Retro Geek

Or, not so much so.  Reason, version 4. Same infuriating satisfaction of ready-made electronic looping bad-ass-ness.  A largely productive day, although my knee is still aching, and I protest, utterly, this growing old thing my body seems to be doing without my permission.  I do not approve.  I think I'm a lousy friend.  Both of you can join the choir, now, except neither of you seems to be talking to me.  I seem to be a good friend, despite fundamentally selfish tendencies, when solo, but this whole 'successful relationship' thing is rather rewriting the terms of my friendships.  And seems to involve long, frosty silences.  Or maybe it's just not about me.  Nah. That can't be it.  Where was I?  Frosty silences.  Unreturned phone calls (well, really only one of you; the other I owe, seriously long overdue, a call. Trust me, the guilt is enormous.) didn't used to be the tenor of my life.  Timbre. A lovely word, and perhaps better communicating what life seems to be.  Recalling Thanksgivings past, so many of them without family, hell, without Thanksgiving itself, occasional refugee, friends, dinners, Brits and expats, Westchester, Brooklyn.  And now, this? Local blood relatives.  If I'd known it would come to this, etc.  "They'll be making a formal offer this weekend, but what, I'm going to turn it down?"  "Yeah go on.  Turn it down. Just to say you did."  (cue LONG pause whilst re-reading emails to and fro, from early/mid-February, 2006.) Not even two years ago, and I can barely fucking remember much more than throwing my head back on the ski slopes (don't ask) just before the largest East Coast blizzard in a century (I was playing the odds) and saying "I fucking did it" over and over and over and over again.  Selective memory blanking, a charm and a liability.  Thinking back to Westchester Xgiving, a mere two years ago.  And I barely remember the details (well, that's not true. I remember the table cloth, the paper turkey centerpiece, the boyfriend-then-fiance-now-husband-of-the-sister.  Did we spend the night or train back? And where do the double thanksgivings, in Brooklyn, fit in?  And what ever happened to having to work for the (evil, old, Dead) man the day after Thanksgiving?  And why do my friends treat me well at all, given what a twat I'm capable of being? Eh. Fuck the boat.  Thoughtful, but not hobbled by self-doubt, nor particularly intoxicated.  Early to bed...weak in the eyes, etc.