Finished B's book this morning (I accidentally woke up at 8 am, though I went to bed at 3. How does it all work?). It was fantastic. It feels monumental. I mean, his stuff has always felt monumental, but this is better than the rest, because it's topical, written for a broader audience. It's inspiring what he's done — he has inspired me from day one.
I read for a few hours in the cafeteria today. It's amazing how coffee gives me laserlike focus. Consistently. It's the miracle liquid, superior to wine, second only to diet Mountain Dew.
I worked on storyboarding for the rest of the time. I doodled a bit — I am always trailing behind some wunderkind, never striking youthful gold myself. I will be middle-aged before I create work with meaning, but that's ok. I am incubating.
I am stupid and accidentally cropped out all my work. Thankfully, the images I was drawing weren't terribly complex, so I was able to easily and quickly recreate them, but it was still annoying AF. Skyler was there the entire time, though we didn't talk much. Later, Vincent came. Oh, Vincent. So chummy with the animation boys — the chummiest of chums. Giggling, nudging, knowingly looking, winking. It's...it's like he was born in the 1950s. He has antiquated social habits. And on top of that, he is a narcissist. Oh, Vincent. Please never read this.
Dylan and Thomas came later, too. It was fun times at first. Then, when I finished my work, I sat a while longer, as Vincent was hovering near the exit, one foot out the door, not quite leaving, still winking and nudging as if he was part of a larger inside joke that forms the foundation of all friendships. And I didn't want to leave as he left.
How could I have been so naive as to expect something like a miracle of human behavior? I am naive, so naive. He hovered for an impossibly long time, and I was beginning to get bored (not to mention physically uncomfortable from all the sitting and staring and drawing and erasing), so I stood up and started packing my own things. As soon as I stood up, though, I creased the mark of death into my breast. Vincent's eyes and ears perked up, and his eyes shone with hope, and he stood resolute, finally given a purpose: he would wait for me. Oh, god. And he did. He waited for me. He walked me back to my apartment and asked, once again, to get coffee. Quickly — maybe too quickly — I laughed, responding, "For sure, man, next time I see you in the cafeteria!" There is no easier way to subtly establish platonic intentions than by throwing around "man" or "dude" — especially as a girl.
I talked to B about this. We both agreed that while he does seem to be cajoling me into his inner circle, I am likely not the only invited houseguest. And for this, I should feel grateful. I am listening to Wagner. I like Wagner. Stravinsky is a little boring. A future goal: obtain a record player.
Today's Carlos update: Leanne texted me early this morning asking if I wanted to go to Carlos's show on Thursday. Thursday? Oh, it was on Facebook, which I don't have, which she forgot I don't have. She texted me privately, too. I said, no, I can't go, because I am busy all day on Thursdays, and I also don't have a car. But, anyway, Carlos never informed me, so does he even care if I come? God, this terrible, unfertilized patch of dirt of a friendship. Dry, unnourished, unremarkable, but predictably located under my feet, as it has always been. Crusty soil that used to birth plump rosy tomatoes and redolent sprigs of basil and mint. Now, I am lucky to receive a potato.
Also, holy shit, my mom sent a screenshot of a canceled Amazon order of a pink tobacco/weed grinder, and she wanted to know who was behind the order. Holy shit. So, it was either my dad or my brother. Both were plausible suspects, though I would expect my dad to be smarter in covering his tracks. Jordan didn't admit to it so much as not deny it — I was cackling, and my dad seemed confused, and my brother, poor kid, couldn't talk right now because he was "in library." I just. I just can't. He can be so, so stupid sometimes. It's absolutely hilarious.
B had class and had a good time. He seems to be making friends now. Settling in. He is toiling away at his podcast. He is reading over 1000 pages a week. Our time, now, is shorter, and thus sweeter and, conversely, bitterer. But it's better this way. It's better than being bored. The future seems impossibly distant, yet somehow immediately tangible. How will I feel when I am in my deathbed, laying exactly as I'd imagined I'd be laying? Will it feel surreal then? Is the journey of life unwaveringly surreal? I've imagined just about every future moment of significance. When I ultimately arrive at these points, what will I feel? Will reality be sweeter and sharper than my visions? Will it be sadder, or happier than I'd imagined? My wedding, my children, my parents' deaths? Things often feel more real when imagined than when experienced. But it's a different reality. I think groundedness can only be acheived through watching television. Particularly sitcoms.