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Pigs

I've been staying at Mt Pleasant this week, by myself, brewing coffee for breakfast and taking care of an old cat named Lulu.

The first night, last saturday, I left the water running until the bathtub was full, added soap and stayed in, staring at the light blue tiles and thinking about my latest break up.

The rest of the week I woke up after 11 am, updated my resume, read about HTML, wrote a long e-mail to a friend, took a walk on Rock Creek Park. It is winter and some morning you can wake up when there road is still icy outside. 

I read a long poem by Charles Bukowski one afternoon before Leon visited me, then I told him he should read it, and maybe learn something from it, like I always do when I think something is really worth reading. And this poem was written when Chinaski was near the end of his life, probably less angry and more inclined to take notes on quiet things rather than drinking and fucking. 

Leon didn't say anything about the poem (like I knew he would) and I served coffee and half and half, and we stared at each other, occasionally breaking the silence to say 

"Hi."
"Hi."
"I love you."
"I love you too."

Then the next saturday it was the end of our romance, but only I knew it was, and wrote it on a napkin I took form 7 Eleven before walking in the bar. I like going to the bar, but I am very bad at drinking more than a shot of whiskey and this might reflect itself upon the imaginary biography of a writer I'm elaborating for myself, for when I'm not here. 

This document will be brief, the size of a pocket book or a phone - address book, for the sole reason that I'd like people (specially young people) to carry it with themselves while they are traveling, commuting or walking to friend's houses. I still like to carry books inside the pocket of my coat and while I think screens are interesting and all the GIFS and JPEGs stored in the collective that is the internet are quite stunning, carrying printed things is equally grand, like writers who drank too much are usually grand, even though by popular definition they are alcoholics. 

So, this book of myself written for the next generation of people who secretly like to think they are romantics will have observations such as the time in which I read a short story by Flannery O'Connor about a small group of country folk who sat on a waiting room and were absurdly racist, and thought of God but in the wrong way, and cursed each other under their breath until one girl who was impossibly ugly stood up and punch the narrator in the face, sending her back to the shit hole farm where she came from, and there while she walked towards the pig pen the sky was changing colors, and you could almost see it as you read the words, and you wondered if she was gonna hose the pigs like she said she would while she wondered about God, but again, in her own personal fashion, that was full of fear and dread. 

And as I read the last page of Flannery O'Connor's short story I thought of pigs, and that time I thought I saw the Virgin Mary in my dreams of mountains, and again when I was on the subway in NYC, and everyone was silent, almost blending themselves with the fake wood panels of the E line, and if I was still 28 ten or twenty years from now, I would like to find these type of memoirs that -I think- are the loneliest form of art; the ones printed when good things are sparse, and you still have to brace yourself for the morning after.   

 

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