Crouching Elephant, Hidden Butthurt. The Evening Redness Over the River Kwai. An autobiographical jotting.

 

And so it was, all those years ago, that the time and video resolution was so different, people's attitudes, and how things bounce, like fried eggs leaving a speck on the wall.  There was Crouching Elephant Hidden Butthurt, Bridge on the River Kwai.  That second I did epic-style, with fried rice from the fridge, and I found, it was still tasty, but the texture was altogether chewy, as I waited on the titular bridge, then mused, still chewing, over the climax of the film.

Hartsville it was, a First Act guitar with unfinished neck.  It was a kind of "thirsty wood" thing, me thinking, I put brush to it, it would all get absorbed deep into the grain.  And that was all like a random act of the universe, a guitar following me home, which had a kind of serendipity to it, as such things go, and yet, the guitar just wasn't good.  It lacked any real personality of its own, I would find over months of toying around with it, and I would go back to my budget beater boutique model.

I can't emphasize that enough, maybe, that it just happened, unplanned.  Cheap guitar falls into hand, accompanies me home.

What was planned to the utmost was the buying of shoes, and then at the last minute, a beguiling mercy, the universe sneezing at my efforts, how I saved for four weeks to buy a new pair of all-purpose shoes, of the "street hiker" style which was part work shoe and part high-top sneaker.  Yes, the universe sneezed-out money onto me at the last moment, as if giving me a reward for my suffering.

A sweaty fat man, at the mercy of the universe.

You do your five hours of part-time labor, go home and look at porn for a few hours.  The universe looking over your shoulder, without a judgement, but with cold ebony doll's eyes watching.

I went to buy shoes; someone bought them for me, instead.  Those and a guitar.  A return, one improperly packed, upside down in its packaging, resting on the strings, in a cardboard carton.  I would do the good adopted father thing, discard the box in the store, and the guitar would lie on the backseat, just kind of be there, put right side up, face up like a dying person.