Wednesday, June 24, 2009

to watch what the hell I was doing from a different set of eyes

I couldn't think of anything else to do.
There was no sleep on the horizon, but it wasnt' late anyway.
Who really wants to go to bed?
There's a pool hall down the street, I haven't been in a pool hall in six years.
I used to go with my girlfriend once or twice a week. We'd enter hands clapsed, and warm eyed at each other, and somehow we'd be in some kind of competitive hellfire by the end of the night.
I have to stop to think for a minute or two if we broke up over a pool game.
I don't think so.
It was probably something else, but she's gone now. Off into some other movie just a foggy memory in things I'm not even sure really happened.
But here's this pool hall, and it sounds great. a low hum of chatter and a juke box creeking out some loud saxaphone.
I wish I knew more jazz off the top of my head. I used to get haunted by old, grainy footage of black and white jazz artists, but I've since moved on to other highly irrational fears.
And that's part of the reason why I'm at this pool hall shooting a game by myself finding out how bad I really am at this game.
I can't hang around waiting for every magnificent blend of neurosis to creep into my head, waiting to be acknowledged for ten minutes so that I can form some kind of super cock tail of crazy.
No thanks. I'd rather scratch on an 8 ball in public for a few hours until I can't see straight.
The jazz is over and someone put on Public Enemy.
That's cool with me.
I like to fancy myself a bit of a late 80's early 90's hip hop afficianado.
Even though I'm probably not.
I wish I knew how to play pool well.
I can play a little.
Occasionally I'll hit a shot, very loud, very convincingly, and glide across the table to the next one that I'll pretend I have some natural ability to see before the other player does. But in the end I'm not very good, and that's too bad because the life of a pool hall hustler, or at least a pool hall hustler in the movies, appeals to me.
If I won at this point, I probably wouldn't be able to supress a grin, and the next thing I'd know is I was getting my head cracked open with a stick or a cue-loaded fist.
And before I can sink my last ball the lights come up and to let us know that the night is over.
At least for billiards.

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