In the absence of a couch and in the presence of a hamster—one (1) witness to such—Gustavo, Russian Dwarf, aged “old enough to do this goddamn thing”—I enter into the record of this new apartment a few words—perhaps an idealistic pessimism I feel when faced with the idea of home. I tie myself to this old stump, in this old neighborhood, for any and all sleepless nights filled in with the blues. A diamond ring on my finger—one (1)—is my only valuable possession, and the guitar, meant only for serenading my bartender or these living room walls. I register in my heart the sadness I feel—flushed out the bathroom of your heart, as Johnny Cash would have put it—change, pure and simple. I desire it and I resent it. Someone leans in, another pulls away. Fate kisses me on the cheek, teasing me with mixed signals.
I never wanted love, content to be staunchly “soloita”, but now, with a resolve for Deep Ellum and some liquor in my throat, I’m thinking that love wouldn’t be so bad, even if it would come from Texas. It’s not a longing, as I had once thought, more a presence.
So, on the spot of dingey carpet one (1) and small coffee rings on the windowsill two (2), I bequeath the sense of control which I held so dear. I’m drinking the thunderous absinthe of Dallas, down on my luck, hanging around this new space like a cricket. Aren’t we all our own type of bug? Hopefully, the good kind. Or else eaten up by a rat—mercy killing—one (1).