"Jerry Davis - Random Acts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

and fresh. I breathe deeply and tell myself that everything is
okay. Everything is just fine.
#

The next morning, Saturday the 21st, I walk back from the Co-Op
apartments where our friend Felix lives, where I'd spent the night on
the floor with a sheet and a pillow, and just as I approach the gray
brick building where I pay rent I see Pris timidly let herself out of
the front door, carefully closing it behind her. Her hair is messy and
the collar of her white and blue blouse is half inside-out; she looks
sleepy, and there's a contented look on her face. I myself have a
hangover, which reminds me of the decision I had made last night: I am
going to force myself to fall out of love with Pris. This agony that I'm
going through is nothing more than a few chemicals in my brain, a few
synapses misfiring when they should be dormant, a few hormones mingling
with my blood when they shouldn't. Well, last night Felix and I decided
that the conscious mind can influence the subconscious, and the
subconscious can change anything in the body that is controlled by the
brain. Love can be controlled by the brain, so I will force myself to
shut it off.
I don't love her, I tell myself as I hide from her. As a matter of
fact, I hate her. I despise her.
She pushes her hair out of her left eye as she walks to the corner
and then crosses the street, walking toward the BART train station that
is about five blocks away. Her hair falls right back over that eye, so
she pushes it again . . . and it falls again. It's the style of her
hair, the way it is cut, that makes it do this. It's impractical, but
it's beautiful. I love it when she pushes it away from her eye, and I


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love it when it falls back down. Damn it! I tell myself. You don't love
it, you hate it! But, damn it, I love it! I love her!
This isn't working at all.
She passes out of sight, walking downhill toward the front of the
campus, and I feel sad that she's leaving. But I know why, she works on
Saturdays, and so does Tom. Sunday morning is usually his deadline for
whatever story he's working on, and for some reason he always waits
until Saturday to write it. His stuff is very political so it's rare
that I ever read any of it, but at least I know his writing habits ---
he has the personality of an angry cobra until he finishes whatever he's
working on. If I'm in the apartment on a Saturday morning, he snaps at
me if I make the tiniest noise. This is why I'm not in a hurry to get up
there.
Our bum is already awake and playing with trash on the front steps.
I pause on my way up to the door to look down at what he's doing; he's
making crooked cubes again, using drinking straws for building material
and gum and old bandages to hold it together. The bum pauses to look up