Listening to: “So What” – Miles Davis

Friday afternoon, jazz, rain, bad coffee flecked with better cinnamon. Flies dance in the air, which is pretty gross when you consider that we’re in a windowless office and it is well past fruit fly season. Didja miss me blog?

This morning on the train, I notice lips. Pressed lips, lips that hang open like snapdragons, lips that are so thin they don’t even show, lips that are so fat they overtake the face. A summer of biking everywhere and avoiding public transportation had left less time for en-route rumination, but now it’s chilly and wet and I’m back to sideways-ogling strangers’ faces on the Red Line. I’m not a creep, I swear. Just curious.

I had a dream last night that I was living in a poor farming community, “Grapes of Wrath”-style. My family and I live in a barn and we’re bad off, but not terribly off in comparison to the rest of the village. We have food in our refrigerator, even if it’s only a little bit. And there’s this girl who lives on the street (not that there really is a street but, you know, the road). And I’m like sneaking her food and diluted orange juice and shit. We all wear bonnets, it isn’t even funny.

The way you rise in status in this town is by playing the role of Nora in “A Doll’s House.” So the town holds an annual Nora-playing contest, and I’m like coaching this urchin girl to be the underdog competitor. The pre-party for the event is at our barn, so all the would-be Noras can meet each other and talk about their approach to playing Nora, and model their Nora outfits. And I’m about to introduce my protege, when Mel Gibson sits down next to me on a bench. I’m about to start tell him off for being a crazy racist asshole, but he just smiles and points at a mural on the wall of my barn. It depicts a woodland area at night, where a band of state troopers are having a shootout with UFOs hovering overhead, guns vs. lasers.

Mel’s like, “I like your mural,” and I’m like, “Thanks, I like it too.” And then I start to think maybe he’s not a dickwad and get all distracted, and forget to introduce the urchin. The last image before I wake up is of her weeping out on the stoop in the cold, the lights of the party inside flickering on her face.

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