|—||Roberto Bolaño, 2666|
spent the first half of my day sockless in my underwear and doc martins in her logan square apartment while the girl i hesitate to call my girlfriend (if only to avoid the pressure of definition) is in rehearsal a bus ride away in lincoln park.
around eight o’clock one night previous i am carrying a five gallon plastic bucket full of steaming molten smokey chicken thigh grease out the back door of work and through a course of parking lot ice towards the grease trap behind the dumpster.
one am eastern time this morning i am driving about thirty minutes north of lafayette doing fifty in a seventy in the gracious tracks of an eighteen wheeled diesel mammoth while dry snow separates like a dense low-lying fog in front of me
i take my steps lightly. it’s been two straight weeks of temperatures fluctuating well enough to melt and freeze and melt and freeze but what’s sick is the gauge never just settles on melt and lets the spring sweep in and save our battered bumpers and unbalanced asses
one thirty am central: back up to seventy in a forty-five on the chicago loop the mist kicked up from my predecessors on the dirty highway collects on my windshield and i switch on the wipers just to smear it into an opaque mess. i panic attack to the nearest exit.
when i do slip on the ice (which, believe me, was always going to happen), the bucket lands perfectly on its base next to me and the liquid cholesterol jumps out like a caged animal after suspiciously eyeing an open gate. from the belt down i am soaked.
two am central she gets in the car from a party on north lincoln with booze on her breath and her first words after a kiss are “god, it smells like barbecue in here.”
once i fitted the basis of an entire side of a split from two lines from the band’s “whispering pines.” i put it in quotes w an asterisk and an annotation at the bottom. i think thats totally fine. do your thing man. hope it works out.
I’ve got a six pack of Stone IPA, I’m helping my older brother organize his records for an upcoming DJ night, and the snowpocalypse just came to Kentucky so lets talk about Xerxes. All questions I can’t answer personally will be forwarded to other members via text. The switch on the hype machine is flipped to the “on” position.
drove to chicago in the polar vortex and as a kentuckian and as an admittedly just ok driver i was lucky to drive home in one vehicular piece. i deserve to stay somewhere that never snows. my upbringing (complete w snowforts and neighborhood snowball fights) was a tease. i was just thinking about playing football around janurary every year and as far as i’m concerned, i may as well have grown up in indianola (according to archie, and peyton, and eli, and j.c. the first.)
you see, round january in mississippi, the coats are supposed to hang in the closets and we’re all supposed to put on football jerseys. but i suppose in kentucky we don’t get so goddamn lucky. i remember tackling my little brother in the front yard and bloodying the shit out of his nose before the super bowl party. he’s 6’3” and throws a sidearm fastball to strike out louisville slugger royalty. i’m five beers deep and praying for sunday. or warmth. or the south. i don’t know.
im so hungry for snow and ice and slipping on the sidewalk and you catching me
hungry for the absence of pain and the easy swift purge of self-prescribed poison
so starved for warmth — its funny how earlier today i cracked the window for a breeze—
i walked to the stop n’ go while the sun was drowning and the blue was bleeding in
hungry for the cold of chicago and the wind of her wide white boulevards.
preston, bradley, atwood, crittenden… all bit with the surprise of frost and sharp breath.
so now then, what are we? a hunger satisfied? a champagne toast in january?
an eye turned towards spring? towards a sunrise? towards the red skyline behind st. stephens?
i think its the friction of feet rubbing together. ligaments and bones and skin and all that.
the constant rotating of tires over fresh snow. the crowded arrivals gate at louisville international.
um i’m not sure how much i’m really supposed to reveal about that (especially considering i’m very happy with the way it turned out) but yeah there was a point where we were in talks with vales and 6131 but it just didn’t work out.
to answer your questions, i have wanted to hold someone and never let go. to respond to your affection, i think i wonder often what it is exactly i write at all for and the answer to that is definitely not affection in general (although it is appreciated (how could it not be appreciated?)), but i think i just do it to level myself out. or understand myself. or attempt to. i don’t know. when i think about it, i am so young and dumb that what makes sense today usually doesn’t tomorrow. also i keep pouring myself glasses of johnny drum and listening to this new lanterns on the lake record (its great (even though pitchfork only gave it a 6.2?!)
essentially that is an insanely wonderful thing to say. i hope only that you only ever fall in love with my words because the human behind them is a bit impossible. cheers to you and your unfiltered heart.
for the death-obsessed and drunken lovers, we are the same,
we can only drive five hours to save our lives once we’ve slept it off.
and to the young lust of moral decrepitude, we are brothers,
i still sip out the same depraved, engraved whiskey glass.
oh, and to you, the soft, sacred skin of sweet true compassion,
i miss you, i really do.