11.23am
Tuesday
23 May 2006
Staggering home drunk
up Lianhe lu is nothing new,
there's no room for hollow trees containing sky
no room for gum trees split in half by lightning
no room on the footpath for feet just cars
no room in the mind for songs just
dread about going into quikie mart
they're going to know I'm drunk I'd better
practice walking a straight line I'd better
do this quick I need water lots of water
what else what else
CHOCOLATE
no that's a drunk thing to buy
they're going to know and laugh and then it's that
foreigner
who always comes in at 3am drunk and then
all Americans are drunk assholes, they'll say
but I don't care about ruining my country's reputation
when I'm thirsty in the morning, I can't drink tap water damnit
I'd have to boil it then freeze it and then I pass out on the
couch
and it comes out as ice with bits of sediment trapped in it
and one side of me says who gives a fuck what other people think
of you
which means I love it when I'm drunk like I love a secret
and the other side says don't let them see you like this
which means I hate myself when I'm drunk and
I must love hating myself because I'm drunk all the time
—jonathan reeve
Thursday night Lena and I went to see Pretty Girls Make Graves at the Earl, and I fell a little bit for Annie Hardy of Giant Drag.
She was quirky and hilarious and talked with a little girl lisp, with long thin dorky little girl hair, long thin dorky little girl legs. I wouldn't be shocked if someone told me she was 14 years old, except that she's more hardcore than most twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings, forty-somethings.
(Their song Yflmd stands for "You Fuck Like My Dad.")
• × • × • × •
Friday night was Six Flags, and I had missed it dearly, if only because only roller coasters and fireworks and sometimes sugar can make me that little kid excited anymore.
The last Harry Potter book will surely inspire that much giddy excitement as well, but it'll be bittersweet, and not so fueled with adrenaline.
Cityscapes, from up high, from the dark of night, with the wind in your hair and in your toes: they thrill me and terrify me for every reason.
• × • × • × •
Saturday was breakfast in my lovely kitchen that had irises on the table in the bright white sunlight.
The rest of the day manifested my insanity into more than one type of breakdown. If they get worse as the summer wears on, I might break my brain before I even get to the supposed real stressful part.
Maybe I am just now starting to realize the extent with which I could miss the muddy water gushing up my calves, the sound of the sunlight seeping through more green than you can really contemplate at once, sitting in wet leaves and getting my white skirt dirty with earth, not grimy, grey with smog.
I don't want to suffocate.
• × • × • × •
Maybe it also means that I don't want to suffocate by dint of ignoring the chance for altogether difference.
I'm sorry if this oscillation is becoming so fucking repetitive you are sick of me and want to just get on with it already, sink or swim.
• × • × • × •
My camera was just about dead by the end of the weekend, making capturing the hot wet windy idylls of sailing with Bo's fam with any degree of descriptive power impossible, and so I will just say: I adore you, water. And the rest of you guys that were out there as well.