The Day I Went To A Going Away Party

Bumped into Jason and Jennifer at Old Soul the morning after St. Patty's Day and was invited over for a tour of their nearly-empty apartment. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, a hide-away bed complete with secret passage that leads to the roof and all sorts of awesome. He tells me about a party there on Saturday night, a going away thing before they disappear with Baby Jack to Portland, and I turn around and make plans with Jenny to go along with me. Jason hands me down that projector that he'd mentioned before, complete with a case and a screen. "It's even better because it's from The Man," he tells me, mentioning some government department that his friend or his brother pilfered it from years ago.

Grouplove is my new favorite band.

No, seriously. I fucking love these guys.

Had dinner the night before with Jenny at Hot Italian, walked around the park, swung on the swings, appreciated the lull in the rain, found our way to Target for late-night shopping and I walked away with a new super-soft blanket, which we put to good use after trying to watch Amelie. 

This morning I found out that Shaun and Chelsea didn't work out. I admire his positive view of the situation and know that he'll grow from the experience. What else can we do but grow? Muscles grow by tearing and rebuilding. The heart is a muscle. The brain, a muscle. It might've hurt a hell of a lot when she suddenly stopped talking to him, but Shaun knows how to take the sweet with the sour and I know in another week he'll appreciate this brief, yet bright burst of passion as a reminder that passion still exists. 

And we're at war with Libya now, by the way. 

Kirsten seems frustrated. I want to help her but I really don't know how. She sent me a text that said: I'm proud of you, btw. This is probably regarding the fact that I told her I'm uncomfortable with the pattern of her borrowing my room. That I'm being honest. I told her we could keep things the same this weekend, but will start looking for other options next week. She was fine with that. I know she's in a strange place, cast back into the single's world with her same bitter view of mankind, and I know she wishes I was still there with her. But I'm not. I made it through unscathed, so far, and I think that's what she's proud of.

Here's live footage of me crossing the train bridge's under-belly. I posted the same thing on facebook and I think it freaked my mom out a little. 

Lulled about for an afternoon listening to French lessons by Michel Thomas, which I think might actually work. Jenny sends me a text asking me what my shoe size is. 10 1/2. Curious question. She's out shopping with Arielle so I wonder if she's stumbled across something at Bows and Arrows she thinks I'll like. I do need new shoes. To pass the time I watch the best parts of Jurassic Park via the projector aimed at my window-shade. Makes me feel like a kid again.

I wish that I was writing more fiction, but I've been devoting a lot of writing time to this blog instead. Not sure why. Not sure what the point is. The fiction comes when the fiction comes, I guess, but it's the real life stuff that I don't want to let pass me by. Jenny said she used to journal the way I do, until one day she said, "Fuck it man. I'm a feeler." Her form is centered more on the thoughts and sensations of an experience, the transition from sense to sense as opposed to fact to fact. It's interesting how differently we view the world, since our writing is a huge representation of how we think. I like to view each entry I write as a captured chunk of life, sliced off the timeline like a slab of steak, juicy and raw with all the details and descriptions bleeding across the page. I want to recall this life that I will gradually out-live and remember what it was, exactly, that I did with my youth. Still, I wish I was writing more fiction.

Jenny was freaking out about earthquakes all day. Arielle was morose because of boy-related issues. They showed up at my house around 8:30 with burritos from Chipotle and Jenny surprised me with a pair of new bad-ass red and black sneakers. Awesome. We lounged about for nearly an hour while Arielle made a pro-con list regarding a visit to Mount Shasta tomorrow, Jenny did yoga to distract herself from earthquake paranoia and I played DJ with the intent to calm them both with the right music choices. We left around 9:00.

The party was great. Just a couple people drinking wine and mixed drinks in the empty hardwood rooms of the emptied apartment, when we arrived, and after we all introduced ourselves and immediately forgot each other's names, we broke off into smaller groups and conversation picked up accordingly. Neat to be included in Jason and Jennifer's little circle of Midtown friends who came to wish them good luck. After warming up with a plastic cup of wine and getting a good vibe from the other guests, the music and the mood, I was challenged by Jason to a game of indoor hockey with a bouncy-ball. No better ice-breaker than just being completely goofy. The party transferred to the circle of camping chairs in the living room where we all tried some of Jason's homemade Kahlua, which was amazing, and someone invented the term "Mochy," as in chocolatey. Pictures of Baby Jack were shown around. Jennifer talked about pregnancy food cravings. People smoked cigarettes on the balcony despite the heavy rain and gusts of wind pounding against the windows. The weather provoked talk about natural disasters and Jenny looked so nervous. Natural disasters are on everyone's mind, these days. I took a college class about natural disasters once, but I can't remember a thing about it.

The party ended for us around 10:00 and we wandered back to my house, where we smoked pot and Arielle got more morose and Jenny suggested we all head over to her house before getting too lazy at mine. Good idea, except for the weather, and our brief walk pitted us against crazy wind and falling palm tree fronds. We made it back to Jenny's unharmed and I started reading an Augusten Burroughs memoir while Jenny tried her best to bring Arielle out of her rut, and I could see Jenny giving all the positive energy she could, but Arielle was a black hole at that point, and I made it to page five or six before Arielle left glumly. It seems to be the season for disappointing heartbreak, so I imagine she's in the same boat as Shaun and Kirsten, and I recognize the value in what I have going with Jenny. But before we get a chance to be alone, I realize that I forgot to leave my bedroom door unlocked--bad news considering Kirsten plans on borrowing the space tonight--and I end up walking across Midtown at midnight with the storm tearing through treetops and painting the town wet with late-winter revenge. There was beauty in this wind-ravaged hike, being outside in one of Sacramento's most fiercest storms of the season, facing Mother Nature. I make it home alive and unlock my bedroom and then drive back to Jenny's.

That night, restless, we talk. We talk about us. We talk about writing. We talk about my aunt's old dalmatian. We talk about how we see the world. We talk about epiphanies. We talk about life. We come to conclusion that this is the best time to be where we are with each other, that this is good, that this makes us happy, and so why not? Jenny put it best when she said, "Let's just make a mess of things until there's nothing left to make a mess of." We talk until we fall asleep and who knows how much sleep I actually got before waking up to go to work. Two or three hours, most. At least I had my car. Everything happens for a reason.

- Left to Fry