18.Aug.2001
friday night
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^%&^
Last night was surreal.
I came home to an empty house, much to my delight, and entertained myself with the piano, and this book by Christopher Rice who is vastly becoming a favourite of mine. Back-tracking, I spent the afternoon/evening with my brother who took me around town. I introduced him to this French bistro called La Baguette's, which is now a favourite of his. Then we ventured to Barnes and Noble where I bought A Density of Souls x Chris Rice. I had one of those feelings I would love the book without actually opening the cover. I think I squealed when I found out he was published.
At one point in my life, Anne Rice was the favourite, that is to say I grew out of it, if it's something of which you can grow out. I was never big on the vampire novels, although I appreciate Interview .. considering from what tragedy it finally arose. Mostly, I looked toward A Cry to Heaven and The Witching Hour to soothe my suffered void of fantasy verses reality. At any rate, it appeases me to no end that Chris has taken the same route with his career.
I then spent an hour and a half at my brother's father's house, gawking at its immense proportions and winding stair-cases. Very upper-class. I decided from that moment onward I would never want a house of that calibre.
My brother's half-siblings are nubile, vibrant things, languid and tall and limber, unapologetic Gap kids. Works of genetic art. My brother is ten times more real than this, and it lays a solid foundation where the many reasons I love him are stacked.
I came home to an abandoned house at dusk. Magenta was sweetly breaking across a luminous starlight. I tread upstairs to check messages on my phone, then peered out the window into the face of impending night, peaceful, but incomplete. I wanted to be taken, but wasn't. The night ended with my eye-lids dropping over a series of words written by the hand of Christopher Rice, and dreams of past fucked my subconscious. It seemed the perfect end to a mundanely magical Friday night.
On the weekends, I never know what I'm going to do with myself, or what they are going to do to me.
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time & machine