Let me not have a night like tonight ever again. Why must every excursion into the realm where glamour is most prevalently superficial a moment for utter awkwardness? Thank you, all eggshell egos involved. I furrow brow, not knowing where to step (or speak) because stepping (or speaking) anywhere might just arouse adolescent demons and shadows unknown.
Regardless, the art show at Adobe between Mission and Valencia at 16th (where I missed Littlecough) was brilliant, the first show in months where I was captivated by each moment - that map of desire or that graph of death - the first in months.
Despite not meeting Littlecough. Despite the sort of unsustainable glamour (the sort devoid of passion, of revolutionary ideal) that we saw at each bar we visited that night (and should I have expected otherwise?). Despite the insecurities (mine or others) aroused by having to circulate within that realm of unsustainable (for certain others, others always) glamour.
And it was a beautiful night, goddammit, because J. was driving recklessly. Because the moon was full. Because the clouds obscured it, but only barely. Because I am young and reckless and able-bodied. Because I saw the not-beautiful boy I am almost in love with because he is not-beautiful and doesn't care at all about being not-beautiful. Because I can leave it - the glamour, that fickle world - behind, dreaming only of the novel, finished, or loved ones burrowing deep under sheets. The fleeting and particular (mine, all mine) glamour of skin luminous under my sheets, perfume slinking into slumber mine even as the days become weeks and weeks become months.