todays journal
After the show I drove Eli and Shannen back to Dorman Hall and cruised down Jefferson, up Copeland, across Tennessee, and through my street’s murkiness listening to the Weakerthans album. The show was just something to do. It’s a pretty 50/50 hit-miss situation, showing up at Club Downunder with no prior knowledge of the band. But this band most definitely landed heads up. Somewhere in my chest exists an organ that replicates the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of coffee internally, with some cocaine into the mix, upon hearing a complexly simple and crunchily melodic rock band. I slammed Conor(my grey Nissan altima)’s door plunging into the front door to my house. It’s a practiced movement, the dual door plunge, and I’m perfecting it every time. Hala thought I was her friend and yelled something interminably incomprehensive.
“It’s just me”
I screamed upstairs.
The creamsicle orange color she painted our living room manages to squeeze the pulp out of your eyelids when first stepping foot into my house.
“Oh, well, I thought you were Felici, Felici’s coming over, leave the door unlocked, where are my keys?”
This is her common speech pattern.
My roommate Hala and I moved into this place at the last minute. It has three windows in the common area, two in the living room and one in the kitchen but the house faces West and is completely draped in Spanish oak trees, creating a permanent absence of sunlight The lighting in the living room is comparable to the fan and lighting department of Home Depot. There’s beige carpeting, beige tile, beige appliances. All walls besides the creamsicle are also beige. It’s pretty disorganized, given we never exactly finished moving in and that we hardly have furniture. My living room is pretty much the interior of a supernatural tree in a deciduous forest with floor cushions, a low table, and an eastern theme. There are constantly leaves on and embedded into the carpet, and the couch cushions are always either upside down or off of the couch completely. About ten stray cats occupy the circumference around my front yard and my back yard. One I call Koshka. I feed him Hala’s tuna and California Chicken Grill leftovers. The rest are a family of shifty black cats that never allow me to get too close but keep me up all night while they meow at the moon, just as good black cats should.
“Did you go to the show?”
I asked her, in my enthusiastic drawl.
“At CDU?”
“Yeah.”
“No, who was it?”
“The Weakerthans.”
“Oh. I’m not really into them so much.”
“Yeah I had never heard them until tonight. They were fun. I’m going to sleep. Night.”
A terse likewise response echoed down the beige steps.
With the beige walls.
And the beige tile.
And the beige stove.
And the beige fridge.
On Gold Nugget Trail.
“It’s just me”
I screamed upstairs.
The creamsicle orange color she painted our living room manages to squeeze the pulp out of your eyelids when first stepping foot into my house.
“Oh, well, I thought you were Felici, Felici’s coming over, leave the door unlocked, where are my keys?”
This is her common speech pattern.
My roommate Hala and I moved into this place at the last minute. It has three windows in the common area, two in the living room and one in the kitchen but the house faces West and is completely draped in Spanish oak trees, creating a permanent absence of sunlight The lighting in the living room is comparable to the fan and lighting department of Home Depot. There’s beige carpeting, beige tile, beige appliances. All walls besides the creamsicle are also beige. It’s pretty disorganized, given we never exactly finished moving in and that we hardly have furniture. My living room is pretty much the interior of a supernatural tree in a deciduous forest with floor cushions, a low table, and an eastern theme. There are constantly leaves on and embedded into the carpet, and the couch cushions are always either upside down or off of the couch completely. About ten stray cats occupy the circumference around my front yard and my back yard. One I call Koshka. I feed him Hala’s tuna and California Chicken Grill leftovers. The rest are a family of shifty black cats that never allow me to get too close but keep me up all night while they meow at the moon, just as good black cats should.
“Did you go to the show?”
I asked her, in my enthusiastic drawl.
“At CDU?”
“Yeah.”
“No, who was it?”
“The Weakerthans.”
“Oh. I’m not really into them so much.”
“Yeah I had never heard them until tonight. They were fun. I’m going to sleep. Night.”
A terse likewise response echoed down the beige steps.
With the beige walls.
And the beige tile.
And the beige stove.
And the beige fridge.
On Gold Nugget Trail.