Sunday 10/4
- Mission of Burma at MIT 2–6 ** no bags **
(img. from the Phx)
- Boston Tweed Ride same time, damn it
No lycra.
- Zuzubar.com launch 10 p.m. w/ my buddies TD and Johnny Allen DJing, plus some soul guys.
FB event.
Also
- Somerville Arts Council has a call out for winter craft show vendors and Union Square public art-creators.
Info.
—
Halloween (excerpt)
She arrived at his Inman Square triple-decker falsely bloodied and bruised, with a torn white T-shirt and Goodwill jeans she’d accidentally cut too short.
“I’ve been fooling around in the woods under the opening credits,” she said, “and then I look up from under the guy and see the axe just as it splits the dude’s head open. I run through the trees, scrambling and falling in the leaves, but of course there is. No. Hope. I don’t know, I think I need something more.”
He cocked his head. Definitely unconvinced. Slowly he wrapped her wrists with electrical tape from the hall table. Found his hatchet and cut a slit in the shirt to match. She rubbed red makeup on the shirt and her waist. “I’ll be your killer,” he said.
She drove, couldn’t afterwards remember how given the electrical tape, to the party out in the sticks. Picked up his bandmate, waited while they bought pumpkins, tried to talk in the car to block out the dread, a bass bell sounding in her ribs: X. hadn’t asked to meet up afterwards. They’d fought the week before. There was no way this could mean anything else. Her guts sagged leaden. It didn’t work; it never does.
Out of the car with the tidy houses all around. She shivered hard. He looked at her appraisingly.
“Almost,” he said. And grinned, with the quickest possible crazy gleam. His weight slammed against her. She pirouetted to the ground and started laughing, a little hysterically. He pushed her back on the cold grass and rubbed her back against the leaves, sat up and rubbed leaves into her hair. He got up. She couldn’t stop laughing.
One hour into the party she curled up on the couch to watch the playoffs and let herself fall asleep. Someone pulled a ratty afghan over her clenched limbs. At some wee hour she drove everyone back home, drunk bandmate chattering all the way.
No pictures survived of herself at this event. Five days later she had X. over and told him to get lost. Which was not, at the time, what she wanted.
–
xx
djd
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Tags: art grants, big digits, events, mission of burma, poncy literary woozing, somerville, tweed ride, zuzu
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