makes me think of: the summer before last

First of all I would like to point out the fact that I (emphasis) also had a weblog (although mine is technically an “online diary” because I’m girly like that) BEFORE Jamie. So all hail Jen, the online diary proliferator.

Today is such a wonderful, semi-sullen day. It feels very much like this:

You and me outside on an autumnal hill with a book between us and some orange spice tea and we start to talk but the wind takes the words and so we leave the book for someone else and just walk and walk up the hill and into the forties and there’s Billie Holiday and she’s singing the blues, but somehow it comes out tragically beautiful and we’ve ordered two candles instead of drinks so we light them into the beat generation and here we are sitting on the floor and talking about zen like crazy intellectuals who know where it’s at because it’s always at the heart.

I spent the majority of the day on my bed reading. I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction lately, which is odd, because I thrive in climates where the temperature is high above ordinary life. Or my life at least. Bah. Whatever. I like fiction. Yesterday James and I went out to buy mugs (oh, and let us not forget, a mug rack). Along we some other friends we stay after school for a debate class, which could be distilled to opinions and coffee, both brewing infinitely with the potency of six scoops of cafe Verona. So we went thrifting for some unique retro mugs to keep on hand in the class room, considering we all either forget to bring them, or forget to wash them. (The latter being the problem which most concerns me, as I prefer to take my coffee black - no mold.) They had a surprisingly good selections of mugs all priced frugally in agreement with a small budget. James had twenty bucks to dedicate to the cause, and I myself, was without a physical contribution, but I believe my innate sense of mug fashion was contribution enough. Lara and I were supposed to hang out sometime this weekend, but I guess that’s not going to happen. It is with a sad glance at my pile of homework that I say this. The last time we did something Thursday, when we had lunch at Mekong River, our official restaurant. We sat there under the flying saucer lighting and held our chopsticks like true Americans in disguise. We didn’t have much time before our classes started, and we had a really subdued conversation about college and what’s going to happen to our lives. Before we left I thought our lives were so much like that banal book. Writing, writing, writing. But we don’t really expect to finish.

Friday I went with Jill to Gypsy’s where we met James and Chris and Kevin. The whole milieu of the place has changed a lot since they outlawed smoking. First of all, breathing occurs at a much more natural rate and I don’t feel like my lungs are trying to out gasp Jamie’s. So we were sitting there, very cozycoffeeshop like, just talking about whatever you think we might be talking about, when this flamboyant guy starts prancing around with a cactus. Unfortunately, this horror was only a prelude to the next unthinkable catastrophe - his poetry. This guy just hops up onto table and starts screaming his poetry like we’re all supposed to be listening to him, or even worse, like we all WANT to listen to him. It’s not that I mind random outbreaks of creativity. It’s just the guy was so insincerely sudden. The whole place was just la la la la small talk la la la coffee, and then outta nowhere comes “FUCK TS ELLIOT, FUCK HIS LOVE SONGS AND HIS WASTE LANDS AND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .”

Not only was it mediocre poetry, it was LOUD mediocre poetry. A whole new kind of sonorous. This guy had mastered the art of surround sound. We all had to yell to be heard. And he just went on and on with each foghorn flood of words.

Meanwhile this very artsy goth is creeping around with a video camera documenting the tiles of the floor so meticulously it looked like he had lost his “ethereal contact” which enabled him to see into the spiritual realm of independent filmsters. He was so “i’m an introverted cult leader” Haha. I didn’t mean that in a bad or sterotypical way. It’s just the first thing that came to mind. I’m sure he’s a really cool individual. It was great to see him snake around the place with an ambiguous mission. He ate up the guy’s poetry reading like godiva chocolate. And zoom in on the flailing tonsils . . . (There is now spit on his lens. Ah, but he likes it! )

Due to unmentioned disruptions (cough, cough), and Kevin’s unplaccated urge for Quick Trip, we left and headed to that hero of gas stations. After Kevin had been appeased by quality QT food products, we started to go towards Walgreens, but ended up at Albertson’s because it is the best grocery store ever. Only the one downtown, the rest are inferior to its shopping selection, customer interaction, and starbucks ambiance. Kevin, who was still blissfully sipping on his red mountain dew, decided it would be inappropriate for him to strut into a store while drinking its competition. So we waiting outside and observed an odd man who’s name, according to Jamie is Marvin. He was sitting on a bench, wearing an American Flag shirt, but looking far from patriotic, or even passionate. He sat there with a pink rose resting on his knee. I think us just hanging out there made him nervous. James tried to read his life and quickly concluded he was going to give the rose to someone. Maybe it’s silly, but I’d kinda like to think someone gave the rose to him. We only stayed in Albertson’s long enough to take in its absolute wonder. Marvin was still there when we left. I wonder who gave him the rose. I know James was wrong. *smiles*

p.s. check the last three "Old entry, new update" I slaved all night to get them up. Surely somebody reads this thing . . .