Last Friday night I got my nails painted at McDonald's. I got a Furby with my Happy Meal, not a real one, a scary one that's practically haunted, just a tiny harmless furry one that's almost cute (and hopefully not haunted). My friend regretted her chicken nuggets and got jealous and painted my nails bubblegum pink with an American accent. The girl from the next table gave my friend her Furby. Her dad was sitting there with her. Quiet. American, too, said she. He said nothing.
We went to a bar, to a quiet downstairs, drank pints of their cheapest beer and played a writing game. We listened to poems and all kinds of words, one optimistic story about the apocalypse (he writes optimistic like I do, so that someone dies at the end). One boy brought bananas, this is how poetry readings go, right? and another one spoke words from back home about the sort of things I care about, write about, ugly graffiti and junkies in buses and demolition sites and stinking skips in back alleys, "regeneration" and all its brothers and sisters living and departed. And he did it in a way that made me scribble in my notebook, I fall for people's language (boys and their art i) not news but a sort of thing one should regularly remind oneself about.
Someone said creativity is blind. We can't explain the things that inpsire us. I know I can't. Ask me why I have that Greenlandic flag on my wall and I will not say a single thing you would find valuable. Take me on top of a high-rise that they have already decided to tear down and I will feel like I might cry, I might cry, and I will never forget what it felt like. Looking at a view like that.
It pains me that it will be gone.
And I do not know why it makes me feel like that, and whether or not you ask me you will think I'm mad and stupid and pretentious and so bourgeois it makes your eyes bleed pretending so hard to be something else or maybe I'm just boring you to tears how many facts about the Red Road flats can one woman know and nobody actually cares. But creativity is blind and inspiration is a strange thing doing strange things to strange ordinary people
I've wrote about this before. (I should say written but I don't care I'd rather watch you seethe)
I am reading Murakami. What's not to love. No good news in this chapter. It's not the first time I've spent four hours on the yellow sofa in the library with my Murakami and my can of cheap energy drink. I fell asleep and made the can last two hours because I slept for most of that and isn't it strange that the moment you fall asleep in a quiet library someone starts a loud conversation I mean what's that about
Thursdays are eternal. A fact of life I establish every week. A person can change in a Thursday. A person can put on red lipstick in a practice room at 6 pm on a Thursday just to feel a bit better about herself when the people or words that a person claims have no effect on her have dug a bit deeper than a person might let on. A person can feel perfectly content in a cheap fake leather jacket and red lipstick and a cello case on her back. A person might enjoy life more when there is nothing else to do but play Dvorak until her fingers bleed.
Today, a little before my eternal Thursday had ended, I sent a picture of myself with some strategic numbers to someone called Wardrobe. My Friday is hopefully lovely, it could be, it should be, and I will get my hands on Puccini and I will get to sing it on stage. It's just in the choir obviously but I've never and I am excited and even though the picture of myself I sent out was not the prettiest one and I didn't like the look of my body I sent it anyway and that means I'll get a costume and I'll get my hands on Puccini and I will get to sing it. On stage. Grow your hair, they said. I don't need to be told twice.
What an eternal Thursday this was. It's done now, and the next one is as far as is possible. I wonder where my nails get painted on this new Friday, who will do it and what colour. I wonder who we'll talk about and what kind of music we'll drink to before we go to that same bar, that same downstairs not so quiet this time, to drink those same cheap pints of beer and listen to our friends be fantastic and beautiful and creative, and we are all those things too, all of us, and it is lovely.
(P.S. I am writing again and that always means I'm reading less which is a bit sad but then again I am writing)
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