Tuesday 200 — one hundred twenty-one
There's only so much time one can spend staring at sea foam, counting breaths on a blanket of stones …
What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?
It’s time to disappear.
It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. It’s most definitely happening now.
There is no fixed series of events, no cosmic alignment.
Nothing’s chasing after him. There’s nothing new to run away from.
It simply is time to go.
Brighton has played itself out. There’s only so much time one can spend staring at sea foam, counting breaths on a blanket of stones, while on break from making foam art in lattes.
That familiar pit in his gut. The one his family doctors, decades ago, attributed to some kind of “nervous stomach.” The one that high-school therapists labeled a non-specific anxiety (would he like to try some Wellbutrin?). That psychic healers said was an imbalance in his third chakra (the one controlling power and self-determination) — the one called Manipura (which he often thought would be a good name for a cat).
Like anything done over and over, disappearing gets easier. He’s become an escape artist, effortlessly breaking free of chains that people imagined held him tight.
Therein lies the magic: the illusion of being attached.
If people realized how unattached he tried to remain, they might think him a Zen master.
Or a sociopath.
Oh my gosh I love the idea of a Tuesday 200!!