2002-03-04 || 9:42 p.m.

|| frame of reference. ||

frame of reference:

dressing not so much like the starlet but the walk-on from fifty years ago. the purses and shoes and coats. owning one pair of pants reserved only for painting dressers and climbing the rickety ladder to the roof. amassing slips and i magnin labels, horn rimmed glasses, stationery sets that smell of old paisley ladies. loud patterns to hide behind while waiting for the train, to make eye contact and interaction secondary.

the world of boy spinning on the axis of the one impulsive decision. the pause on the line blooming between me and my father when i try to pull logic from the space just above my head. moving out wordlessly irrevocably and leaving my best friend on her dorm bed, quiet. the victorian flat. walking along the hall at night with sex hair and gingerly fingertips. flushed with secrets and a knowing. underwear and sweat and porn and dirty dishes, insecurities and late night girl whispers coming from other rooms. incredible closeness that comes with sharing a bed, the formations of our bodies shaped by lumps in the mattress and the cold and fierce firstlove. fights on the sidewalk and sharing buses. fiesta parties in the common room and pee on the bathroom floor.

drawbridge friendships. holy triumverates and unlucky quintets. unstable atoms. liquor and card games and saturday night outings, then movies viewed from the couch and shows in the living room. shared holidays. shared interstate adventures. upheavals and mass exodus to other states. alone vs. lonely. trying to find logic where there is none. silence on phone lines, in vacated rooms, hanging in the loquat trees that are too far away now to visit. revolving casts. the insurgence of hobbies and diversion.

living alone. the delicate balance between the edge of the bed and the lobby porch-inside vs. out. photos on the refrigerator, photos stuffed in boxes. the cat eats plastic and thread. positive slogans written in pencil on the inside of the medicine cabinet. habits: smoking while typing, leaving the glass of orange juice in the bathroom, dropping coats on the couch and bills in the middle of the living room floor. silence and music turned down low. the earth-shattering sound of someone buzzing up from the lobby. self-sufficiency. terrible shopping habits. sleeping diagonally and talking to myself while doing the dishes.

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