The table is the place of confessions. At the far back, in the corner, we're checking out everyone who's coming and going from the bathroom.

Everyone looks at everyone, especially those people we know from Instagram, or even from real life, and my line of sight to the front door means I get to keep tabs on who's arriving. Nobody is leaving.

When the New Yorker uses the word "buzzy" to describe the scene at a restaurant, I guess this is what they're talking about.

The scene has showed up. The bartender who made me a Paloma on Saturday afternoon is here, as are the DJs, the painters, and the hot Australians.

As we watch all these people and they watch us, the ricocheting noise of conversation and music creates an ambient and shifting blanket of privacy. So as we are very much on display, the confessional takes shape.

Here's the thing about age. On the internet, which takes up so much space that it becomes tantamount to or even surpasses the reality of reality, I am led to believe that this time in my life is about "Finding a Partner" or "Building my Career."

It is becoming my job to decide whether or not I should watch the following videos: "MARRY THE RIGHT PERSON?", "Therapist_Dave's Red Flag Warning," "He Did THIS 13 Years After Retiring," "RYAN GOSLING'S DAUGHTER IS A BIG FAN OF THE [thumbs down emoji]."

But in this bar, and at the gallery and on the street, and especially at the dinner table, it is possible to stop gulping from the ocean. People who look like people. Friends who feel like friends.

We have heard that the prefrontal cortex reaches maturity at the age of 25. We turn to each other wondering, "Does your brain feel like it's done cooking? Does yours?"

Maybe not, but at least we've come far enough that Cassie is able to go full circle with Hooked on Phonics.

The Mushroom is serving tonight and we order a "Carrot Pile and Crudités," "Savory Pancake" and "Mizuna Salad." "#1 Hippie Sandwich" is already sold out, but "Sexy Vegan Cheese Plate" is still on offer, as is "Two Soups Happy Together," which Katherine serves nymph-like through the crowd.

Alex wears Kermit green from toque to toe and appears at the mouth of the makeshift kitchen, which is also the last remnant of the dive bar that used to be. The chef's domain is like a cave with cracked red paint and a string of halogen lights that adorn a staircase which recedes into a dark and unseen corner. But what exits from such darkness is the bright and spicy flavors of sharp, fresh greens and a pile of carrots so true to its name that I laugh deliriously when it's placed on the table.

This is the kind of food that makes me sure that my brain's still cooking, new neural pathways opened up by the ingenuity of two slices of radish sandwiched together by a generous dollop of hummus.

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from top left: Katherine serves "Two Soups Happy Together"; Cassie and Aki in conversation; plates mid-meal; Cassie and Aki post-revelation; order tickets staked on the table; Aki's thoughts on comedians; drinks on the table; Cassie's thoughts on comedians; Mission Dolores at dusk.

On consciousness, choice, and the quiet drama of the universe: what is the noise of space and do our expansive piano compositions muster any relation to it?

In our world of cultures, societies, units and compounds, individuals and behaviors of the statistical mean, what becomes our understanding of will? Decisions, those glancing things that collide and terminate, that make momentary inflections mean nothing mean everything, mean molecules again. 

What decision is ever made?

In an illustration of the Big Bang, the moment is postured as more of a belch. A big, undulating cloud of energy and matter moves in waves, spewing forward (?) into (?) forward (?). 

From our vantage, we look out and see into the deep past. Likewise, from the distant points we’ve reached, if one were to look towards Earth to see our present day, one would be looking out from a future in which our present moment is long passed. In this construction, we understand that in the future to look at Earth from a point which from Earth would only be visible in its past, one would see our Earthly present, which would by that time be the past, as we would, in the time of looking, have proceeded deep into the future. In this way, it could be understood that all points exist at all times. Past, present and future in one soup, such that the only distinguisher of now and then is space. Suppose all things exist, though separated by relative nearness. All things are at hand, all things are: in store and having happened and unfolding just now. 

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In this way, we can understand the fruit fly lying dead at the back of the bathroom vanity. It floats off the finger, its body still sort of weightless as it drifts down towards the ceramic basin of the bathroom sink. Soon it will swill down into the old plumbing of the house and then out to the old plumbing of the city. Then, out to the bay and perhaps to the ancient trenches of the ocean. All are extant along with the weightless body of the fly, which to one’s finger seems insignificant, frankly almost imperceptible. 

The longer the thing is considered, the more it seems that the thing contains infinite component and interlocking things, just as it is also contained by an infinite sequence of things, such that any thing seems to find its place in the relative middle of all components and all containers, stacking and sequencing in every direction from minute to massive.

In the here and now, a man rides a tricycle and conducts the band with his pointer-fingers. The piano-player takes a break, smokes a cigarette and drinks a large energy-drink. Make way for the horn in the band-stand.