and bingo was her name-o

the stupendous outburst directed at my parents concerning my old friend abe’s disregarding to ask if his wife could join us for coffee, for his egregious assumption that she would be joining us by mere contract of marriage, wherein I flew off the handle, and at the nadir, after much pointed pointing, exclaimed that this was just one more reason why marriage is a sham, at which my mother retorted that no one would ever want me with that attitude, wherein I replied, Exactly, fine and well.

And so I made my way to coffeehouse, surfing through radio hits: Fleetwood mac, “ooh you make lovin fun’ and the mamas and the papas, ‘Monday Monday” until I could commiserate with ren (of stimpy fame) singing the blues about Christmas on the familiar old jazz station. A deep breath, and then I entered, and there they were, across from each other, smiling, 1 year married and 4 months pregnant (I dreamt of this pregnancy a month ago, and here it was before me, live and flesh and in a cable knit sweater). and for the next hours we talked of the passing of phish, and the coming of a child, of midwives and labor unions. I left feeling a bit foolish, for here was my friend and the fine woman he loved, living, together, and oh what I can learn from them, and see between them. Ah, coming home is the paradox of replacing myself into the past and acute confrontation with the change and ever-newness of the passage of time.

push on till the dawn

interesting thing about school is how it encapsulates time. i get 3 prescribed 10 week doses. patient waiting, weird onset and buildup, gradually growing, peaking, then coming down. funny how, when i've got this set amount, clear begining and end, i can orient my my whole movement through time. its a strange shouting way of marking progress, noting the passage.

sometimes the first song i hear in the morning on my alarm clock sets the whole day