Schrödinger's Sunrise

Waking up early has become one of those odd pleasures. Something about the time seems stolen, ransomed from the dreams of still sleeping people. Sometimes the hour hides in mist and thin fog. Other times it paints the beige building outside my window in a soft orange-pink that's almost salmon. The sunlight glows in the glass windows and reflects back through mine in small square pools. Not a car passes. There isn't any conversation. No trace of another human being's existence. For a moment, the world seems to stand still, caught at a chance moment of meek vulnerability. Then the birds sound out, a car door closes, then starts. Soft-eyed people make their morning pilgrimage toward the smell of roasting coffee. Running water can be heard through the pipes in the walls of my apartment. The birth of the day. Watching it all happen makes it more personal, as though it only happens because I'm looking; Schrödinger's sunrise.

Last night I drank responsibly and put myself to bed at a reasonable hour. I received a few calls from close friends who wanted to talk about their feelings; one from New York and one from Bacchus country. The first friend was drunk on much laughter and self-aggrandized bravado. He esteemed his wit above all else and demanded I remind him of the following things: $7, $9, mauve, taupe. From this, he told me, he would reconstruct verbatim the clever exchange that impressed him so. In the morning he said I would be awed by his unmatched faculty for creative rigor and the tenacity of his memory. This morning however, after having sent him the requested, and much necessary "poetics," those ingredients for his breakfast masterpiece, he replied: what the fuck are you talking about. Clearly he'd forgotten how he told he would "pimp me," how he would "sell my mauve ring out for $7 to the highest bidder." He'd forgotten the line that made him laugh most - you don't even know the difference between mauve and taupe, you're not gay enough. Perhaps after reading this post it will all come back to him. One can hope.

My second friend, calling from New York, by contrast was drunk on self doubt and insecurity. He was wrestling with the threat of love's leaving. There's a girl - there's always a girl [because, after all, nothing occupies a space more completely than the love of a woman] - that he's been courting for just over a month. He was worried she might be wavering, that her affections could be flagging. I recommended he see other girls while chasing her, to distract him, to conceal the strength of his devotion to her; from himself and from her. It is far too easy to scare love away in its infancy. More skittish than squirrels or birds, nascent love needs to be treated with an almost unhealthy sangfroid. Any sudden lurching or telegraphed desperation is almost always ruinous. At the onset, love needs to be tantalized. It needs to be precious and precarious. There is no noble love but that which recognizes itself to be both short-lived and exceptional. Often it is capricious and cruel and given to chase. But always, when it senses the threat of being unrequited, it swells exponentially, obsessively, and becomes a need more insatiable than even the deepest hunger. I told him to listen to Hungry Eyes on repeat every moment that he isn't with her, and when he is.

I need to go shower. I'm going with Coco to Russian River soon and I smell like dirty beer sleep. We'll drive and chat and drink more beer and eat pizza; the finer things. I'll regale her with stories of my exploits since we last met and hope to make a few more while we're there. Last time we went we stumbled upon a very special international tasting, synchronized across the globe so that we were all drinking the same beer at the same time, bridging enormous distances to share the same moment/experience. It was strange and magical. Who knows what adventure awaits us today.