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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Scurrying between the walls. Intermission.

He's an intimidating but friendly bruiser forever stumbling down the street in the early morning, all 6'4" and leatherclad, missing two front teeth, bottle-blond-brutha. "Hey! Smoke?" he inquires in a slightly-too-loud voice, as though he'd been lost in noisy thoughts, left his internal volume up too high. Not a feral cat, just a touch undomesticated. Seen him around many a time.

I give a chin-up nod, dig in a pocket until I find the chrome coffin that serves as my cigarette case. It had first jumped into my hand at a gas station somewhere on the 5 freeway -- cheesy, but I could not resist the leering skull and crossbones on the front. Click it open, hand him a coffin nail. Click it closed, breathe a little less life.

"Man, you wouldn't believe... it's, yeah. I've got a PILE of shit going on -- all right, I'll check in with you later on." We slam fists, I head on my way. I don't remember ever having traded more than two words with him before. Maybe I'm only here to hold the space of the person people think they're holding a conversation with. Or maybe we know each other very well, and my memory has been stolen. Occam's Razor tacks a little bit to the side, depending on the wielder, depending on the perspective.

In another life, I traveled other countries with holes in my boots, and change in my pocket. In another life, I spent mornings in the desert watching the sun rise to the accompaniment of booming bass. In another life, I barked at strangers, woke up and had a beer, climbed abandoned warehouse ladders in the dead of night chased ghosts in New Mexico, cast spells in Los Angeles, built invocations in New York, spoke eptithets and prophecies in the 909. In another life, I was in school for some reason. In another life, I was young. In another life, I got old. In another life, I knew what I wanted.

Is this me, now, when I wake up?

I keep walking down the street, to get to the car, to drive to the gas station, to cross the bridge, to get to work, to undo work at the gym, and while I go all these places, my headspace is elsewhere, walks elsewhere. Once, on one misty, twilit evening, I heard someone on this street playing the To Zanarkand theme on their piano, with slight hesitations, but intimate familiarity evoking a memory that never happened, of a place that never was.

Audio cues can take you funny places. It's an oddity, to have the same ringtone as someone else anymore. How long until we forget the sound of a ringing phone, what it was, what it meant?

How long until public payphones disappear? Or until we no longer remember that postboxes were for reaching out to other people?

I've got some writing brewing; don't I always? Stay tuned.

I keep reminding myself lately to look up, to breathe deep, to stare at the moon, to watch the clouds in sky. We don't remember to do these things from time to time, we're going to forget how, and why.

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heh. i see that guy as well, i don't think he likes me.

Ninja, it's thoughts like that that make me wish I didn't have a job, and could spend my time Working on writing.

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