Cinéplex

So it has been 2 weeks, I think, since I posted last. It seems as if more time would have elapsed. Or rather, more time should have elapsed. It's not fair! The dawning of each day is like start of a movie. Yes, that is how it has been, of late: a fine amalgam of some rather fine films.

American Graffiti.

"Oh, no, not me. The night is young and I'm not hittin' the rack till I get a little action."

What started as a frisson built itself up into a wild, vivifying rush of ebullience, and fired up the blood in my veins as it skipped nimbly between one synapse and another. The result? A whoop, a gale of inexplicable laughter...it was an ungodly hour and I was in a convertible with the ever-agreeable Rosalind and the convivial Gabriel Oak: co-R.A.'s and dear, dear friends. The wind weaved its way delicately through my hair leaving them tousled, disheveled, but trendily so. Every cell in my body pulsated to the electro-pop ministrations emanating from the car's music system. Almost organically did I join the two in shouting out lyrics to the night:

And if I notice you I know it's you. Choose you don't wanna lose you're on my radar (on my radar) on my radar (on my radar)

It was all us- one with the night, teetering on the edge of ecstasy, madness...Oh to be there again! Laughter, such laughter, as the Taco Bell attendant looked at me uncomprehendingly as I asked her for a vegetarian gordita. Oh! Oh! The banter was crisp, the persiflage was pungent, and oh...the laughter! Never mind the revelations that would come to pass as time strolled right along, never mind the mis-communication, the heart-break...Right then, there was no night but that one. None at all.

Mean Girls."You're wearing sweatpants. That's against the rules! You can't sit with us."

The Residence Dining Centre, these days, is oddly reminiscent of my idea of Valhalla, and the primary reason for that would be The R.A. Table: a long table, by the picture windows, with high stools and R.A. Royalty. Each day, I'd sashay into the Dining Centre, orange juice in hand, stopping at practically every table to exchange frothy, phatic nothings, until I'd finally weave my way to The R.A. Table. And there, amongst the other Anointed Ones, there would be laughter, stories, clever one-liners and-oh! A wonderful, wonderful time! Don't look at me like that! Being a voluptuary is hard work, I'll have you know!

But, in all seriousness, this particular episode left me a little shaken: am I really this shallow a person? Imagine my surprise when, one afternoon, I get back to my room, having barely survived the First Installment of Wrathful Wednesday, log into my Facebook and notice that Hamlet has posted the following:

"Hamlet wishes that he had an army of R.A. friends the way some other people do."
Seeing as I have an admiration for all things bitchy, even if they are directed towards me, I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. Oh, it was priceless! It was so acerbically bitchy, I had to hand it to him! Despite my rather exultant first reaction, I found that this little barb prickled me all day long as I went about facing the Second Installment of Wrathful Wednesday.

Now, imagine my surprise as I go back on to Facebook and find that Hamlet has vented his spleen to Helena! Oh! It killed me! There was such anguish there! Had I really forsaken the one guy who had given me the most tender bromance ever for the glitz of The R.A. Table?! Oh no no no! This had to be remedied at once! I called him over and a reconciliation was had. It was a quiet affair, there were hugs and borderline tearing-up. Oh what a cauchemar life would be without my friends....

The Others

There are things your mother doesn't want to hear. She only believes in what she was taught. But don't worry. Sooner or later... she'll see them. And everything will be different.

I was on my rounds a few days a go and I couldn't help but wonder this: why am I not carrying a lantern? Why am I not wearing a permanently paranoid expression and clothes that belong to the '40's? No, really! As an R.A., all I do is hear things. I hear whoops and yells, the clink of glass and an aluminium baritone, I hear giggles, I hear the whooshing of wheels in hallways...But when I emerge, I find...nothing. Oh, I've caught the odd miscreant, but really, otherwise, I only hear my residents and they only hear me. Maybe the noises are like a seance that carry out to confirm my presence. Oh no you don't! I'm not dead! This is my house! Of course it was foolish to think that they'd take to me instantly. Yet, the disappointment I have in myself doesn't seem to ebb...

Yet, constant reader, things are looking up. I have started aligning names to faces and phatic conversation is, well, a start at least. My fellow R.A.'s, fellow phantoms, if you will, have been very encouraging as well. Perhaps it is all in my mind. Because I see them now, without wondering if they really see me, and yes, things are different. In the best way possible.

Brief Encounter.

It's awfully easy to lie when you know that you're trusted implicitly. So very easy, and so very degrading.

I...can't talk about this. I thought writing about it might be easier, but it's not. Every time I even think about it I get that horrible lingering pregnant feeling in my nose, the kind that signals a sneeze or sobs. O God, O God! Such a foolish harlequin, variegate with regret and an undefinable somethingelse.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy.