drunk slurring across from me: “but he’s such a liar”
me: “yea, but i don’t really care about that because i think we’re all liars”
i was up reading this book when my book came to me. the next day, i was sewing the hem onto my dress when the title and subtitle came to me. that’s all i want to say about this for now (except that the next day, the format of my book came to me). later that day, i met a friend that i haven’t seen for at least five years, and it’s her children that i coined the phrase “loinfruit” first after some deep friend duck that she’d made one thanksgiving and forced me to take a shot of absinthe. she was in town for one day courtesy of her publishing house, and by the time i met her after learning the childrens how to read good, she was thoroughly smashed. i had big plans of trying the new hawker bar, but i couldn’t find it, so that’s why we ended up at the lakeview. we ended up getting breakfast for dinner to go and heading back to her hotel room-they put her up at the fairmount, so they really spared no expense. her: “why do they think white people like this shit?!” (loudass wallpaper and drapes) me: “well, you’re half a white person, do you like this shit?” her: “no! let me get my eye pillow.” alcohol, writers, and publishing house drama influenced my decisions to do this a bit differently, and i have james frey and hapa mama to thank.
i can’t deny that i was left wondering about the love(s) between the lines, but i was truly shocked when i learned about lilly as i rounded the corner on the 40 on the way to work one morning. i actually gasped and stopped at the tragedy of that, and what we imagine when we leave each other because we can’t stay or stay because we can’t leave. what a fine line that is. i’ve noticed frey‘s punctuation play once again, and his style that makes his work so palatable in spite of his experiences so visceral. i guess i was hanging on to his love story because we all need to know that it’s possible. this passage stayed with me, for more that just my experience loving the alcoholic-it applies to everyone i’ve ever been and loved that couldn’t quite reciprocate. that’s the hardest-when you see it in someone’s eyes, but for whatever reason, s/he resists:
“I thought that might happen. I could see you hurting all the time and wanted to do something for you. I don’t know what happened to you before, but I’m sorry, and I hope you can get over it, and if you need a friend, you know where I am.” (160)
and, as confirmed by a 3am phone call to someone who’s never answered before but i knew would this morning, there’s no bizness, or magic that’s quite like performers:
“The show starts and the singer, who may be an asshole in his life, rocks the fucking house once he’s on stage. I rock with him, Erin rocks with him, Leonard rocks with him. We rock and fucking roll all night.
Live it. Love it.” (203)
this is a big one that i’ve learned first hand very recently, and again-i’m great-full. happy birthday, mister heath.