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2000-10-04 || 14:56:10 || calvin and richard and ianthe || scott says i should have asked calvin out on a date last night. i should have, just to be able to write that i did it. the problem is i am scared of boys and calvin most of all, so my brain stops working and i lose my motor skills and usually have a terrible urge to throw up. so i didn't. he played a lot of the same songs last night. i wasn't quite as jittery, i think because the night before was so spectacular. i brought my melody maker to secretly record him and of course it didn't work. i tried to play the tape on the way home last night but it was just full of hissing and pops (but it was hissing and popping at the bottom of my bag while calvin was singing and i was sitting on the cement floor, holding my breath during each song..). i'm a bit upset about that, seeing as i had plans to play it every night before falling asleep. and i didn't get any pictures and he was wearing the dreamiest red button down shirt. and the zipper of his pants was down by just about half an inch and the bottom of his shirt was sticking out and i think it was the most perfect thing i've ever seen. so my calvin craving has been satiated for now, even though i didn't profess my undying devotion or tackle him on the sidewalk or ask him out on a date to the ice cream parlor around the corner. i am reading ianthe brautigan's book *you can't catch death* which is about her dad, richard brautigan, who happens to be one of my favorite writers. i cried while reading it on the bart train coming home from work last night. it has all the elements that absolutely kill me-- dads and being a little girl and being a mom and having kids and writing and richard brautigan. he sounds like the most gentle tender sad man. sam reminds me of him (in all the good ways, sammy.). last spring jeff and michael and i were going to make a book about him, with pictures of the places he used to live in san francisco and his writings and stuff we wrote that was influenced by him and a sort of treasure map of his haunts. we went to the library that was the setting for *the abortion* (please go read that.) and stood in the spot he stood for the picture on the book. we went inside and it was solemn and stifling, like a funeral. we wanted to sneak around and see if there were any secret rooms but were too scared of all the librarians. uc berkeley has a lot of his writings on microfiche, written in his own handwriting, full of scribbles and fingerprints. i've always meant to play hooky one day and go, but i know i'll just sit in the dark booth and cry for a couple of hours. seeing someone's handwriting-- something that was written without a second thought, without the intention of anyone else ever seeing it-- can be such an intimate thing. and to come from that man who has so much beauty and pain and purity inside him, i think the sight of an undotted i would be enough to make me just want to cry.
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