ypsilanti's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- fox kids in the snow; way to go. you know how it seems like it only happens once a year, or maybe only once a lifetime? about one year ago i was sitting in an empty room in a huge pink house, writing you a letter about how i always miss the winter when it's warm out, and always pine for summer when there's snow on the ground. a letter about how i was going to do everything i could to appreciate the seasons as they were happening, and not wish i could be sledding when it was bicycle weather, vice-versa.. one winter spent biking around town later, added onto several winter months in of driving from present to past tense, and i'm just barely understanding what was so clearly stated in that letter. isn't it strange how at times you know exactly what's happening and what has to change and what you have to do to make it all happen, but for whatever reason, it seems like we always forget that we're capable of making the necessary changes, or statements or wishes. like you're telling yourself you're caught on fire, and wouldn't it be nice if someone came and took the container of water that you're holding and put you out? i wonder what you're like when you're cycling through the snow or biking over the bridge so early in the morning to get to work. remember when i sent you my first book, that you might make up a title for it? you still gotta do that, the time is getting closer. also for our records and our millionaires ideas. i mean, it's not like they're paying you to ride around in circles.. and it can't be that much fun, at least not anymore.. all summer i slept on the floor and felt my dreams fall through the cracks and get caught in the dents of the hardwood. all fall i bounced from room to room, making sure not to speak too loudly or wait too long. and upon returning, i realized that there are certain codes or evolutionary practices that come into play, like a series of events where your dreams kind of hide from you for a while to make sure they're actually yours.. and once they're certain, they do all they can to pull themselves from the time and tape machines and photos and songs that have piled up in corners of various rooms and moments, and reintroduce themselves, silently smiling and laughing and dancing to your favorite songs like perhaps your grandparents once danced. make the most of it. what else would you do? ******* listen to: the red record with the girl on the cover reading a camus book, i think? last song on side one. it's pretty cool. 2:32pm - 1.12.01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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