Diction Rejected: Haha

Sup world.

I have found myself in the throes of a resplendent Sunday morning, sipping freshly brewed coffee and enjoying the sunlight as it spills in through the windows and furnishes my den with this weightless, lambent glow, an effect which lends a certain oneiric quality to the supine atmosphere it floods over, laminating the scene and making me almost giddy, as if I'm on the verge of transcendence, melting into the moment, a diffusion out into this still-life. . . .  Not that this can last too much longer, even now I can hear my work beckoning, artfully pulling at my heartstrings, making me feel like Odysseus must have felt on Calypso's Isle when he would think of Ithaca, those thoughts that made paradise tortuous for him.

My nephew told me the other day that he thinks I should start attending Workaholics Anonymous meetings.

But I should be able to hold my epic addiction at bay until at least noon, that is, languish for a little longer and permit myself the illusion of enjoying (what the bourgeoisie refer to as) the weekend.

So recap (as it's been awhile since I posted):

Friday evening was a pretty good time, mainly because Jasmine graced the apartment with her presence and a couple bottles of cheap wine.

She showed up around seven, not bothering to call beforehand, somehow knowing that I would be in despite the fact that it was a Friday night (can it really be so obvious that I would be at home on a Friday that it wouldn't even cross her mind to check before making the trek . . . makes me wonder . . . ).

"Chris, darling," she greeted me when I opened the door, "I need to escape."

"Sanctuary to all who enter," I proclaimed (rather charmingly) with a sweep of my arm, though she was already brushing by me as if I were simply the doorman rather than the host.

I threw on Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters album to liven the mood.  Jasmine poured us wine (we drank from the plastic excuses for wine glasses that she pulled out of the dusty recesses of the cupboard).  Then we spent a couple hours talking about things, not specific things, but general things (mainly because Jasmine never likes to talk about the specifics of her life, while the specifics of my life tend to be mundane generalities), though I did gather that she's now working as a waitress at the V-Spot (that vegan restaurant on 5th Street) and she's been blowing most of her tip money on blow, which she blew a few lines of off my coffee table.

After awhile, I suggested we throw on a movie, and (having perused my DVD collection) she proclaimed The Fugitive as the cinematic entertainment of the night.  I put the movie in, hit the lights, and curled up with her on the couch.

We were ballin' by the time Kimble made his desperate jump from the spillway in the Cheaoh Dam.

She ended up spending the night (like a throw back to yesteryear), but left early in the morning on some vaguely important mission (probably to score more cocaine before her lunch shift [well, that's an embellishment, I don't know what she actually hurried out to do]).  I guess it was nice spending time with her.  I just wish we had more in common with each other these days . . . but that's life for you:

Changes you and everybody else until no one recognizes each other anymore.

And on that sardonic (tongue in cheek) comment, I shall abruptly conclude.



Enjoy the day and . . .

Peace.