There’s something about these carnival lights that make me feel at ease. It’s like a promise — to tell me that they will always be around, that they will never leave. To make me believe in tomorrow. To make me believe in me.
This little black-and-tan dachshund bitch is just over 10 years old. She loves soft things like new blankets and thick rugs; sunbathing; and playing with her squeaky rollie ball.
Today, I caught her basking under the sun atop our new Virgil Abloh rug, set inside our son’s room.
I bring this to you because this little black-and-tan dachshund bitch is getting old, and I always fear, most times anticipate, her going away, and I want to capture this bitch during her finer moments.
And today, on that rug, it was a fine moment.
La Cienega Blvd. under the 10 freeway.
“I thought it, poetic .”
“Not really; more of a clichéd poetic.”
“Doesn’t it say something to you?”
“What does it say to you?”
“I marvel at the fact that one word, as simple as one word, can move someone, like the same way a poem moves when you read it, all just words. You look at a billboard, words. It gives you a message. You internalize it. Words move, even if those words don’t make sense. Out of context, and sometimes, with way too much context, and even just one word, one tag, that can move.”
“I wonder if the guy who owns all that shit is okay, and of course, I immediately think, of course, he’s not okay. But he was just there. Surviving. And you think, How long does he have left? I mean, if that’s rock bottom…”
“How do you know that that’s rock bottom?”
“If that’s not rock bottom, if that’s not the lowest one will go, one can go, then what does low look like?”
“It looks like death. That’s the lowest one can go.”
“I think we’re high when we’re dead. When we die, we’re not dead anymore. We’re elsewhere. I no longer matter to people, and people no longer matter to me. I, for one, couldn’t give a fuck about another stranger dying.”
“Would you give a fuck if that person who owned all that shit died?”
“Yes. Now, I do. I feel like I know him now.”
When life gets difficult — and especially when it gets difficult — write. Write every day. No matter what.
Get that flow.
Easier said than done, I’m learning. I’m fixated.
On the table, salt-and-pepper shakers served as towers of demarcation, posted in between his hugging hands and her reddening elbows, and I watched from the sidelines, my body floating above the demilitarized zone and listened to them talk about writing and its place inside anxious minds.
“The world is sick,” he said.
“But the world’s always been sick,”she replied, “People have always died. Wars always fought. Presidents in shame, hearts dimmed. But underneath those dark skies, writers wrote.”
So I left and I wrote.
We looked around and felt as if the world had never revolved but it did.
We looked around and thought that the people had never evolved, and they did.
This is about yesterday’s day off.
A 420 message from Little Dragon: