Friday June 2, 1995

I managed to find my Possum Dixon CD while cleaning, and their bouncy cacophonous music reverberates in my room. I'm sitting on the carpet wearing cream colored overalls, purple shoes, and my Rick's Bike Shop shirt. I'm feeling a bit lonesome, but I don't want to dwell on it because I guess it's kind of my own fault. Oh well. I'll call Jeremy and Laura later and see if they desire to go out. Besides, the day is young, it's not even 2:00 yet and I've been up since 8:30 or so. I should go sit outside and write. The thing about that is, I try it a lot and the concept is much nicer, usually, than the act itself. Like people think it would be so romantic to sit under a tree and kiss, but when they actually do, they get terrible muddy and uncomfortable. Still, sometimes the strange and uncomfortable times are the ones that are remembered. In fact, they almost always are. You don't have memories of sleeping late and rolling out of bed at 11 AM to eat Rice Krispies... You have memories of the time you woke at 4:30 AM and went outside to watch the sun dribble onto the horizon like melting butter. You forget that you were cold and tired and bitten by strange insects. That part's not important. Okay, now I'm on the front porch because I talked myself into it so much that I forgot what I was talking about and had to go back and reread. It's raining and the white plastic chair on which I perch is chilling. I have goosebumps and shivers, but I'm happy. The torrents of water that gurgle from the gutter pipe make a calming sound like a fast-flowing river, and the sidewalks are all darkened and brown, and they reflect the shadowy skeletons of the leaves on the treebranches that hang up above. The rain has beaten all the tiny white petals off of the Bridal Wreath, and somewhere in the direction of Fourth Street, thunder rumbles. The cars, moving too fast along the shiny brick streets, make rumbling noises too. Our porch light is on. I wonder if anyone notices. It yellows a small circle on the ceiling painted green. Another car speeds by. It seems to be going so fast, but in reality is probably only doing 30 miles an hour. It makes me think that a car can be something of a parallel universe -- the numbers on teh speedomenter become just numbers, abstract symbols to obey. People don't realize the neighborhoods they are passing through so unnoticed, may have been the entire universe of children. So many people, so many houses, they pass without seeing. And I admit, I'm as bad as any. I barely know the names of my neighbors. Is it possilbe to be nostalgic about something one has never even experienced?

The night I went to Brian's and spent the night at Allison's with Hannah and Laura. We were still up at 4:30. Also the day I went to Ross's. Also graduation.

june 03, 1995
high school journals | high school writings | writing | journal | home