In 2007, a much younger me sits silently, perched on a black-lacquered stool in an awkward pose. His legs extend upward towards his chest, because, you see, the rungs of the stool are set a little too high, forcing the young man into a most un-flattering semi-squat. Refuge from tortured soles maybe, but most totally grotesque and unattractive. This particular furnishing is an antique, but uncharmingly so. Chips in the shiny black coating, reflecting in panes of silky even light, only to be broken apart by harsh chip marks, solid evidence of heavy usage and abuse, and apropos obviously, for the human condition. This skinny memory is the security guard for one of the many Madison Avenue Upper-East Side fashion-peddling installations.
Right now, at midnight, I have two shots of gin in me, and I'm listening to Hemingway's "Pretend to Care" for the first time. There's some grunge in there somewhere, then some of that same stuff that laced every Thursday record, but I can't forget got the slow-burn-swagger that gave Nirvana personal hit after personal hit. In my imagination, I lift my hand and stare at this blood that's oozing across my palm. It's the same blood that ran through my veins as a 16 year old heartbroken kid. I'm lying flat on my back on my old bed. This weird grey/red paisley comforter my mom got on sale at Macy's is all that separates me from the sheets I haven't changed