Tristan S. Arouet

Lovesongs Live from The Cloister Cafe
2001-12-11 20:33:27 (UTC)

An Entry from Early August

Some moments in ones life are simply worth remembering
if only for the sole sake of being able to portray that
momemt before the hearts of others. I guess I considered
the summer I came to Manhattan to be one of those moments
that I would someday talk of with a brilliance in my voice
and a sort of lame charisma in my eyes.

I felt like I had been smoking a cigarette that had
lasted from late May until early August. Polluted with
whatever smoke, or liquor, or vice that I could to justify
the sudden rashness of leaving California to pursue the
city. And it didn't at all seem wrong, really.

I figured I had finally adjusted myself into a practical
and yet lacklustinglessly proficient mode of existance.
Always but a notion of my philosophy, as usual. But in the
moments to come there arose things (small things) that led
me to believe otherwise. On one morning in particular I
was struck dead with a profound momentary truth. I had
been out all night about the City and was running on only
one hour of sleep when I caught a train to Union Square. I
arose ghostly from the catacombs of a sticky subway
station. Devoid of feeling, I shuffled into a small deli
and grabbed another pack of smokes and something to eat,
shelling out only pocket change and still having to ask
three cents of the man at the counter.

Then I sat on the steps of the park with my breakfast of
Soy Shake and Parliament Light when I stared out into a
frightening plethora of intricate distinction and ambition--
my stark black hair complimenting my all-black attire
(which was standard for my job and all). It made me feel
almost detached. Mornings like this when it was early, and
crisp, and full of curious air, I tended to seperate. It
was just me out there on those steps staring like the Mona
Lisa onto cars and busses and storefronts, all without the
slightest notion of relitive humanity. Just machinery and
concrete. Exactly what I had wanted, right? Everything a
boy could dream of was at my fingertips which burned with
anticipation and longing. All mine for the taking, were I
to ask for it. Yet something was gnawing at my skull for
relief. I had only been in the City for two and a half
months, yet I had the sudden urge to go somewhere and do...
something else.

After but one hour of sleep my head was too messed up to
think, let alone attempt to w r i t e.




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