I went to an art show tonight. It’s not something that I often do. When I drank, they were an event that I was often forcibly removed from. I don’t mix well with creative types sober or drunk. The difference is when sober, I’m shy; when drunk I’m a fucking disaster. A noisy trainwreck who might just wreck your whole opening.
But tonight I ran into someone who knew me – though vaguely – and who I could not recall at all. I apparently met her in September. It’s too bad that just about everything that occurred after seven in the evening that month is vague at best. Quite often it’s totally gone.
And just last night I was wandering down Bloor Street when a young Asian gentleman nodded and said hi as if he knew me. I returned the favour though I don’t have the foggiest notion of who he may be. Perhaps he’s a reader who recognizes me from my profile pic? Much more likely I met him at some point and can’t remember. At least he didn’t intend violence towards my person. It would be nice if I was sure that I never intended violence towards his.
It’s fucking weird. Like a Philip K. Dick novel. It’s almost as if I’ve had a twin out causing mischief for years and now I discover that he’s me.
So, if I meet you on the street and you know me, yet I seem curiously distant and strange, not to mention sober, you might have to fill me in on some details. Like who you are. I’m not particularly interested in what I may have done. I can imagine that part just fine. I’ve heard enough rumours over the years.
