trivial: Mar. 16, 2002 (7:30 am)

i couldn't think of much to say yesterday, everything felt small and trivial.

yesterday was one of those perfect days, where the morning was slightly cool but it was near seventy in the afternoon. i went out to buy fabric with the costume designer and we opened the sun roof and drank smoothies. nothing feels quite so good on a warm day as polyester chameuse. in the fall we felt fake fur, but the coolness of the polyester and the lightness of cotton was unavoidable.

Now my rhythm is the clicking of the keys on a cold,cold keyboard. Really, I didn't think my songs would become that empty. There was supposed to be vinyl records checkerboarded over the wall and old mahogony furniture which still reeked of the cigarettes that the previous owner smoked multidudes at a time after his wide said she didn't want to live with him in that room with it's new mahagony furniture anymore. I guess she never really wanted it in the first place. It's just that is eyes lit up so. You know how it is.

Most of all it was suposed to be a work of art. But instead I look out my window after it snows and the sky is white and the thin braches of the dark trees break up the monotony; but just barely. My window frames the scene and it looks just like the wall with it's peeling white paint. Tom's outside, walking up to the front door and it takes no time for him to move into my part of the scene. I hear his key jamming into the door, and feel his prescense in the room but I don't look around. Instead I gaze out of the window, I see children playing in the snow, men running and couples walking dogs. Somehow it seems like they're all having a better time than I ever have.

"It will never be good," Tom is looking over my shoulder at the poem I tried to hide from him, "It wasn't meant to be, you can't just work on a poem for eight months."I know this is true. Poetry is the most natural way of expressing feelings, and if nothing has come out in these last eight months I don't see why it would now, "Come back out with me. We'll talk."

It's always talk with Tom. We go to the same dirty cafe, and drink coffee out of the same dirty mugs. We'll speak to each other poetically, and we won't touch each other. We won't eat anything. Most importantly we won't discuss our writing, because neither of us have written anything in the eight months we've been together.

He is still the brightest gem in the entire world.

I guess we met at a hazy club, but I only say that because I don't know where else I would have met him. The type of place where all the music either sounds like Pavement or the Cure, and all the girls look like Kathleen Hanna. The dance floor hardly deserves it's name, for everyone is too busy looking around to move. And a bit too awkward still, like we're all still thirteen with no shining blonde to look at for direction. We all look at the world through our horn rimmed glasses and a cloud of smoke. And beer is consumed quickly and steadily, because we'd all rather be somewhere else. We all wish we were reading, but we wouldn't be content there either because then we'd be alone. I remember Tom crying there, something about some girl and would I like to go home with him.

Certainly.

"What do you see in the snow?" I ask him since I figure he still thinks poetically even if he can't create anything.

"I see...the ruined perfection of the gleaming white. And you?"

"The white was never interesting."

"It was endlessly beautiful."

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