I am sitting on the plane reading Henry Miller. His misanthropy inspires confidence. I feel my fingers dance a waltz over the keyboard.
I realized I did not write yesterday. I read but I didn’t write and I am ashamed. This morning on the plane, while falling asleep, my head bobbled and see-sawed. It was very uncomfortable, and finally I had to take off my suede coat and wrap it around my neck like a scarf.
I entertained Dad in the car this morning by telling him about what Bryan said.
Bryan reminisced about that afternoon when Dad was supposed to be in surgery and came home early to find us drinking 40s and smoking weed on the deck and so he called all our parents and Bryan begged, pleaded, said, Dr. Adler, my parents won’t let me go to Mexico if you tell them, and him imitating my dad, slow and serious, Bryan, I am confident that they will let you go to Mexico. And so Dad left two messages on their answering machine and Bryan knew his best chance was to tell his parents face to face rather than let them find out as though he had concealed it. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t allowed to go to Mexico. And what could I say? Then he remembered how that same day I slapped Christian as hard as as I could, with him saying, I won’t even feel it, and then the redness and shock and his inability to be mad because he had asked for it. We concluded by defining ourselves: hooligans.
At least we will get home with sunshine, and have most of the afternoon. Reading Henry Miller reminds me of the fact that people are waiting for me to act. That I am deep and intense and an artist, a writer, and all of the interactions I provide them with are enough to remind them that they are alive.