february 25, 2009

i saw james franco from across the room. he looked at me when i walked in. we made eyes. it was just like all those incredibly lame feelings people always describe: something froze but everything else was warm. he was wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. james (my james) was standing next to james (famous james) at the refreshment table in the lecture hall, so i walked over to them. i felt very aware of the shape of my hands. i didn't talk except to say my name when introduced to the people who were also standing around the table, seemingly accustomed to their feeling of their fingers. i can't tell you what was talked about; i can tell my face was very red, though -- or maybe very white. we all went to sit down, and james franco brushed past me: his seat was right behind mine. i looked up at him, he looked down at me; he smiled. when joyce carol oates was reading her short story about hemingway's suicide, i was paying more attention to the shuffling grunts, heaves, sighs, and other sounds of motion escaping from his (beautiful) body. i looked over my shoulder. his spiral-bound notebook was covered in large, swooping scribbles from a blue ball-point pen. he smiled at me again. after the reading he was telling me (i use this term loosely, for he was really just telling all the people around me, a group which i happened to be a part of) how tired he was. he had taken the red-eye back from L.A. that night after attending the oscars, where he gave the award for best something-i-don't-care-about.

to get to the quick: i'm seeing him again on thursday.