August 27, 2012
and it's 2:00 AM
An FM radio is a temperamental form of entertainment for a weekend getaway. I would still prefer it to a collection of CDs that appear to be curated with designs to alienate me, but when you are sitting shotgun in a friend of a friend's car, it's not really up to you, now is it?
I only know the names of these bands and albums from hearsay, the rest is happening now and I don't have a whole lot to say about any of it. When I left the city I opted to leave those extraneous bits of cultural baggage there with it. The very idea of an alternate place to exist in, even if just for a little while, had been some kind of seven day mirage of a soundless oasis.
When you start indulging in expectation, you stop watching the wire. You just respond to the vibrations of the momentum. A peach-colored harvest moon dipped around each bend in highway and over trees and brush. I realized most of the summer's potential under that moon.
"Just have fun," B whispered, squinting under a beach umbrella. "If nothing else, just enjoy this." She looked towards the ocean. I looked at my feet. You do have a magnetic sense of being at the edge of the world. Nothing ever makes me feel more exalted than throwing my whole body into it. Fun is an afterthought.
It is difficult to have fun when you hold fun against certain emotional regards. Everything you do becomes everything you could've done differently. We were at the mercy of ultraviolet discretion. I let the tide divy that up.
Nighttimes, we would perch ourselves around a campfire, invoking some idea of the Gods of summer as though those totems still held authority. My faith was out of practice, so experience was my only truth. Smoke rose, my prayers wafting into my eyes, stinging. There really is little to no ritual to fire anymore. No offerings other than beer cans and cigarette butts. He placed an arm around my waist. It was the nearest thing faith could muster.
The silences we shared became weighted ceremonies. I'm across the room eyeing the distance that started spanning the day we got here. I kept silent, listening to the depth that it would go, waiting for the bounce-back echo that never comes. He was never still enough for a minute to catch it and I sank the invitation heavy-handedly.
In the morning, on the last day, belly-down splayed across white sheets, knees bent upwards and that stupid half-punked hairstyle flopped over his eyes. I don't remember if it was his cell phone in his hands or nothing.
I think I loved everything about the sight of that, right then. And then I blinked. I turned away, blushing, into the bathroom. The spoils of getting what you wanted-- the sooner you do, the less of it you can keep.