Day 13. Looking Out a Dirty Old Window, Rimbaud.

Day 13. Looking Out a Dirty Old Window, Rimbaud.

Me, -ha!-who thought himself a magus, an angel, above morality. I am back on the ground, looking out a task, with raw reality to embrace. Peasant!

Speaking of a raw reality, I got this phone call yesterday:

Baby you remember last week when my brother called and I was having a meltdown at the doctor?

Yeah and...?
Well, you know, I just found out I was pregnant and he never calls me just to check in.

Yeah...

Well this morning I was talking to him while I was watering the garden and he said the morning he called me he had the most vivid dream that he was in the yard playing with my son. Isn't that like some very special twin telepathy?

I guess so.

Yeah, twin telepathy. Kismet. Miracles. Destiny. Joy. Love. Fate. I think it's time for things to start happening for a reason. Then I'll settle for a wholesale religious conversion. Speaking of which, after Yoga on Sunday she and her friend are going to some Golden Eternity dinner sponsored by the Hindus who run the center. How fucking original. We used to do that in college just to get free food, now empty thirty-somethings are looking for spiritual enlightenment. Gimme a break.

Maybe if people didn't fuck off so hard in their twenties they'd have a little more backbone when it comes to the great void that is life for us on this planet in the 21st century. Maybe if they had lived a little more deliberately instead of just trying to get away with something all the time. Maybe if they hadn't sold out so early. People either burn out by their early thirties or they become wise. Unfortunately the burn-outs are still making all the noise, while the wise ones have smartly disappeared.

.....Looking out my dirty old window. Down in the street is my neighbor with his coffee mug and his flip flops. I see him everyday, several times a day. I hope he's drinking booze instead of coffee because that much caffeine is bad for you. I wonder what he does all day. I see his girl leave in the morning and come back later. I've seen her out before too, picking up on a young bass player in a jazz quartet after letting me buy her a drink. Of course she cut it off when she realized we were neighbors. I didn't figure it out till later when I saw her leaving for work and then I recognized her. She wasn't all that anyway, just a horny little bitch. I wonder what that old knucklefucker does to keep her around. He's probably a writer, a screenwriter. He's got that vibe - the slickback hair, the retro eyeglasses, the frequent breaks with his mug or his cell phone making huge editorial cuts in the air with his freehand, and always wearing the crispest, whitest, wifebeater I've ever seen. Even the Echo Park cholos would be impressed.