After a quiet day indoors, I went to see a movie at an art-house cinema where the clientele, mostly in their later years, were anxious and perturbed, snipping at each other for better seats, unhappy with the lack of air conditioning as well as the tight quarters, leaving my neighbor and I both to wonder aloud why we had left our apartments in the first place, even if the film was fine, which it was, German and provoking, as was the bar later on, except that the clientele was perturbed there too, drunk maybe being more accurate a phrase, anxious for the next round or just be less alone……while the bartender loudly repeated his story of getting so sick of a woman who wouldn’t stop playing George Michael songs on the jukebox, so sick of listening to George Michael songs that he not only didn’t care that George Michael had just died, but more than that, he would rather listen to absolutely anything else, even The Chipmunks’ Christmas Don’t Be Late, than another one of George Michael’s fucking songs, and told her if she didn’t like it, there were two doors and to use one of them, all to the delight of his patrons,all of whom wanted another drink, anything not to have to go home because there was no one there. Or maybe that was all me.
I don’t know how to end. It seems like I just go on and then it comes to a stop, the story just gone, ended, like a final breath. This is the way of life, but it’s not supposed to be for writing. The problem is that endings can be so ridiculous and easy to predict, which I blogged about last year. I have had a multitude of endings for my bad side, some of them obtuse, others pointed, all of them too introspective. I had an ending, a moment, part revelatory, part happenstance, but it came across as a blunt object struck on the reader’s head.I have tried to avoid core themes and images and end up with a moment that means more than it should. I need something in between, something clean, something that begs for more but doesn’t, like a good drink.Something like that.