|
2001-12-06 || 1:22 p.m. || the month of december spread out like a map || whiney whiney whine, i'm sorry. december 6. today my sissy drives up in a car to my city. she will be very busy. i have the foggiest suspicion that i will most likely not see her much. it will be tuesday and she will be gone and there will be dirty dishes and unfolded blankets. december 8. saturday owen and lucas and amy drive over in a car to my city. the tally comes to five people stowed away in the apartment this weekend. i need to wash towels and sheets. i need to tidy the bathroom and change the cat litter. it will be fun, it will. i will steal hugs from my sis. she will try on my wintry hats. we will all spill beer on the carpet and keeping talking past the designated time to go to sleep. owen promises sushi and long life and perhaps we can finally make a wee super 8 movie. in this weather at the end of the berkeley pier we will look like ghosts floating two inches above the surface of the harbor on the moon. december 13. thursday owen and his entourage drive back up to my city. sissy will be tucked back under the arm of southern california but the apartment occupancy tally will still be quite high. they will be frustrated and stir crazy. they will have memorized idiosyncracies and erratic driving styles and what the other buys at gas stations on the highways cutting lines up and down california. they will speak monosyllabic sentences and when the phone rings for them they will take it in the bathroom, door shut. i will crab abou tneeding serious craft time, i have to make eight more presents and i need my carpet space and lucky scissors. they will make plans with long lost friends and fling themselves across the corridors of the bay area, cushioning themselves with miles and the artificial heating of other people's cars. december 22. saturday i will drive in a car down to southern california with two people who will not ask me to help with the driving, who will most likely shun my gas money with head shakes and closed fists so that i will fold the dollars and tuck them in between seats, inside cd cases. there will be hours and hours after the initial excitement and adjusting of suitcases and presents stuffed in trash bags for brilliant silence so that i can concentrate on the landscape of the 5: parallel and perpendicular lines, secret messages intended for truck drivers. i will be dropped off at my parents' house where my mum will hug me tight and my dad will grin sheepishly and the dog will jump up on my chest and scratch me with dull claws. i will watch cable and count presents. i will make phone calls connecting me to five years ago. i will spend a lot of time in san diego and hug michaelblandy hard when i see him. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |