"Nobody said it was easy / It's such a shame for us to part"
22 May 2010 at 8:25 pm
These spontaneous happenings, these chance meetings, these experiences that, if you thought about it just for a second, you would talk yourself out of it (there are so many things that could go wrong: murder, molestation, awkward conversation), these moments when the perfect combination of chemistry and charisma and booze and attire create fearlessness: you've learned that these things are best left to their 24 hour cycles:
11am on a sunny Saturday in May: standing in a yard in the hills above Summerland, a view of the ocean, a multi-million dollar property, holding a bottle of Skyy vodka, a kitchen knife, and a lighter at 11am. Two strangers arrive. You go to the kitchen to put the miscellany away, walk out, and introduce yourself: first name only, no affiliation offered. An explanation for your presence wouldn't be out of place, but you stand by your hypothesis that the less you say, the more confident you seem. You remain friendly, still loathing small talk -- mostly your inability to maintain it. You stare at the ocean silently. One stranger is Solange Knowles' personal assistant. The other just flew in from Australia to write songs with and for her.
4pm on a cloudless Saturday in May: standing outside Neverland Ranch, which you facetiously suggested the night before as a possible sight to see for the musicians from Brooklyn, London, Australia. Brooklyn writes "Who's bad?" on the fence, where many others have left tributes in Sharpie. You take a picture of them dancing like a Michael Jackson impersonator might, if he were feeling silly.
6pm on a windy Saturday in May: jumping around squealing while Australia, London, and the sound engineer who you just picked up at SBA film you digging a thorn out of Brooklyn's arm--the explanation for the vodka and the knife from earlier in the day is an Aesop's fable. There is blood and cussing. The thorn stays put.
6am on a quiet Saturday in May: rolling around in a bed making out, dozing, waking up, kissing, thinking, giggling.
5am on an auspicious Saturday in May: everyone getting high in a hot tub while the sun rises higher in the background. You were handed a glass filled with tipsy watermelon upon your miraculous 4am arrival. Brooklyn and London are so nice and so interesting and so talented. You stick with saying as little as possible, or at least you hope you did. You try on some of Solange Knowles' hats.
High noon on a hot Saturday in May: at a cafe in Summerland, getting to know each other beyond hot tubs and sleep-deprived delirium. You mention the book you published, moving across the country for high school at age 11 by yourself, living in Seattle and San Francisco and DC, traveling through Europe and South America. You briefly mention a bad trip to Spain, and your writing projects. Perhaps you are nice and interesting and talented, too, and could stand to say a bit more if only you weren't hungover on 2 hours of light sleep and tequila-soaked watermelon.
3pm on a perfect Saturday in May: reading on a yoga mat in the same yard in which you have and will again attempt minor surgery, interrupting yourself to call your mother to discuss funding the property you're going to purchase soon, soon, soon.
A mellow Friday evening at the bar: it begins with an invitation to the Magic Castle. "The Magic Arsehole?" Perhaps you will see them again in LA on Wednesday, but probably not.
Effortless, these days: let them wash over you and remember them fondly and recall your father's advice on the bottom of every weekly letter he sent you while you were away at boarding school: Experience everything. Enjoy it all.
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