9:03 a.m - 9:13 a.m.

this weekend, i met up with old friends at an old haunt.

part of the evening i was on duty, as it were, an expensive camera attached to my right hand. the remainder of the time was mine to reminisce over clinking glasses and amplifier feedback.

a friend recounted a memory he had of me.

timewarp, 2004: a group of us were returning home after the bars closed. in my stupor, (i would never, ever have the courage to act as such without many pitchers of good, black stout) i crawled into another friend’s bed. this particular friend had long weathered repeated and unrequited romantic advances from yours truly. he was - and is - a nice kid, too nice to tell me to lay off.

as we were falling asleep, i was whispering a string of praises to him. the apartment was a studio, without the (blessed) interference of walls and doorways. evidentaly, what i was saying could be heard clear across the room.

i said, in what i’m sure i thought effectively encapsulated my affection for this person; “have you seen the way the light moves through you?”

he, in response, “no, i don’t think i’ve ever seen that movie.”

those listening that night managed not to laugh.

hearing this story re-told friday, i managed not beat myself up too much about my obvious, and for the most part, now exorcised naivete.