Four Fingers

Listening to Tom Waits traipse through his gravely vocals while I watch a ceiling fan lurch slowly ‘round in circles. I imagined myself in a dirty bar – four fingers of Scotch old enough to sleep with, an ashtray overflowing with bent whitepaper butts and a person beside me, hunched over a pint. An artist.

We spend the night talking about how disillusioned we’ve become. We bitterly bemoan that Art is dead. That all media – brushes, beats and broadcasts - are just another barricade between us and real emotional connections. That life is painful and futile and hard. I order another drink and light the cigarette I’ve been rolling. Fuck this is fun! This is living!

It’s funny what you miss when you stumble out of your life, into the broad light of reality. All those things that you knew were bad for you (but were really good at). What is it about drunken conversations – somehow the world makes more sense when you make less? The world is simpler then. Safety in numbness.