10/20/11 — a thursday,

“one please—san francisco—one way—thank you.” i have four hours to slay so i walk down the street to sally loo’s coffee shop in san luis obispo, or “slo” as the locals call it, where i too adopt the phonetic pronunciation, “slow” because i have a pension for juxtaposing the b and the p in opisbo. fcuk…

sally loo’s appears a popular study spot for college coeds with their cast-iron fireplace lit orange and the smell of pumpkin spice circulating the air. a guest book hangs mid-air under steel wires and one entry reads, “The blueberries in my scone were warm and gooey. Mmmmmm ~leslie.” who needs yelp. i don’t write anything; can’t work under pressure.

once matt leaves me alone, i’m free to watch openly as caffeinated patrons mill about. the girl with hair like hay but curly elicits smiles from a baby by making funny faces—she does silly with her tongue, crazy with her eyes and dumb with her ears—and in my opinion, she’s way cuter than the baby; the man wearing neck wool blows steam back into a tiny espresso; the cashier in an apron greets everyone by name—well, everyone except me. he greets me with, “hi, what can i get you?” to which i say, “iced chai, that’s it.”

since ice often melts, a puddle of condensation floods towards my computer. i barricade myself behind dam of napkin and shift my pinky on the keyboard. capital I. then with the other pinky, i press: delete, delete, delete. i save twenty words on my metamorphosis into candy corn before actor colin farrell strolls in. he’s with some punk chick flipping out hell-fire red hair. nice tail. colin’s wearing a fedora but it doesn’t disguise the irish accent in his cheeky “coffee en cream” order. “yeh, two.” he agrees to one picture with a muslim woman because they both wear covers over their heads. nobody else moves until after he exits and for the next few minutes, all the birdies are a twitter over their apparent eagle sighting. me too, but you would never know it. i play it so freaking cool.

and back to business. i watch stocks tick by in one browser window and revise what little text i have left in the other. “It’s not the candy’s shape that strikes me as authentic, it’s the segmentation. Base, heart and head, it’s all on display there.”

a nursing student’s pc battery dies so we swap seats. “sure, take it.” what do i care? her old seat, my new one, is in direct sun. i’m burning up and the view from here offers nothing but a glaring coat of dust on my monitor. i up and leave. on the way out, i say my one revoir to a petite girl doing algebra on her TI-83 calculator. “i thought you were holding a really big cell phone,” i kid. her legs are so short they don’t reach the floor. but on the way to the bus stop i realize i will never see her, or any of these people, ever again. well, maybe colin…

[more from Running Away]

10/17/11 — a monday,

morro bay floats on a cloud of fog and atop black hill i see rolling green rock in one direction and melancholy waves rocking blue in the other. they both cap white when washed and the difference between sand and dirt remains to be seen, but of course, once i climb down around the ocean and remove my shoes, bare feet make these two worlds all the different. my toes are swallowed alive in cool sand and picked clean by dying waves. in and out we go. my little piggies collect debris all the way back to someone or another’s home…

deep breaths. salty air. wipe feet clean on matt’s doormat and take a beer from the fridge. relax. it’s cooler than an ocean’s breeze in here and the taste of salt lingers on my tongue. there’s a party tonight so i say, “happy birthday trey” and offer him drinks upon arrival. i’m glad he accepts because this means i can help myself—can’t help myself, “and another?” we take our seats on the couch and wait for his friends, my fellow strangers, to arrive.

a surfer dude enters, a platinum blonde chick follows, then neighbor girl, along with a collection of other characters set to play a supporting role in my life, at least for tonight—which is all you ever know for sure anyway. i play beer pong one-on-one with matt in the dark and after we crank up the fog machine, we’re all one in the same—wandering souls lost in a sea of cloudy spirits.

the smoke clears and surfer dude asks me to join his team. right on. we’re competent enough to win at least a case worth of games before he leaves for more beer, or a blunt, and i replace him with the blonde chick. she’s my first choice in partner despite watching her miss every cup so far. it’s just a game. but since we’re winning, our displays of team spirit include the high five, the back pat&rub and after a particularly spectacular shot, the friendly butt squeeze. i wouldn’t dare say who squeezes but…aye.

everyone loses to someone and i’m recast from beer pong player to casual party goer. as i wander about, no longer sure of my motivation, fresh bodies displace air pacific to this coast. i suppose as casual party goer, it’s my place to take shots with the birthday boy, pass this joint and tell people who i just met a little bit about myself. “about me?” what do i know?

well lemme see, “i’m a confused little boy running from home, not that i have a home per say, but more like the concept of home—don’t want one right now, don’t want anyone really.” to which they say, “uh, well—” and run away. godspeed and bless you.

desperate to escape, i video chat with a friend from austin on the front porch. i introduce her to people on the way out—end scene—and promise to visit austin. i mean it; i’m also drunk.

back inside, people shotgun themselves in the face with beer, crash into hookahs and make out in the corner, including blonde girl. i eat once-fresh guacamole on taco chips and chew around candle stubs on chocolate ninja cake—wash it all down with beer and hash and just one more slice. happy birthday to me; turn over the same old leaf.

neighbor girl sits alone on the floor; i sit down beside and we browse netflix. tis’ the season for witches so i play the craft and we peek out from under the covers—not that this movie is scary, but the act of seeking is. thus i hide.

[more from Running Away]

10/16/11 — a sunday,

overnight, a curtain rod falls in a crowded los angeles apartment and nobody hears. whether or not it makes a sound is irrelevant because even if you slit the throats of every cock, the sun still rises. as do i…

i get up when black turns to light and the lids on my eyes flip back. trying to follow these little ocular gymnists throws off my balance and feels less like admiring the controlled maneuvers of trained athletes and more like dancing along to the haphazard motions of flag-twirling children run a muck on a cruise ship. if my head houses this vessel’s deck then my gut holds poseidon’s sea. and he’s angry this morning. i drop anchor on hard wood floor and step over human wreckage all the way to the toilet.

here, i spring a leak, wash my mouth out with fresh water and pocket a toothbrush. as far as luggage goes, i take one change of clothes on my back and two more in my knapsack. past that, there’s a computer, a book by kurt vonnegut and one near full composition notepad. ’til the end we go. i don’t need socks where i’m going but i take one pair just in case.

the last two nights are mirror images of one another and they don’t like what they see. they reflect upon two empty handles of jager, two unfamiliar house parties washed out by pills and weed, two long walks home alone and far too many blank stares spent waiting for someone’s mouth to blink—sometimes, i won’t talk to strangers but they don’t take kindly to silence so they turn up their music and i tune it all out. if i look back on the last two nights, the thing missing is me. but if i’m a ghost, why do i reflect, and if i don’t see the one i want, why not change?

i guess that’s why i’m in the passenger seat of a two-man jeep and the sight of LA grows smaller in the southbound mirror. we ride 101 north along the coast and no matter how fast we drive, waves still crash at our side all the way back to someone or another’s home…

[there are no pictures from this night]

[read part 2 of Running Away]