Things tend to end in July in my life. It’s the dead of summer, and it has a history of being the end of things; usually of those that need to turn to ash. Om Namah Shivaya.
Ten, fifteen or so years after an emotionally grueling break-up, I found myself, one post-midnight, as per usual, during that binge/work/binge period of my late twenties, sitting crossed- legged on the dusty floor with my then-partner in crimes of indulgences. Her real name is that of an actual Asian spice, but for the purposeless notion of privacy, I’ll simply refer to her as “Wasabi”; and not just because she spent half her childhood in Okinawa.
“Tell me a story,” the self-proclaimed Anglophile asked, as she literally placed her hands on her chin, as a child character would in an animated Disney movie. I loved Wasabi, but I knew I was about to fail her, as so many had done in the past, due to poor secondary schooling standards, sheer neglectful intellectual laziness, or the inability to consistently sexually fulfill her. What story could I possibly tell? How I took the rail through Europe the past summer, overstayed my welcome at an Amsterdam hostile, ditched my party and left with an artist from Berlin, who taught me how to sketch sidewalk chalk art in front of a cathedral in Trier, which briefly made me feel a deeper connection to my traceable Native American roots (i.e. sand art). But that would’ve been untrue. I only watched an artist in Trier sketch sidewalk chalk art; but I was 12, and with my family on our own version of “European Vacation“. I remember thinking the artist looked unbathed. The concept of homelessness did not really exist in my 12-year-old brain. So, I stared at Wasabi blankly. I watched her smile slowly fade, and her dark eyes darken under her black pixie haircut. I felt I had no stories to tell; only the story of my life. Or, maybe drunkenness was not good for the creative mind. I then, began to ramble on about some regretful incident with the ex boyfriend; whom I’ll refer to as “Mr. July”, and not just because what his last name means in Polish. The story didn’t go over well. It was around this time in my life that I realized I did not make a good barfly.
In the year 2000, there wasn’t a generally thoughtless yet accepted way to respond to something you cannot answer off the cusp, such as, “These types of issues require Genius Bar appointments.” I wonder if the Apple Genius Bar has regulars. Any Apple bar I’ve entered has been generally crowded.
I typically have a short list of adjustments that never seem to be made when I need them to be. I, or it, somehow figures itself out, and that problem is solved, only to be replaced by a new one.
And, yes, I am typed this on my iphone. Time to get going, or I’ll miss my 2nd genius bar appointment this month. Though, they don’t seem to miss me much.