Head-on with Rufus Wainwright

Driving home in Magnifico's car, facing the fat snowflakes head-on, with Rufus Wainwright serenading us, I allowed my thoughts to drift.

First, I thought about how long it's been since I've painted (I can't even remember the last time anymore). I'm staring at my "art box", which is basically where I throw all of my paints, paintbrushes, pastels, pencils, allowing them to rot for the past two years. I just feel like if I start it again, I'll frustrate/disgust myself because it will be nowhere near what I had envisioned. Maybe art is like riding a bike (you can't ever forget how), but I've momentarily fallen off and skinned my knees.

Second, I thought about how lucky I am to have met the people I know now. I've heard of horrible college experiences, but I think my worst one thus far has been riding the Miami Metro when the stupid drunks are on their way uptown. I'm allowing myself to be sentimental because half of these people are graduating this year, and that's a scary thought. I now that it's going to be a while and forever until I graduate, but the idea of losing friends is always unpleasant. I know I'm not going to be "losing" anyone, per se. But it will never be the same.

Then we drove by a lone motel and for some reason, I had this flashback. No, it's not one of a drunken post-prom night, but rather, one of me and my friend Monica driving home from Kroger three years ago. We had bought two-weeks worth of food because were going backpacking in Wyoming the next day. It was dark and we had Ani DiFranco really loud in her Jetta. We're turning left onto her street (she lived on Vine Street, in The Vineyard), and we feel a bump where there's not supposed to be one. She says, "Did you feel that?" and I say, "Yes," and she parks her car on the side of the street and we run out. We see what neither of us had been hoping to see; an orange-striped cat lying on the road. She starts to cry. "Oh my god, it's Berkely*". She gets down on her knees. "Berkely, Oh my god, I am so sorry." she gets the cat into her arms and cradles it like an infant. She is sobbing and I can't help but cry myself, even though I am now feeling so disoriented and I feel like i'm watching it from miles away. She wraps her jacket around Berkely, placing him in the backseat. We drive back to her house, silently. I go with her next-door and I watch her knock on the door. She's carrying the cat, swaddled in her jacket. A woman opens the door. Monica starts sobbing again, "I ran over him," is all she could get out. We spend the rest of the night drinking Jack Daniels in little bottles and burning incense.

... It's still snowing out, it's cold, but I'm warm and happy. Maybe a little disillusioned too, but for now I'm concentrating on the fact that I can actually feel my fingers and toes. And maybe at some point, I'll get enough warmth in them to get back into art again.

(*I couldn't remember the cat's name, but it was something to this effect.)