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2012-11-12 - 3:41 p.m.

nothing, something.

For what I am doing, I do not understand; for I am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate. Romans 7:15.

* * *

somehow, he makes you love the things you don't love, and you find his opinions coming out of your mouth at parties. sure, ukulele ike was rather a novelty act and that voice will always belong to jiminy cricket, but it's not so easy to dismiss cliff edwards as a musician. there's no denying the luminous precision of his hands and intonation.

you feel strongly about this, which surprises you.

now you wonder if this might go both ways. you picture him backstage at a venue in burbank, maybe, impressing your thoughts upon some pretty undergrad. chaplin or keaton might act awkward, but harry langdon - well, he really sells it. with that precisely mis-timed vocabulary of bumbling little gestures, you hardly ever realize that you're watching an extremely graceful man...sure, we could get together for a movie night, sometime.

well, that might be a little heavy-handed. when you met, after all, you were less than half his age and just as precocious as anything. why should you be the only one who's different, special?

this is such an odd friendship.

lately, you've been teasing him - "when you quit smoking, i'll come stay with you for a while, make black coffee and profiteroles, sew on all your missing buttons." but you just can't imagine him without that tweedy, sunkissed nicotine smell, like that summer when you were both so lonely.

and while you begin to suspect that those highs you miss are the sorts of highs that occur in a life mostly made up of lows - well, you will always want the things you do not want, and love the things that you do not love.

and yet you seem to each persist in turning toward the other, like sunflowers to the sun.

* * *

reading: the lonely passion of judith hearne - vicious and unflinching.
listening to: mikhael paskalev - i spy.
working on: fuckall if i know anymore.
in the garden: the japanese maples are like a bonfire.

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