quellazaire

I remember the neighborhood, a quiet little roundabout city. I remember the man in the red house. Tall, handsome, friendly. Blonde wife, two kids, Golden Retriever. 9 to 5. Blue Subaru. I always liked running into him as we got into our cars in the morning: he'd flash this smile and his face would stay with me all day.

I remember getting back to the house late one night and seeing the man sitting on the stoop in his garage. It was summer and I was feeling invincible. He wore a pink nightgown, black stilettos, and was smoking a cigarette from a long plastic holder (a quellazaire, my friend told me to call it, quellazaire.) The look on his face: defeated, solemn, melancholic. But he shot me that smile again and waved with his smoking hand before crossing his legs and looking down at the floor.

It's bullshit, my friend told me. He's just trying to mix up an otherwise monotonous existence.

But I gave up the search for ingenuity a long time ago. You never can tell, not really. Everyone has a story.

mill thoughts

Bookworm: "It was one of those nights, the kind you don't want to forget."
Sunshine: "Will you?"
Bookworm: "Maybe, eventually. I wish you could've come."
Sunshine: "Me, too."

inside

Almost-empty parking lot outside an almost-adandoned building. Step out of the car, cold air hits us, remember: it's getting colder, clearer from here.

Broken, old lift elevator. Spiral staircase wide and forgiving. Reminiscent of one time in Europe.

Dim lights, antiques, canvases, peeling ceiling, warped floorboards. Authentic paint stains on the floor, the wall.

Smells of pine, musty furniture, fire smoke, cigarette smoke, oil paint.

Big bottles of red wine, brown bottles of beer, two wine glasses that have traveled all over and have not broken yet.

He wears a purple flannel shirt and girls watch him intently. He wears it before, after, and while it is trendy. One of the reasons to admire him, to love him.

Would he be able to move his fingers up and down, keep time with his foot, sing up to the ceiling, if he was carrying all the love I've got? We do not live for each other, like they do in stories, and that makes me happy. There is so much love, so much life, to share.

Lights on, new faces, calloused fingers, empty stage. Feel different, renewed, a little drunk, a little dizzy. Pepto Bismol-pink door. We compartmentalize things. Music. Art. Love. Words. A shade of pink in an otherwise dark oil-painted room.

Try to use the elevator, even though it is broken. Run, for fun, down the spiral staircase. Help carry keyboard stands and guitars out into the cold air, only getting colder. But I like it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.

I always wanted to be Harriet the Spy

“Don't you want to be a writer, Sport? Gee, your father could even help you.”
Sport almost collapsed at the sink.
“Are you kidding? You know I want to be a ball player. And if I'm not a good ball player, I'll tell you something, I'm going to be a C.P.A.”
“What's that?”
“You don't know what a C.P.A. is?” Sport screeched.
“No," said Harriet. She never minded admitting she didn't know something. “So what,” she thought; “I could always learn.”

[Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh, 1964]