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Transmission from a Gastown pub on Friday night
i can't look. the overwhelming weight of squandered possibility is too great.
the french waitress moves gracefully back and forth and makes the wood creak with her feather steps. an old country mystery rests in the rustic plait of her chesnutt hair.
well fuck this display of piss yellow schoolboy timidity anyway. i'm no longer a boy but a fair skinned, faint spirited creature of neoteny. too stubborn to grow up and too scared to die i
exist without life and devoid of that human faculty that understands the mystery of communication, sparks the flint of intimacy which consummates desire. i'm wedded to silence. my bride is the deafening quiet that reverberates through a darkened house when only one sleeps within. divorced from any pretense, now, that i am someone worth loving in my craven, self-inflicted isolation. i am part of a void that takes, gazes with derision, and gives only doubt in return. i am part of a cosmic lacking that i don't understand, even after been alone with my sunken thoughts for all of this time.
well anyway, her voice darts around like points of light in a glass room in the afternoon. her form is thin but vital and her face sings of kindness and old country health.
meanwhile this man-boy next to me wants to touch his girlfriend and she wants to take a picture with her iphone. he read in a magazine one time that women like having him run his fingers through their hair, makes them feel possessed in a positive way. he pats her on the ass like a good kitty.
"clubber, what's your prediction for the fight?"
"my prediction?... pain."
