T, X, & Z.

the bus south. the back of his head itches but he doesn’t remove his Celtics hat to scratch it. hours spent, music plugged into his ears, watching the terrible movies on the small TVs. wading in the shallow end of memory: the town he’s left, already acquiring a patina of crystallization, a light dusting of nostalgia, like cold dew. the faces of coworkers, of strangers, of friends, repeating like a crazed zoetrope behind his eyes. blink, reshuffle.

the landscape outside: gray. scrub. the charcoal blur of cars passing. the occasional backside of a factory or storage unit, cement scarred with lurid, cryptic graffiti. the music changes.

o

arrival, standing in the choked station, half-dazed & a little drunk. the weight of a backpack overstuffed with books, a notebook filled with attempted rhymes, and a hooded sweatshirt - his favorite, for years - slightly oversized at the hem & cuffs. he pulls it out and dons it, despite the humidity. takes comfort in the feeling of it, the familiarity.

the hum, roar & beep of his environs. the distant, bored sound of someone speaking informationese on a speaker down the concourse. for a distorted moment, he loses all bearing and

blink. reshuffle.

arrival, somewhat more disorienting than departure. the ordered, planned leaving of a place. the consolidation of possessions, the blueshift - now, here, at the axiomal center of Before and After … one could easily slip sidewise, disappear. with a gathered-up sigh, he plunges forward. can feel the rotation of everything under his sneakers.

in one of the five pockets of his jean shorts, there is a creased, college-ruled piece of notebook paper with an address on it. it’s in his own hand, crabbed & slanted. he’s been told that his penmanship belies an aggressive personality, that he is liable to strike out with the barest inclication of threat. that he is willful, chaotic, and, at times, insecure & creative. he doesn’t put much stock in “that shit” - which broadly & acerbically encompasses the fields of astrology, chiromancy, cartomancy, graphomancy & divination in any form. he’ll admit to the eerie accuracy of it, but decry any intrinsic value.

the address is given to the cabdriver. the fare is ten-fifty. he tips a dollar and steps out onto the sidewalk, shrugging on the backpack, jamming his hands in the pockets of his hooded sweater. disengages his earbuds & stares at the apartment building in front of him. he’s been told it’s not the “best part” of town, but it isn’t the worst. he doesn’t care. has lived in worse places. known worse people. been a worse person. that’s all in the Before. he is looking forward to the After.

o

X, as he prefers to be called (full name Xavier Theodore Dudelle) is standing against the wall, eyes closed & lungs full of marijuana. his thoughts are wandering in & out of closed loops, an unending segue. he never fully latches onto one before another bubbles up to the surface. sitting on the threadbare couch, he had become dizzy and needed to stand. he exhaled and it propelled him across the room to the wall, where he slammed his eyes shut and propped his body up with a sneakered foot. “fuck,” he says, coughing out a last tendril of smoke, “that’s good shit.”

he hasn’t heard the door open, hasn’t heard it close again, hasn’t seen the admittance of a new face. X opens his eyes. “shit. it’s you. motherfucker.”
 “I got a fuckin’ name, yo.”
 “Fuck you, dawg. I know you got a fuckin’ name. What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

he blinks. “this your place, ain’t it?”

X begins to laugh, doubling over, clutching his midsection. “you actually fuckin’ came. wow.”


“that’s what she said.”

a moment balloons, where X squints at him, something akin to aggression brewing on his face. it breaks as quickly as it formed, replaced by a broad, white-toothed grin - followed by a flood of customary, ribald admonishments. he ushers him to the couch.

gem club - animals

this is music that floats in the aether. a lover's finger down the ties of your spine, considerate, deliberate. perhaps it's the otherworldly collaboration of piano & cello, perhaps it's the twining of fragile voices. the union of both these things, describing the exterior of an egg. the egg is shivering & cracking, the new life inside straining to enter the world. this is wistful, this is ruminative. this is the delicate furrow of a brow, the disappointment in your mother's eyes when she catches you at terrible play. this is remembering that first time. this is looking at the last time. this is you, standing amidst the shards of mirror, staring into the empty frame. this is watching her disappear around the corner, hand still poised in the air, waving to someone either in front of her or to you, perpetually behind. this is eternal return, emotions etiolated to sugar glass on the point of breaking. it's so brittle when you hold it in your hands. just like memory. and just like memory, you end up with pieces.