unable to sleep, unable to write. I miss my friend in the UK, wish she was here with me playing cards in the back of the soul bar.
there are things I want to describe - Johnny the drummer, with his long, fine Asian hair, watching his teenage kid ripping it up on the drums. some nights the kid races through, especially if they have a weak singer, and some nights he's brilliant, falling slowly into another world with the bassist, where they see the same horizons and the same suns, and they draw them out with sound, pulling the band into weird orbit, the audience too, till everyone's inside that orange space, blue land cresting behind. Johnny sits and listens, same expression every time.
honestly, I want to describe how he gave me his number and I felt welcomed, and then when I went back there with friends he wasn't so friendly again, and I thought I'd maybe offended him by saying something typically ang moh. or it was that he meant the number to mean something else and I was dumb, or it was just... chance, a nothingness.
I wouldn't put this down because - what does it mean, this nothingness? it's an ego bubble, floating through, blocking the arterial flow. or else it's something so finely woven - threads of offering, the offering lain down on the ground and the other party touches it but does not pick it up, steps around it - something has gone wrong, the welcome is not right.
nothing is right here. guest of the master who eats the servant's food.
there are things I want to describe - Johnny the drummer, with his long, fine Asian hair, watching his teenage kid ripping it up on the drums. some nights the kid races through, especially if they have a weak singer, and some nights he's brilliant, falling slowly into another world with the bassist, where they see the same horizons and the same suns, and they draw them out with sound, pulling the band into weird orbit, the audience too, till everyone's inside that orange space, blue land cresting behind. Johnny sits and listens, same expression every time.
honestly, I want to describe how he gave me his number and I felt welcomed, and then when I went back there with friends he wasn't so friendly again, and I thought I'd maybe offended him by saying something typically ang moh. or it was that he meant the number to mean something else and I was dumb, or it was just... chance, a nothingness.
I wouldn't put this down because - what does it mean, this nothingness? it's an ego bubble, floating through, blocking the arterial flow. or else it's something so finely woven - threads of offering, the offering lain down on the ground and the other party touches it but does not pick it up, steps around it - something has gone wrong, the welcome is not right.
nothing is right here. guest of the master who eats the servant's food.
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