ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the pier 1 I remember the sun being pulled into the ocean. It coughed fire and flung its limbs about, but it had strength enough only to light the nearby water; and me. The city behind me is covered in darkness. In the northern sky I saw something that I thought was a hot-air balloon, but it turned out to be the art of the sky, painted in hues of clouds and mist. I remember Sara Jones and I riding the ferry twice for not reason at all. In that short time, I fell in love with her and the gliding birds and the subtle dive of dolphins. She appealed to me because she didn't take anything from me. Didn't steal my thunder, my money, my time, or my focus. Unlike Vennessa, who thought that self-dependence was a reiteration of the invasion of Poland. I remember the pier at Oceanside. I passed a little boy who talked of starfish falling from the sky. Was it a dream or a memory? I smiled and mused on the innocence of a child. I saw an O.G. and a Vato fishing shoulder-to-shoulder with a toothless old, racist white man. I saw kids with wheels on the soles of their feet. I saw old people with wheels on the legs of their walkers. I noticed that, no matter how anti-trend, anti-corporate, or anti-hero a person is, no one is ever too cool for the ocean. And, of course, because nature abhors a vacuum, the ocean never humbles itself to anybody. I remember the fish, raging against the dying of the light beneath the pier, to steal big. I remember Sara Jones again and the way she used to call me "Spaz". No one else ever did that. We drove in silence on Bolivar Island, listening to a Tori Amos song that had my name in it. I remember smiling while she chastised my vulgar mouth: So you think I'm empty? Well, what about you? You say that I'm profane? Well, fuck you, too. I remember comedy, subtle humor; useless pauses, dramatic, nonetheless. We laughed like children who didn't know any better and changed the words of pop songs to suit our mood. I sang a song that I'd written for her that asked her to go away so that I could miss her. I never mentioned her name so she laughed along with me. Then she went away. I remember the way she bit her upper lip when she had nothing better to do. I remember the way her skin glowed in the dark. I remember her being prone to wearing baby-t's with over-sized pants; my weakness. I remember how smooth her face was. I remember smoking cigarettes on the balcony of a hotel room overlooking the sea, she with a towel on that I wanted to see on the floor or strewn haphazardly over the lamp. I remember her car with the busted windshield and the eerie French music that blared from the impressive factory sound system. I remember how short she was; that her face would fit in the space between my chin and my heart, her breath ticking my neck. I remember her in a red Atari shirt, thrashing about to a local emo-core band that didn't deserve thrashing about to. I remember the coy look on her face when she stared down at me after taking her shirt off and pinning me to the floor. I remember her breasts intimidating me with nipples that never really got hard, making them more intriguing. I wanted to be inside her in the most base way, but I didn't dare. Then she went away. And I did miss her. I remember the pier again, looking down at surfers victoriously conquering waves a staggering two feet high. At the end sat a humble restaurant where the people congregate, not to eat and watch the calm ebb and flow of the ocean, but to eat and watch the faces of the people outside the window. The passive faces of people watching the calm ebb and flow of the ocean. Some smiled comfortably. Some stood awe-struck. Others, still, twisted their faces in pain while thinking about a short girl who held their heat for a few moments, only to give it back without adding to it or taking anything away. She appealed to me because she didn't take anything from me. She peeled away from me because she didn't want anything from me. She taught me things. She tested my IQ on the Internet and then resented me for my score. She taught me about slacker culture and the Dust Brothers and the Gorillaz. She voiced her objections against the over-usage of the word "yeah" in rock music. She ran off with my Stabbing Westward CD. She taught me about Sinatra and Siffle & Ollie. She didn't take anything from me. I taught her nothing, and she was an apt pupil. She used the slang word "retard" loosely. It unnerved me. I'm on the pier again. There's a woman at the end, her expression somber, empathizing for the suffering sun. I remember driving west to San Diego, chasing the sun, I hugged the curvature of the earth and sped towards it, so that its fight to stay in the sky lasted four hours. Eventually the encroaching darkness got the upper hand and thrust it down. Now I'm flirting with the moon. The stars are winking at me, and if I tried to return the wink to each one, my eyes would be closed and I'd miss the beauty. So I put on something heavy to listen to and nod at them. Now the sun is pushing the darkness away and washing out my stars. I press harder towards the west, trying to prolong this moment. My efforts are futile and soon the soon the sun is sitting in my backseat, mocking me. I smile. I'm glad to see it, after all, but I miss the moon. We flirted so much that I never got around to saying what I meant to. Then she went away. Sara Jones poured coffee for a living with a guy who did a great impression of "Buffalo Bill" from Silence of the Lambs. They were all too cool for me. I recall jotting something down on one of her napkins. I kept it. I should find that. Sara and I played basketball once together. We were both atrociously horrible at it so it was fun. She came to a Christmas gathering and drank Goldschlager from Evil Dead shotglasses and vomited Chee-tos on my friend's balcony. I drove her home. She was too embarrassed to call for awhile. Eventually she lived it down. I'm on the pier again. I'm thinking I should talk to the somber woman. Tell her she doesn't need to feel for the sun. It's only playing hide-and-seek; not dying. I don't, though. I remember that, back home, the sun would set over a church just off the freeway so that a shadowy cross would fall over the Wal-Mart and I would laugh like a child that didn't know any better. I would hug the western walls an hour later and steal their heat. I would think of the mornings that I drove west on Frazier Street, the only vehicle on the road driving away from her house. The sun would come up behind me; laughing at me. Reminding me that the days are solely for its pleasure. I could share her with the night or not at all. I would break the mirror with my accusatory stares but the sun would keep fucking shining. No, somber woman, you don't need to feel for the sun. It feels fine on its own. It's got more feelings than you know, lady. On the pier, a young girl rolls by on a roller-scooter. I smile at her and wonder how long it will be until someone poisons her mind and teaches her how to play games. Not Chutes-n-Ladders or Monopoly. Games with people's feelings and hopes and hearts and plans. What does society do to us that makes us this way? Self-righteous? It used to make me laugh. Now I can't because I'm too self-conscious. What would others think? Will they ostracize me? Am I not cool enough? Does my shirt match my shoelaces? Now that I have her number, how long should I wait before I call her? Did that guy just nod at me? Is that a bowl-cut he has? What is he? Gay? Does he think I am? Oh my God; does everybody think that? Does it make a goddamned bit of difference what they fucking think? (to be continued...) 4:54 p.m. - 2003-02-13 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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