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shower mohawk
Jul 04, 2002
09:24 pm

'She must be somebody's baby cause all the guys on the corner sit back and let her walk on by...' - Phantom Planet

Today I am in writer's mode. A product of my reading material [The Diviners], surely. Can't stop, no matter if I would like to or not. I could never live the life of a professional writer though -- setting aside certain times for myself to write. Hell, I've tried. Writing comes when it wants and refuses to wait. Besides, why would I want it any other way?

I'm not sad over/about him, not even a little bit. Just mildly disappointed that he, so interested in feelings himself, would crush mine so thoroughly. But so it goes. Boys. Eternal sluts, manwhores do not change [?]. Dropping hints the whole time while I choose to ignore every one. Not that I wanted, expected a relationship [ugh, who needs that? surely not he nor I], but continued contact would have been nice. A known friend is as such. But now, at least, when I see him walking up Bank Street [while I'm walking down], I can say hello without feeling silly. Or, maybe, it would be worse if I did it now than two months prior to this moment. //Universal Truths and Cycles/

Let sleeping bugs lie -- I've exercised the demon [and other bits, simultaneously]. Now let him slip from my mind again for years.

Please protect me and keep me from the boys who bring me harm and heartbreak, ha! No, never.

A scene: arrive at Mackenzie King, ready for the trip home. Find a wait, too long for her, inescapable for me. Treacherous at first [spat on, annoying conversations]. A sudden change. Boy sits down, starts strumming his delicious guitar. Dylan + Pretty Bus Boy, even a little bit of Ken in him. Teasing me with his physical beauty a few feet away, even more so with his beautiful renditions of [not so] pop songs. No vocals. So I stand and read while he sits and plays. It continues. Worlds apart? Or together, sharing a moment. Eager to share the bus ride with him, only to discover the bus too packed for seats together. No words exchanged, but it's plain to see...

[dusty miller mistress]: remembering as an older child the separation-split. my father's mistress was named miller. ever after, my mother killed those beautiful dusty miller bugs with a venegeance. stomp stomp beat them into a shiny greywhite pulp, fine powder. wishing, im sure, she could do the same with the memory of her, him, the whole situation. sick.

An unexpected letter [what's the point of an expected one? the thrill? no.] today from the poet, with a surprise that I'd rather keep to myself, although it's easy to guess. He was right [not this one, the other one]: 'i bet you're a real sucker for that nowadays.' Indeed.

Things I do not enjoy talking about, which relatives feel they must... (1) my job. Apparently, their lives have always revolved around theirs so they are confused when I don't see it as a valid topic of conversation. (2) school. No interest in the substance of what I'm studying, just the degree and what I plan to do with it. How dull. How overdone. Too afraid of new ideas and thinking for themselves, for myself. [?]

Perhaps what struck me most in Sandy's update from Australia was the exact opposite of the above [or so I interpret it to be]: the fact that Australian people [this is his generalization, not mine, whether it has truth or not] want to hear more than superficiality. They want to see your essence, not your appropriations. Talk of the things that quoteunquote matter, not the bloody weather. Sitting, wondering if I could make it there more easily than here. Finally realizing I'd end up cutting myself off from my old world completely to avoid talking about those frivolous things. How frivolous of me!

A sign [of the times?]: NESTEA 50cents a glass. The kids charging more per Litre than the already-overpriced convenience store across the street. Imagine no fresh-squeezed at lemonade stands across the country. [We always sold Koolaid anyway, so I suppose we're not any better].

Somewhere in the night [last], Garry dedicated a [Sloan] song to my mom. Blushing like a fiend, but loving every minute.

'I try to shut my eyes, but I can't get her out of my sight...' - Phantom Planet

the bottom line is love