July 11, 2008

he cut the crusts off his sandwiches

I feel that lately, all of the time, or at least on a frequent daily occasion, I am being punched in the face with emotion. Or by emotion. I can't ever be certain.

But the doler of punches is like some foreign diplomat whose country's custom it is to greet people with emotion punches and nobody likes being punched, let alone in the face, let alone with emotion. But I feel irritated and uneasily apprehensive of how to react because the foreign diplomat doesn't know any better.
So maybe I just force a strained sort of polite smile in return and try not to cry or laugh or show that this is a weird unpleasant thing in any way and I'll say something to walk away and avoid this situation as much as I can.

The foreign diplomat is rich and wears lots of gaudy rings. My face hurts but maybe you couldn't tell. You might ask, "What's wrong?" when you think I'm acting weird or am wearing a funny expression of repressed grief and I'll just be silent for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry, what?" and then changing the subject.

The diplomat seems to be scheduled to inhabit here for an indefinite agonizing visit filled with stories of historic emotion and epic punches in the face.


And then I put myself to bed and fell asleep 3 hours later tangled up in my quilt. I woke up with the quilt balled up on my chest. I went to my internship. I met Pierce Brosnan. He stopped my pen from rolling off the table. I thought he had really good reflexes about my pen. And then I remembered that he was 007 for the longest time- the time I grew up knowing 007. 007 must have good reflexes with pens amongst other things.
He looked old, refined and tanned and wore Italian leather loafers. He looked like a Euro-chic golfing dad. I shook his hand and it was weaker than my handshake. And then I remembered that he is now in the film version of Mama Mia.

My boss made me go to the office to drop off and pick up things. I ran into somebody I saw on the street and smiled at that morning exiting Penn Station. He and a bunch of other folks were wearing black tshirts that said "soundtrack of summer" and were each holding some brass instrument but not playing it. They were promoting something I didn't hear because I always walk with an ipod.
We made eye contact as I was walking down the street and I think I smiled because I feel like I have to when you make eye contact for too long, otherwise it's just rude.
I shared an elevator with him and two of his coworkers and he said "Hey, I saw you on the street today."
I said, "Yes, you had a saxophone outside of Penn Station."
We left the elevator and that was that.
I'm becoming convinced that my building is a vortex of reuniting with people I'm already familiar with in some arbitrary way.

I went to a photo show for some Purchase students on the west side. I did not go to see art, per se. The person I went to see, I think his girlfriend was there and it was like that scene in Closer with Clive Owen and Natalie Portman in front of her portrait and his possible girlfriend is Julia Roberts who is busy socializing with mutual friends. Except our interaction was much more socially appropriate and superficial and less overtly sexy. Except I felt incredibly sweaty and awkward and maybe out of place because I hardly knew anyone there and he knew it and tried to spend time chatting with me but kept getting whisked away by schmoozy friends.
I felt so alienated that I grabbed a plastic cup of White Zinfandel and sipped it sparingly. It tasted like church. Sour church. I challenged everyone I saw and made eye contact with there to a secret mind duel. I won every time. I think that's called a staring contest. I like to think of it as a mind duel. Like Jedi Warriors. I beat every skinny white boy there.

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