Day Twenty-Three: Suffocate
Jiffy marker graffiti on pizza box lids tacked to the wall; records; snowboards—his true love; a rack of skate shoes;
Lucky boxes; cold concrete under chipped grey paint; empty
Gatorade jugs; dirty dishes, always; toy trucks and skate ramps for the boy—five years old, three days a week—his other true love; a growing number of origami cranes—his peace project; vinyl sofa, graffitied; baggy jeans and over-sized shirts; turntables and a mixer; Bashar; chi; Bruce Lee; wednesday night martial arts classes; Diggable Planets; eye contact; the welcoming smile of a good man; dirty towel soaking up the bathroom floor, graffitied; Gemini—
oh yeah, there's at least
two of me, he said one night; forced-air furnace, suffocating if you stand beneath it; and the postcards we made with old photographs and a couple of typewriters, still pinned on the wall. We each chose one we thought appropriate and Scott drove. Was that the three day night? We were inspiration itself, then, a fire that wouldn't go out. We were something important, something that mattered—we were art. Typewriters and passion; beer and cigarettes. Cocaine.
I scream, you scream, we all scream for garbage— A landscape shot. A lake maybe. Something forested and ironic. That one was yours.
I take liberties—Top of a ski hill. Chair lift to the right. Enormous, heaping piles of snow. That one was mine.
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