Because fatality neutralizes subversion.

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Orange County, California, United States
Impermanent.

Forgotten

20060526

Orange Sky

I thought I hated Shopgirl the entire time I was watching it, but wasn't quite sure why.

We drove down the Pasadena Freeway without much thought. We were supposed to be going into this Thai restaurant on Sunset. The place was about five to six bucks a plate, but for some reason it still had valet parking. And a lounge singer. Giovanni told me about some strip malls around here that have valet parking. I almost didn't want to believe him.

We passed by suicide bridge on our way there. Every town has one. A place where people just choose to go. Where becomes irrelevant in the middle of the moment. Notoriety. I hear something. From Giovanni, I hear it from him first. Some news about a friend we knew through elementary school and a bit through high school. Brenda. I don't remember seeing her after my freshman year, and didn't really think much of it at the time. Two terms have more spark now. Shenandoah and Fairfax. MS-13 never really meant much to begin with. Except that she's the most famous person to graduate from our high school, but nobody really knows about it.

We reached the hills bordering Crescenta Valley. About five miles of hills, embedded with porchlights and living room lights and bedroom kitchen lights. Miles of dark and dark marked with our marks. And the sky above the hills was some washed-out blue turning black.

I don't remember why I hated Shopgirl, but I probably still do.
***
"We could eat here. Your mother never likes going here."
"Get the wings. Your mother doesn't like them when she comes here."
"Let's go to the bookstore. Your mother doesn't like being in the bookstore."
"Sounds like a good breakfast. Your mother would never have that for breakfast."

In Palermo's, he sits across from me and asks me how Katie's doing. It's the third time he's asked. And the fourth person to ask within the past few days. What can I really tell him? We don't talk anymore, I want to say. She's cut herself off from almost everyone. But that would mark a failure. I'd like to think that four years of communication and non-communication could be summed up beyond a failure. I'd be able to face it as such if I wasn't sure that this would become a regular pattern for me.

Perhaps it was too simple.
***
It's been a while since I've written anything honest, something not shrouded by undergrad-like symbols and metaphors. Maybe that's what to come. Honest is what this summer will eventually be. Or perhaps this goal is just a way of giving into the apprehension of what this time is supposed to hold for me.

Stasis. I think that's what he calls it. I just got a job at the Registrar's Office to-day. 9-5. Five days a week, forty hours a week. It's like what grown-ups do.

I'll believe in something, sometime.
I'm beginning to really miss people.

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It's like trying to explain how to diagram a misremembered sentence. Or asking someone to be a little less pretentious.