A friend leant me a book about projecting—effecting an out of body experience. I attempted to read it just now. The attempt was a failure. I picked up a few good lines in a short time, though.
Projecting myself from here to there, to drop the book off. Down Page, through Westport, curving downward into the valley, past the small airport blinking here and there in the night, to the river, seeing it sidelong, the casino standing sentry along it, looking north, all the water moving that way between here and there before winding its way east and losing itself all south, into another river. I’ve had dreams that have explored this question but never answered it. Past the river—. No, the OBE ends at the river. Best to keep it short, and what exists beyond the river anyway.
The ice cubes don’t clink. Not when they’ve been in the glass for a while and the drink is gone. As one or more of them is melting, they shift, downward in a slink. A sodden, blunt, downward plink. A drink.
That’s four for me tonight. I thought that’d be my limit. I can’t tell all of my truth. I’ll tell you I wanted to stop at four and now I’m sitting here in this old non-magazine chair listening to California classical and I don’t have to work tomorrow. I might be camping this weekend. Campfire, hotdogs, a tent, the Squirt-man let loose into nature. Are you seeing what I’m saying here?
The E-Van (E-Vonage, aka Coach) is going to be here tomorrow morning to appraise the old 74-squared. I might do Vonage double-duty tomorrow. I envision E-Van and right away I think of my own brother and he is a hole in me. My brother the mystery. He’d said, “Mystery? What mystery? There’s no mystery.” E-Van, appraisal, tomorrow. He came here four years ago, some early evening on a weeknight and I remember I was nervous about it. Or at least that was the chassis I built my bar-car on on that night, drinking something and Coke and I was over here half-lit and he came and checked the place out and I was pointing out a few things I said were wrong with the house. “It can’t be worth that much!” kind of thing. He took some photos, with a digital camera I think. And—I don’t know why I was nervous but I was. I will fear and dread almost anything.
The fifth drink went down way too easy. I’ve gotten the restless legs—the jimmy legs. They get like that late, when I’ve been sedentary. It’s started pouring outside. It’s April now, two days in. It was warm and humid today—ripe substrate for a storm. No hail, unremarkable wind, but patchy moments of heavy rain. Hold on a moment … I switched TuneIn radio app classical stations. LA started playing opera so I’m on KWMU HD2. Drink number five just made its adios drink clink. I’m reading a book by Margaret Atwood. Not counting the Berkeley-taught-Aussie-penned astral projector book I just gnarred on unsuccessfully, that’s two books in a row by Canadian women. B is asleep. She has some Canadian blood, and she is a woman. The other book was Alice Munro, perhaps the best short-story writer ever.
The Dance of the Happy Shades, “Walker Brothers Cowboy”, “What It Was Like Seeing Et”—smell of mojito on the doctor’s breath. I’m bleeding, drive me. Cuckolded by a carpenter’s apprentice, the kids all dead. This story is autobiographical. I’m blind. I’m the assassin.