i always liked being in love, like with the guy on the highway tonight on my way home from union city. we're cruising up 885 at 80 and there is some kind of clusterfuck ahead, a full dozen cop cars and flares and a half dozen mashed and toasted cars. as i slow down to about jogging speed i notice the car in the lane to my right is hopping up and down. it's a little old trashed subaru and the driver, some guy with a bleached white-blond crewcut, is taking advantage of the fact the the front shocks on this thing are toast to make the whole car bounce like a crazed animal to some music he's playing. his bumper sticker says " Speak Your Mind, Even If Your Voice Shakes"

i just thought that was so cool.

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you know that part of the movie where the heros girlfriend has just flown off to australia with her new love, and he's driving through town- it's raining- and the music, maybe sam cooke, is in the foreground, everything else is muted, conversations barely register, and he's staring through the rain streaked windshield driving, driving, going past all the places they used to kiss. and the next scene, ten months later, they have to skip over the ten months, it's just to damn boring, he's dead to the world- but something must save him, or it's a total wipe out?

it's cold and airless, like the moon, where it is, after all, serene- the shadows blood dark and silent. ...this is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife. i am still here.

he's sadder and wiser, but we're in a movie so there's some kind of shock coming.. in comes the attacking foe, or the flood, or the abandoned child, or he just finds an old love letter fallen behind the sofa...

the house was tall and very very full. i wanted the woman in chrome mylar to rub up against me, but she didn't know me, so she just sqeezed past. i knew i was in the right place at the right time, something is happening here but you don't know what it is, do you, mr jones.