personal sound space. Mark makes mix discs based on colors. Roman
finger picks my red Guild acoustic guitar and then asks me to play,
but I can’t because I’m already late — to play with Mason. But
apparently Jan plays some guitar also. Sometimes I think everyone plays
guitar. I’ll go walking down the street and think I can tell if
someone plays guitar. I think.
I skipped Murdoch and Rock Climbing on Tuesday. Then Murdoch was
canceled on Thursday. Someone had brought the professor a cup of
coffee. But there was no teacher. And the coffee was handed to me.
Already having had my morning’s fill of mate, I handed the coffee to
Mike who put it in his big giant plastic cup of coffee which I had
always thought held soda.
And here I am. 3:45 p.m. on a Friday, another Friday tick-ticking
into a lazy Saturday, that lazy Saturday which for the hours between 9
a.m. and 2 p.m. are inexhaustibly infinite. And it was a good week.
There’s finally calm. Details once again become lucid and distinct.
Life and writing reconnects. And it’s grounding, and slowing… slower.
Not everything went the way I would want it to; as usual there’s much
more to tell. But I’m 10 minutes over deadline for this, and it’s time
for this one distinct weekend in the warm winter of 2003 to commence. I
wish you all the best post-Valentine’s Day wishes. Maybe you found it
easy to be happy and all lovey-dovey on that day. But the real
challenge is of course, the other 364 or 365 of them. Bye folks.