“I’ve always said If you want to know who your friends are
Go to a madhouse or jail
And if you want to find out where love is
Go to the streets.”
- Bukowski (Remembered by Elias)
You told me you were going to find yourself a "nice and boring girl," because us "brilliant" ones were "just awful." Then there was that dream I had of a baby of amethyst. She was a long body of geodes and druzy crystals glistening like galaxies and she was something of a centipede, horrendous, but someone once said that great beauty always has a strangeness in the proportions and didn't I warn you that I was thirsty for purple?
I freak out upon hearing the news: you found your nice and boring one, your "normal" one. I tell my friend who is also my Idiot and Genius, my best enemy and the only person I do drugs with because doing drugs is private and he doesn't judge me or laugh when I lay on the motel bed saying, "Let's pray to Jesus," because I am suddenly convinced I am overdosing, but I'm really just super fucking high and he doesn't even believe in Jesus, but he prays with me anyway because he loves me like that.
I ask him, "Am I too fucked up to be loved? Am I not a nice girl?"
"Ah, fuck 'nice.' Get yourself together, man. Damn, do you really want to be like those people? Nice people killed Lorca, man. They murdered Pasolini."
I tell him I want to be nice and boring, can he help me do it? How do I do it? Shall I buy an ugly suit jacket? Shall I dye my hair blonde and leave my eyebrows dark? Should I love, "Where the Wild Things Are," and quote motivational posters when I'm trying to serve depth? How should I presume? Do I dare and do I dare? Do I dare to eat a peach?
He says he has no fucking idea. He's annoyed. He says don't go getting a bad case of what the French call curiosité avec l'idiot.
"You know, it's when a man is tormented by the abyss of his own tortured genius and so finds someone really stupid because it's like Gaughin's jungle, man, it's this illusion of innocence. It's bullshit."
He says he can't be with women who are in his shadow. I ask him if the French really have such an expression. He admits that they don't, he made it up, but so what, it's real and I need to shut up about it.
We sit in a window chain smoking and watching someone pissing in the alley below trip over some loose bottles and say "God damn it," and then, "Gloria, you fucked my life to hell."
I close the window and shut up the thoughts and hope that the alley man finds love there or in the bar or in a one night fuck or anywhere, that he forgives Gloria, or just gets over it, that, in the future, he watches his step.