ypsilanti's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- cruel august moon i just came from kinkos, thinking you'd be there. i remembered that your dad has pretty much just gotten everything that kinkos could offer you for his personal home office, so i looked around, shrugged lackadasically and worked on the inside cover for the new saturday looks good to me cd. maybe entitled "cruel august moon". august is perhaps the month that makes the least sense to me. i know that being born in that month kind of predjudices me to it because it was so confusing at first, being all born and everything, looking all around, learning to breathe, learning to see, barfing all the time, my head all ten times bigger than my hands, my eyes the same size as they are a good twenty four years later. it's hard to be a small baby in the month of august. as hard as it can be to live in a town built around transition in a month where everyone moves and hustles to the beat of next month, still with one eye on the dwindling summer, making sure all the life is out of it's wires before they move on to the next life-threatening mosquito disease or blind date with lackluster destiny. went to the punk show at the x-house, and sat against a wall listening to sabbath covers and wondering why i can never stay awake or why i have newly functioning headaches and acne. odd, cruel times. i wrote you on your vacation and hoped you'd stress out less. it hurts. i talked to you and your sister, hiding on the other side of the parking lot about how there's no space made for womyn at punk shows, especially with certain dudes, certain bands, certain mentalities. i would never want to feel like a dumb accessory anywhere i went, because i have before and it's sad and shitty. i'm sorry, and i'll do what i can and cannot to stop it. you gave me your beautiful new cd. thank you. it sounds wonderful. i love it when you sing with yourself. i've been trying not to eat cookies as much anymore, but maybe i'll stop by and say hello. you're getting your tonsils out soon? when i had mono i always wished i had done that because my tonsils swelled with white blood cells, fighting off the virus. they grew until they touched each other when i closed my mouth, and some shitty doctor yelled at me, threatening emergency rooms, respirators and tubes down the throat, like i had done something really wrong, like i could control the having of tonsils. i hope it goes well. i know you're not vegan, so eat some ice cream for me. a long time ago we were driving in your truck. it was a beautiful and cruel day in the end of august and we were listening to acme on your crackly speakers. my head was in your lap as you drove, and i slept because i hadn't the night before. you piloted the car as i drifted between dreams and living histories. the sun was perfect and you were talking about how much you really missed superman ice cream. we were pennyless and unslept, melodramatic and incapable of communicating, eyes full of everything we would ever need to say to anyone, plans and ideas in complete piles on floors in seperate states, fast asleep in faster cars, highways built out of the beat(s) of our heart(s) and i loved you. i did so unlike i knew anyone would ever have a chance to love anyone ever, and i loved you as drasticly and as urgently as i could because i knew i would never have a chance to love anyone like this ever again. years later i really miss superman ice cream, but only when i think of you, and only when i think of how much i miss you. tommorow we're gonna go to an island and make a record. don't forget the record that is made of your inhalations and exhalations, documented or not, our lives spin until they stop. 33.3 05:40:55 - 2000-08-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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