April 2006:
i killed a wasp tonight.
its body was smothered on the corner of a window frame by a light pink towel.
with which i smashed into the wall with a frenzy that occupies most four-year
olds....
it was that delicious sort of fear and that scarce rush of
excitement that i used to imbibe with a childlike wonder.
i simply cannot stop listening to this vinyl record.
it reminds
me to dream deeply and richly again. turntables spinning black circles.
wine glasses held aloft. warm kisses on wet lips. of lazy summer days
jumping into rock quarries and singing along in the car. air drums and
air guitars aplenty. springtime eternal and autumn excursions to Europe.
where is my passport?
Michael Stipe and i singing Murmurs of
memories long forgotten in Massachusetts. driving with the window down
and the wind in your hair. a light drizzle of rain kisses your face and
then i remember that i do know how to smile past all the mundane
bullshit.
upset stomachs and thwarted months have been spent in changing addresses back from self-imposed exile to familiar lands.
flying Ghost faces and twisted Chinese kites in Lynch Park to kill
the monotony, flying Beijing opera click-click, skipping stones into
oceans to save them from worse fates
sweet songs lilt in recent memory gone up in green smoke
and broken French phone conversations
Elliott and i go about on our carefree adventures flying kites and such
through teenage wastelands and beyond. it brings out the big kid in me.
we laugh about nonsense words, talking ornaments, and carpet mouths.
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