“My feet,” I muttered, getting hit with a gust of sand-breeze, before realizing it was too much to explain, so sorta gesturing back, away from the water, and moving in that direction, trusting they’d follow bc while I knew V’s intentions were if not good weren’t bad that he wasn’t hateful or evil like how some of those fucks made him out to be at the same time unable to help but a tiny part of me think that some a fraction of V’s impulse to rap so irreverent stemmed from the pain lil sis dipping caused like it’s even hard to think to say nothing of saying so I didn’t ever think it the minute I started to I’d get alarmed shook confused immediately repressing it especially so when lil sis started seeing women me always making light of this outwardly but inwardly sorta pitying feeling superior to V like that would never happen to me submitting to that socially encouraged idea of Oh, you flipped her! You were the one who made her stop fucking with your entire gender. Until, of course, years later…

V and lil bro eventually got the message, and turned back.

We sat on a berm overlooking a roller hockey game on a cordoned-off part of the parking lot; beyond that, a wooden path extended out into the sand, like a pier; and beyond that, the ocean, looking slab-like, shimmered.

Less rugged than the cliffs we used to hang on up in Santa Cruz. But comparable, considering.

We got to talking money- vs. art-making.

I felt the need to articulate my recent epiphanies, especially those with effectual outlooks that deviated from my previously held stances.

This was central to our relationship: reporting our changing stances to each other; and, by listening, recording them. Like we were each other’s scribes. Logging this info for a hypothetical, eventual posterity.

Or maybe not for that.

Maybe we were just interested in, and stimulated by, each other’s evolving ideas.

I went on this whole rant about how I’d made a LinkedIn profile and was trolling Indeed.com for jobs—in Philly, in LA, in NYC. Writing-related jobs at reputable media outlets like Vice and ESPN and VladTV.

Nothing would ever come of these apps. But this was a major deviation from the DIY-till-death ethic I’d preached till then.

V was officializing himself also: living in Monterey, about to start school for body massage—taking a page out of lil sis’s book; she’d told him what schools were best. Plus doing contract building work for his landlord.

V hadn’t needed a complete breakdown of his body to come to this; and, unlike me, who was merely humoring the idea of legitimate application of self, academically and employment-wise, he was actually doing it.