Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 68 Amazing that the batteries my camera rejects, my CD player gladly accepts. As full. It takes the left overs and never complains. I need quiet so badly. I need an unclouded brain. I want a warm space, with someone else, and no sound but maybe sheets shifting. It's still raining here. I'm not complaining. Every time it rains, I say thank you. It's not snow. I will gladly accept the non-rain. As full. I almost wish I was alone. No. Not almost. I do wish I was alone. "Do you guys not get enough noise all day?" "Why?" "Because it's just constant noise here. Just. God." And, I close my eyes, and put my headphones back on. These are the times I miss Oakland, and that peace. And rest. And quiet. And the drink in my mouth, the cigarette in my hand, the plum tree in front of me, the purple pansies in the planter to my left. My sister is screaching. I'd like a gun, right about now. ... We had an eternal 5 dollar bill. Maybe we passed it back and forth for a year. A year of lunches together. I remember the first one, at a chain. We went on the pretense of his natal chart. I called his bluff, sitting across from him. "You're not really interested in this. You just wanted to spend time with me before I leave." "You're right." So, this 5 dollar bill passed between us. There were so many things I thought would never end. Our hockey bet. Five dollars a game. He owed me 5 dollars at the end of the 2001 season. I never got it. ... There hasn't been enough touching. In the two years since he and I, there hasn't been enough. I was laying on the bed, and my shirt slid up. I touched my stomach, and thought of Monday night. No. Not enough touching. Not enough. There should be exploring with hands, at first. Not just holding for placement, but genuine curiosity. I don't want to point out the shape of my knees. I don't want to show you my toes. I want you to ask. I want the feel of my hips to be burned into your mind. When I brush my hands down my legs, I want to know you remember what they feel like. In the two years since, no one can remember what I feel like. ... And I feel. 11:47 p.m. - 2002-09-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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