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2002-05-01 || 1:13 p.m. || leprosy and the dreamlife of scooters || dear heart, i am sorry i was not home for your call(s). i got home and brushed my teeth fierce-like and ran around in the dark with phone in hand, cat batting my ankles. i set my alarm and got under covers and listened to your funny phone voice telling me you have given up on me (the pronunciation of syllables on these latey-night messages is always different: jen-ni-fer hand-y-so, all spelled out like kindergarten and large print). i was out. i was wearing a red scarf and driving across the bridge alone. i was drawing pictures on the back of a postcard. i was trying to rub the purple streak off of matt's face and then deciding to leave it because it made me feel like a mom and the streak made him look tough, the equivalent of a tattooed tear drop. i got several of the answers right on the disease portion of the edinburgh castle pub quiz. i was squished in a dusty wooden booth with matt and ross and molly (here again! woo!) plotting ill will toward a particularly annoying girl armed with stilettos and cell phone. i was cleanin up the pool table at the ha-ra, nevermind sinking the eight ball prematurely, nevermind tossing back the rum and coke and having absolutely no control over where the cue ball was headed. i was standing outside with r and molly shivering and abstractly going through ballet positions, first - fifth, with antsy feet. i was giggling at molly's deduction that all my boy-friendlies are cute. i was hugging the boys goodnight on the corner, crossing the street with m, making more plans more plans, driving around and around to stop at the swankety hotel where the heavenly bed awaited miss molls. i was crossing the bay realizing i would miss your call(s). i was hoping for stories read on the recording, those syllables, you promising to call again in a bit. and i had a dream about you! or your scooter. for some reason i had sebastian and you were still far away i think. i was making donuts in a parking lot, meow meow sitting behind me on the seat (in all leather, of course, cigarette lit), driving and driving and. i ran out of gas. i remembered the oil/gas combo but the secret oil can compartment was empty. i didn't know what oil to buy and everyone (out of nowhere, appearing, in tracksuits and wristbands) suggested i go to the tuff bar across the street to ask. but i couldn't, shyness and harley vs. vespa hostility and all, so i beseeched thee of the heavens to tell me what damn oil to use. and you tossed the owner's manual down from the sky. and all the oil mentioned on page 23 was british, god damn it, and for some reason in this dream british oil is awful hard to come by. so i had to make do. and meow meow was none too pleased, her motorcade hampered by bad oil and a driver who has always been a bit shaky on the choke. see. if you had been there. it would have been smoove vespy sailing, no sputtering in sight. tah-dum. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |