Awakening : Saturday

It’s a cleaner smell, on the weekend, mainly because I don’t feel the obligation that I do during the week. I mean, no one really puts the obligation on me, but I feel it. I prefer the cleanliness.

I’m still in my space. Things don’t change. I wake up to the sound of things happening outside my door, and by and large I ignore them. I mean, everyone has to have his or her own lives. It’s part of the equation.

I get up and turn over on my side. Even though I have the feeling of something, something being different, I have to think why today is any different than any other day. I mean, looking at it now, I can’t remember what or why or when.

I already hear voices outside my door. That’s fine. My roommates, they have their own lives. The more I hear them the more I want to turn to the window, look out. I can see the heat almost; I look down on the plants below and they look (if I could hear them, yes, it would be different) like they are crying for help in the morning sun. They don’t have a good grasp of the heat, and where they need to be when the sheet goes down. It’s a problem, I know, and they know, and I’m glad I’m not them.

I lean to the left, still on my bed, and pull my ashtray up on the mattress. I scrounge around for matches next to my one canvas shoe lying next to my bed, and I find four left in the book. The first one never lights, but the second one always does. It doesn’t take many puffs before smoke gets in my eyes, I turn my head to the left and exhale.

At least I’m using an ashtray. Other days, I may not have.

What I like about the ashtray: it collects my ashes.  But it also collects my ideas as I smoke; my thoughts coalesce as the cigarette sits in the ashtray, smoke rising up into the rays of sun that come through the window (I always thought it was the sun, but really it’s the dust, the sunlight illuminating the particles) and above, and I look straight down to the point where the cigarette burns and the smoke begins to furl up from it.  This is the heart of the idea, when I focus in on some problem that has long eluded me, and I hope it eludes me no more.  And–

then there’s a beating on the door.  I’m up, now, extinguishing my cigarette, as any sense of urgency would.  I call to the door, and no one answers.  I call again.  I smash the butt of my cigarette as far as it can go into the glass of the ashtray, all the while holding my gaze toward the door.  There is a shape on the other side I can see through the thick glass pane; I can’t tell the exact shape, but I know it is someone– and the knocking begins again.  I call for it, and again no answer.

I jump up and walk toward the door, reaching for the knob, turning– I see nothing.  Nothing on the other side.  Whoever made the noise must have left.  I stick my head out further and look left, right, nothing.  I close the door, slowly.  Still waiting.  Nothing.  I’m turning and going back to my bed, lying down.  As I grab another cigarette out of the soft pack, I’m lighting in with one of the last two matches, my eyes fixed toward the door, awaiting something, although I don’t think anyone is waiting for me.  I really don’t.

Interlude : Fashion Says

It’s unfortunate that success equates to fashion sense. On the flipside, I don’t think I get a good sense of who I am based on my choice of fashion expression for the day.

In Miami, see, you’ll get sand in your shorts if you’re not watching. The sunlight gets in your eyes regardless of where you go. You have a sense of what you wear only because your self-conscious, not because you want to associate yourself with a certain aesthetic. As long as someone else is doing it …

I had a friend once who didn’t care about fashion. He was from New York and he came here on a whim. I appreciate when anyone can do that. Not everyone can.

Anyway, the sun will make you forget why you came here in the first place, after just a few hours. You have your layers, if you know what you’re doing. Most people don’t. Even if they peel off layer after layer, they still haven’t gotten anywhere. All of a sudden you’re perpetuating the system, which directly relates to a misunderstanding of decency, and decency typically drives those who don’t care about fashion.

I see you’re in the camp who, as they may, don’t really care about decency. I think you’re in for it. I really do.

See, Miami will eat you alive if you think you are indeed able to rise above it. That’s the wrong attitude. I mean, you can approach it like that, if you’re here for the short term, but I know you’re not.

If you’re trying to get something out of it, take it easy; ride with it. You don’t have many other options. Believe me, many others have tried AND failed. It goes hand in hand. It’s bigger than you think.

My only advice: don’t worry about being fashionable.