Once the initial mental cacophony of being in a crowded room settles down and fades into a subtle drone the images gather to the forefront of my mind to be consciencelessly catalogued.
The greaser fella sighs into his beer, in a short sleeve white t-shirt so crisp that I assume that it's come right out of the package and smells of plastic. I think he is waiting for something or someone because his face lights up when a text comes through. The beautiful bartender's sister sits with an sweet faced baby in her lap, his head a mess of blonde curls. Next to me another local slumps and laughs occasionally at my dark humor, as I speculate on the lives of others and decline to take personal chances.
Lately the olfactory is knocking me over. A sudden super-sense. I can smell everything from the Old Spice on the greaser, to the smell of butter on the chef just off a shift. I confirm with him, his cuisine is French. The sick aspartame smell of my cheap whisky and diet coke and the cheaper floral perfume of the two french girls who whisper about men from last night and eye the baby with disdain
How did we all end up in this city? By fate or by chance? Both seem to operate on the same wavelength and free will claims no stake in either.
I want to reclaim will.
I want to be guilty when my mind's levee breaks.
-----
from the journal
No comments:
Post a Comment