13: there will be no twelve

I missed yesterday (which still feels like today as I have not gone to bed yet and will not until I finish something — anything — in the realm of schoolwork), but that’s okay. I don’t care for any of the prizes; I’m doing this thing for the routine of writing, to prove to myself that it’s still possible.

I had a good reason for missing that November 12 post. I spent the evening studying in the company of a new friend.* One can hardly say, “Excuse me, new and very exciting friend! I have to interrupt our fascinating conversation to whip out my laptop and post something on my blog!” It just isn’t done. Not that I thought about it, it didn’t even occur to me. We studied, mostly, but also ate dinner and talked and it was all really lovely.

She’s got a buoyancy, a very genuine lightness to her soul that I lack and so love to find in other people. I do hope we become proper friends, good friends.

While walking back to her house at midnight from the cafe where we’d studied we hit a hill in a dark residential neighbourhood. I wheezed and swayed, dizzy from half-asphyxiation, and, maybe guessing that I was too proud to request a slow down or a rest, she suddenly cut off her athletic charge up the hill and said, “Oh, we should rest. Let’s sit. No, let’s lie down. The sidewalk is dirty, of course…”

“I can handle the dirtiness tonight,” I said, already half-collapsing.

We lay down, our feet pointing downhill and our heads pillowed on our bags. It was dirty, and awfully cold — a perfect amount of physical discomfort, just enough that my mental and emotional awkwardness at spending the evening in the company of a not-quite-total stranger dropped away a little. She told stories of her recent summer in Europe and demonstrated her Tom Waits imitation. I shivered so hard that my bones clattered bruisingly against the sidewalk. I told a poorly-reconstructed abridgment of the story of Orion. We talked about Bob Dylan, phonemes, the letter H, favourite alcoholic drinks, the poetic sublime. I always want to be friends with people who can give me intelligent conversation about the poetic sublime.

*My habit of reducing names to initials is proving problematic — her name also begins with A, bringing the total number of “A’s” in my life to four or five or maybe six. I might have to start thinking up pseudonyms soon — it’s confusing even to me.

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~ by Not Alice on November 13, 2007.

One Response to “13: there will be no twelve”

  1. Sounds enchanting.

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