The Sound of Today, Yo

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Love

is a letter torn to pieces.

Sweet Potatoes, Sabres and Butterfly Wings

Violet and I decided to meet at Bukowski’s last Saturday night. Violet’s a full-time musician, who warned me she uses her feminine charm to turn men to vegetarians. That sounded wonderfully dangerous. I had met her at one of her shows, and I’ve since been to a couple more. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a black dress that made her look like a cross between a nineteenth century showgirl and a gothic princess. Her wild hair was up, the outline of her eyes was dark, and her smile was of a heavenly precision.

Something miraculous happens when you say her name, incidentally -- a mist explodes off your tongue and you’re treated to visions of a cigarette burning on a baby grand piano at 3 a.m. while people shake the ice cubes in their empty snifters and the only thing holding their heads up is that girl singing and the sweet look in her eyes and that’s the hour everyone’s too goddamn foolish to realize just how beautiful they are. And that’s Violet.

We met at 8:00 p.m. Bukowski’s is a restaurant located in Inman Square in Cambridge. It’s frequented by the local musician set and the Cambridge jet-set crowd and has a slight twinge of unsavory yuppification. We sat down in a plush red diner-like booth.

Elvis Costello took our order.

“I’ll have a Thiriez,” Violet said.

Sound. I ordered La Fin Du Monde, which is literally the end of the world.

“What did you mean by non-traditional?” I asked, continuing a previous conversation.

“I didn’t mean I was a swinger or anything like that. Just that I’m not interested in marriage or a family. But I like monogamy.”

“Oh…yeah, I agree.”

“Why aren't you interested in marriage?” She asked.

“I feel like it would hurt my book sales in Europe.” I said.

“Have you sold any books in Europe?”

“No. No, I haven’t.” I said.

She gave me a puzzled look. I pondered this.

The waiter then came over with our drinks and took our order. Saved.

The music was loud and conversation was difficult, but Violet’s eyes and the slight tilt of her head shot a beautiful Brezsny vibe at me that went like this:

"Slapstick thinker with refined sensibilities seeks a saint-like sinner with insanely cool style for a long-distance joyride towards the outskirts of Nirvana. Established meditation practice and a good bedside manner are desirable. Would it be too much to ask that you might also have a high level of emotional intelligence without boring me to death with your maturity? Is it possible that you'll be an entertaining talker who also knows how to listen with your wild heart turned up all the way? Let's keep reinventing ourselves forever.”

I could get on board with that, I thought. I soon tired of talking over the music, and I suggested she sit next to me. She sat next to me, and maybe I was only playing a man. And maybe she was only playing a woman. Or better yet, we were two exotic birds exchanging tentative mating calls as the scene of boho-cool hipsters swaggered from show to show through the little, square window.

Slight brushes of the hand and sweet potato French fries took over. “My Song” by Jerry Cantrell thrashed through the speakers, as we finished our meals. We both leaned back and my arm became acquainted with her shoulders and hmm…ahhh…can any man resist that? And through the window I saw that the dreariness outside was a veiled counterpoint to the impending promise of Spring.

“Shall we leave this place?” She asked, turning towards me.

“Yeah,” I said.

Off we went into the puddle-ridden lilac night.