I think it was Sunday that Ernestine rode her bike home from the theatre,
and I said to Ernestine,
that's my goal for the summer,
But, this is not the summer.
Ernestine has been pedaling for quite some time,
she has lights,
and wind resistance.
Ernestine doesn't bat a super bowl at biking in this Chicago gateway to the arctic tundra.
One has to work one's self up to that level of ball sack.
I've always been afraid of cars.
I do drive them from time to time,
but, I'm terrified of dyeing.
Not at all looking forward to my place in the third at.
I think it was the Tuesday before when I was suddenly propelled to write a Jackson Pollock play.
And not having all that much of a previous Pollock knowledge, spent an embarrassing amount of time on the U Tube, before emphatically declaring my Undying love for the standing up artist.
The play did not get in.
Then, I know it was this past Monday,
that Justin the other one passed,
off the road,
through the base of two trees,
at approximately ten in the morn,
away at the age of twenty and seven.
Wrote an abstracted poem play about it the next morning,
it did not get in.
Probably for the best.
When you eat spicy chili out of paper cups every day with some one for X amount of time,
when you watch him get high in your pit stained acting college unitard, dangling your feet off the edge of your loft made from scraps from the shop,
finally giving in to the shot guns and air drums, and ridiculous sharpies christening those shop scraps with storybook long handed graffiti,
and then when you listen to him rant and moan about how desperately he has to bang your roommate now, right now, even if she's locked up down the hall all cuddled up tight with the manager from Apple Bee's and a copy of Tartuffee.
When just for one semester he happens to share the same break in the day with you,
and you find yourself friends with the shiniest gosling in the bunch,
running errands and complaining,
laughing often about the tattooed German flag he's in the process of removing from his entire left calf,
or was it the right?
When you haven't thought about him since he landed that actual sit com-moved to LA-got even shinier-momma so proud-paying-job.
When he's suddenly gone to the end of act three,
With the kitchen behind him,
and the rain falling up.
When you read in the obituary that he had suddenly, in the past four years been inspired by Jackson Pollock, and his art is hanging in galleries all over this country and the next.
When something this young earns a seat with Mrs. Soams,
They become immortal,
I know he was really close to his Mother. In that way, you know?
I met her once.
That smile. That three bean chili from the trident cafe. That look to the side. What a gentle man. Emily, could you show him around? He wont like being new in that place.