Published on 26 June 2012
I woke, attended classes. When they were finished, and I had finished messing around with my own code during them, I enjoyed the sunshine. Bringing my slackline back with me from home, I set it up, and for twenty-odd minutes in the afternoon sun I walked next to the building where my colleagues and professors studied. The line hung black like a long snake I caught another afternoon, years ago.
A final class; and then home. I watched a movie, ate dinner, did some work. As the sun set, I realised how much I depended on my sunset cigarette. Now I had no reason to stand on my balcony. So I went out, visited a friend, and finished my final work for the day. Coming back, I hear music from the empty lot behind my house, in the industrial abandon where I once hopped around a fence and saw artwork, trees, and what looked like a commune. No one was there.
“Ah! You’re Brazilian. Have you ever drunk maté? I love that stuff, but I don’t have a gourd.”
“I have one. I bring them with me to give, because there is always someone who wants some.”
“No shit!”
Tonight, I knew there would be people there; Bonobo was drifting through a football field of air to prove that. I filled my maté gourd, and headed out beneath the last blueing of the sky.
There were lights on in the abandoned garages, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was there, or if, perhaps, this was a residence and I had not noted. I peered through a fence, and finally, wandered around and past it. I sip cautiously, and return. WHEEEEET - a sharp whistle. My keys rattle as a back off, hoping it’s not for a dog.
Twenty metres away, I turn. There’s a man there, staring at me. I slowly walk towards him; and his hand extends. I shake it.
He was an Italian, Guilliame. The other, in the large shed, filled to the brim with a spotlight, was Leonard (I think.) They’re making the stage for a burlesque show, for players from Paris.
“So what are you doing in life?”
“Well, a masters.”
“In what?”
“Computational linguistics…But I’m only here another month, and then I’m off to Malta.”
“Malta?”
“Yes. I’ve bought a boat, and that’s what I’m doing in life.”
“How long is it?”
“25 feet. Sorry, och metres.”
“What about chicks?”
“There’s room enough for one.”
…
“Where is Kentuky, again?”
I help them saw some boards. I think to myself, my years in the stage taught me when to exit.
“I’m off. When are you here?”
“For the next few weeks. Come on the 13th. You can be our guest.”
My hands smelling of sawdust, my lips wet from a shared joint, my maté empty. I’ll try and follow the music from now on.
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