Lies in the Club

Was going to go for a swim (no really, I was, had my trunks and towel and everything), but was foiled by the spring break closing of the pool. On my walk back I realized it was warm enough out to wear only a t-shirt, and so I did. I wonder how long this warm weather will last.

Now I am sitting around eating grapes and rindless brie-spread (which actually only remotely tastes like brie, the rest tasting more like the cheese from the mini-crackers and cheese spread snacks from back in 1st grade), waiting for a lift from Miguel to meet up with Monica and maybe beginning to draft blueprints for the un-Trafalgar. Whatever that is. Truth is, as long as Miguel and I are involved, the music will probably sound a certain way.

I realized that I have very few memories from last spring. Mostly just the ground being too soggy, and me having way too many blazer days. What a riot. And yeah, the one or two joke "shows" the band put on. Maybe something here or there about Postwar British Literature. Dr. Barrick telling me about the old Dinosaur Jr shows he saw in Frisco nearly 20 years ago. I guess occasional scenes from my job down in the Systems Department. And that time Maria visited, and we took the long walk into Hampden, and went to see Mogwai the night after. Snippets from that evening at Jordan's place with everyone. Virtually nothing from 310, aka the Symposium House, fucking pretentious sons of bitches. I don't know. Did nothing else really happen? A brief scan through the Invisible Bullets entries doesn't reveal much; it was mostly semi-coherent introspection.

Time's starting to feel a little bit distorted. I remember certain things vividly, then realize they happened two years ago, or a year ago. A year since I saw Forget Cassettes the second time and bought a shirt from them. A year since I became friends with Sid. Jesus. I feel like something more monumental should have happened, some more significant memories to solidify the concept that, yes, a year, a year has passed; but of course there's none of that, and it becomes somewhat difficult to reconcile the relentless passing of time with the rather repetitive, almost somnambulistic pace of life itself. Or maybe that's just me. If we are growing so old, so fast, why are we still here? What've we got to show for the years that pile up on our backs? I'm sure a closer scrutiny of the facts would reveal the answers to these questions, but I can't be bothered at the moment; besides, the surface paradox is rather compelling in and of itself.

No longer have the dumb confidence to make statements like, "things are going to change, I can feel it." Hell, when was the last time I even heard that song? That sense of being on the brink of everything is fading away, yielding to the suspicion that things are more determined and predetermined than we'd ever want to admit to ourselves.

Been listening a lot lately, and talking less. I don't know why; that's just the way things turned out. Seems everybody's got a story, while my own has taken the back seat for a few months. I'm just too good at expelling rogue elements from my personal sphere of mutual influence. The life I live these days is utterly simple, elegant, and pure in its lack of substance and variance. Except for my friends, of course, who seem to have a way of getting tangled up in shit, whether created by themselves or others. Maybe my talent is soaking up sob stories.