HER  NAME  IS  NONA

by GB ABSHER

NOW ALL I WRITE IN IS JUXTAPOSITION. IT’S WHAT I SEE IN. 

In a state in which only one arm works, everything is compared to what happened before it.  Before and after.  Night and day, it’s polarizing, north and south, good and bad.  Yesterday, the office was a veritable hell with the high distorted accompaniment; a mess of doodle papers, a stolen dog and stolen sunscreen. A sunburnt wasted hick he was with an amp and a guitar and a microphone strapped to his face; the embodiment of aggravation.  Today was a quiet clean latin man with leopard pants and a Stratocaster, and he kept his mic in his pocket, and he played near-perfect renditions of Purple Rain and Stairway to Heaven and Hallelujah among many others.  His is a voice to melt pain, if you can understand that.  Remember, my arm’s in a sling.

The day before I crashed, was one of those entirely wonderful days.  It was a day in which I did everything that I’d like to do in a day; a solid day, a productive day. I went surfing, I went to work, I rode my motorcycle to get some ramen, and then I drank tequila with two girls at an old late night Mexican joint.  The next day in the morning–first thing–I hit gravel in a turn on Tuna Canyon and dislocated my shoulder.

[Nona is the first of the three fates in Roman mythology; she’s the one that spins the thread of human destiny.]