The Long Slow Fridays

Tonight I lay on the grass with no shirt and sent long slow cigarettes in arcs above my head and spat ineffectually onto my face and neck and not the lawn. I had watched Visitor Q and Punch Drunk Love and thought of the redemptive powers of cinema that, after wine and contemplation, seemed more like set-pieces at some cinema World Cup than me sitting, reclined, in front of a paused Larry Clark DVD or the true thoughts that might work between fingers and brain at this late, late hour. I thought of missing Japan and its inherent madness, and felt regret at being no more than a bush-league amateur and voyeur, a vessel with no real destination, and how I would like to go back on a holiday and go to the places I should have gone to. Even though I have travelled a lot, I am not an adventurous person. I am 30 in 7 days and even as I look down at these hands, these real hands that are scratched and veined with cuisine and skateboarding and not much graft, I feel that the continuing business of my life is in becoming a storage facility, a graveyard of memories.