Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón sit in a dim bar in a small town in Mexico, smoking cigarettes and drinking dark Spanish port. That's where they are in my mind, anyway, when I picture them. Some part of me rejects the notion of Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón sitting at a McDonalds in the international terminal at Chicago O'Hare airport, eating an Egg McMuffin and a Sausage, Egg and Cheese McBiscuit and drinking small fountain drinks. I also could not picture them at Luby's cafeteria. Nor could I picture them at Buffalo Wild Wings watching college football. To me they are in Mexico, in a small town, partaking in ancient vices, spinning complex yarns. I can't help it. I'm just silly like that.
One of the regulars at the coffee shop this morning, the impossibly tall and impossibly thin girl who always stands by the window to wait for her order, is crying. She's trying to look like she isn't crying, but she is crying. You wouldn't know it unless you looked at her face, but it's unmistakable. She's crying and sniffing, trying to hide it. I wonder what is making her so sad. It's something I would never do, to go and ask her what's wrong, to try and make her feel better. I assume she would not welcome my becoming more than an anonymous face she sees each morning, that she would rather deal with the people in her own life, her own people, about such things. Still, there she is. She's crying. I hope she finds some way to feel better. I hope she's not crying tomorrow.
I'm getting close to understanding the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. When you understand this, segues become unnecessary. There are no non sequiturs. You can see how everything flows from everything else. We are all together, you, me, Alfonso, Guillermo, the tall and thin crying girl. We all flow from one another, follow one another, necessitate one another. Without all of us, there wouldn't be any of us. I'm starting to understand it, though I don't know if I could ever explain it to the rest of us.
Hello, friends. How are we today?
Later. Love.
