Short Bursts

Lift your arm now, or be alone forever
-- Miranda July

Seven days at a fleeting rate. A series of moments, collected and stored under the Gregorian calendar system. I lie in bed at the end of it all, the 7th day, with the sound of a truck coming from the alley, warning everyone in the area that it's moving in reverse; short vignettes replay in my mind.

Little snippets, from Monday to Sunday. Leroy sitting in the dark bar, professing loudly enough so that it turned heads, "I want to be sexy too goddamnit;" watching Nymphalidae's red skirt flutter in the wind as she biked past my window seat at a french bistro while eating salad nicoise with loveliness in tow; dancing with complete abandon to LCD Soundsystem for a seated audience of two; Dragica singing Gloria in our little club on the east side of town; sitting in my window, smoking in my underwear, and watching a box of fried chicken blow across the alley; having ten or twelve people swaying back and forth in unison as I sang in that bar with the model train; putting on a new shirt; feeling the heat of summer and sweating over a twelve dollar frittata; going to the cinema three days in a row; sticking my feet into the mist of a cold fountain; watching busses go by with their route numbers lit and streaking; the 15; the 5; the 4; popcorn; fountain pop.

I lie here on a barren mattress, the sheets thrown on to the floor because they reek of wine and lust. Nothing is in sequence, it's all blurring together. Everyday is everyday.