Her Name Is Nona

So now all I write in is juxtaposition.  It's what I see in.

In a state in which only one arm works, everything is compared to what happened before it.  Before and after.  Night and day, it's polarizing, north and south, good and bad.  Yesterday, the office was a veritable hell with the high distorted accompaniment; a mess of doodle papers, a stolen dog and stolen sunscreen. A sunburnt wasted hick he was with an amp and a guitar and a microphone strapped to his face; the embodiment of aggravation.  Today was a quiet clean latin man with leopard pants and a Stratocaster, and he kept his mic in his pocket, and he played near-perfect renditions of Purple Rain and Stairway to Heaven and Hallelujah among many others.  His is a voice to melt pain, if you can understand that.  Remember, my arm's in a sling.

The day before I crashed, was one of those entirely wonderful days.  It was a day in which I did everything that I'd like to do in a day; a solid day, a productive day. I went surfing, I went to work, I rode my motorcycle to get some ramen, and then I drank tequila with two girls at an old late night Mexican joint.  The next day in the morning--first thing--I hit gravel in a turn on Tuna Canyon and dislocated my shoulder.

[Nona is the first of the three fates in Roman mythology; she's the one that spins the thread of human destiny.]

Blue Is The Warmest Color

I'm sure someone's said that before, or it's some quote or movie title or something of the like, but nonetheless it's true.  Do you know why?

I do.

I'm not sure where to start though.  When I worked at the surf shop we sold sunglasses that were called happy lenses--no, let's start in the present.

I work two jobs now; at a bakery in the morning and a hotel at night.  It's some miserable existence I'm sure, but wouldn't you know, I'm rather bemused by it.  I find myself laughing constantly in my own delirium.  Maybe it's the lack of sleep, mais je ne sais pas.

I have a secret weapon as it were, one that is really of any real substance in a city like LA.  It needs to be almost always sunny, and on my break in the morning, already on my second meal for the day, I turn my face to the sun and close my eyes.  There's different shades of darkness with your eyes closed, and in the sun it's the brightest.  Blind man's light, and when I open my eyes, everything's blue, the whites are blue, the grays are blue, the red are blue, the yellows too.


That's when I smile and get giddy, and I remember those times at the surf shop, selling happy lenses.  They had a blue tint to them in the sun.  In the literature, the company told us seeing that tint blue releases melatonin in our brains, which is an antioxidant and our first defense against oxidative stress, whatever that is.  It makes you happy.  But you don't need sunglasses or a pill or prescription to get it, you don't need a doctor to figure it out.  It's right there free for the taking, you just need to close your eyes and stand in the warm sun.  There's precious few things that star won't cure.  If you're not happy, it's not some grand mystery.  Ask any sad plant, she'll tell you. If I were to worship anything it would be the sun.

I'm a buffoon, I know.  It's much too easy for me to be happy these days.