Compose mail: Jesse, unable to start work on 407 due to the J drive being offline. I don’t know how or if I should mount the drive, so I’ll run the package to 1806 Century Park. Their office doesn’t open until at least 7 a.m. though, so I’ll have to wait in the lobby with security. I’ll keep you updated. Thanks! He presses send and Inbox (18).
“I lie awake in your briefcase, and haven’t moved since last Sunday when you took me to Valley Park. I’m vacant. You’ve barely written your name in me yet. These spaces ache, bone dry without ink. The longer you wait, the harder I fear it’ll be for you to write. I fear you won’t come back.”
Timecode 00:01:46:20 entered into the first column of Line 45, P.5 in the second. Tab then Enter, and he’s online 46. Timecode 00:02:02:25 into the first column, P.6 in the second. Tab. Enter.
“Hey Paul, haven’t seen you in awhile. I’m going to some show in Los Feliz and probably grabbing drinks after with Jake. Seriously, haven’t seen you in weeks. You should come! All right. See you.”
He looks at the dashboard of his car, lined with dust, wondering is this taking a toll on you? Mileage counter reads 42.2 from last return time 5:14 p.m. He presses the hard plastic knob and the ticker satisfyingly snatches back to 0. He steps on the pedal and thrusts himself into a wall of slowly moving cars, which he rides all the way to his apartment, sun setting on him.
“You don’t have me as much anymore because you don’t get enough sleep, but tonight you’re not where you were when you first closed your eyes. It’s damp, and you’re having trouble moving your legs to walk. Before you take three steps you run into a tree, although the bark simply smothers you, hugging your shoulders. Trees shoot out of the ground in all directions so that the forest gets smaller but the trees get more. You see a large oak with a gaping hole in its trunk, and green light emanates from its center. You’re drawn to it. The particles of light form your name, and you want to touch it, but the gap starts to shut and shut and the glow of the dust gets faint and cramped. Soon it’s swallowed by the trunk. Everything is dark except for the seared memory of your name, and you simply sleep without me.”
Stepping into the Lima night, Vivian and I were lost in the confusion of shouting cabbies and did the the exact opposite of what we had planned. According to a State Department advisory, kidnappings and armed robberies are common occurrences near Benito Juarez International. Personal belongings are best stored out of plain sight to dissuade would-be thieves, and cabs should not be hailed from the street, but rather from cab services. I imagined our being held at gunpoint by a wayward cab driver who suddenly turned on us after driving deep into El Centro where he had often preyed on silly gringos. By the time we had remembered the potential danger we were already speeding to our hostel, our hands braced against the car doors that seemed feebly constructed and incapable of sustaining any type of collision. The perceived danger was welcome and lended an element of exhilaration. Our fears were amplified by naivete born out of privilege; our joys, however earnest, were joys only a tourist could feel.
THINGS THAT ARE DANGEROUS : WHAT THEY DESTROY
1. Fortnum & Mason : my wallet
2. Sedaris Anthology : my time
3. Local Pubs : my abs
4. Chronology Protection Conjecture : my relativity
5. Adorable Kittens : my ruthlessness