Now, this is just sick.
I am a disturbed individual.
Tonight, while engaged in the delightful and noble pursuit of Buffy fic -- because the rains are positively biblical, and no, I am not going outside, thank you very much -- I happened upon a repressed memory.
And, okay, that's a lie. It was more like a forgotten memory, in two parts:
Part The First
Twelve years old and vacationing on the Cape with a friend. Thought it delightfully devilish and dangerous to roam the beaches alone at night with a pink casette player playing Weird Al's "Velvet Elvis" on the anniversary of Elvis' death. The man himself didn't show, but even if he had, it would still be the brashness of youth and the anticipation of secret plans that I'd remember.
Nostalgia's like a ton of bricks. A ton of anything, really.
Part The Second
The same vacation, twin beds and talking ourselves to sleep with stories of horses and turtles and mad science. Stories that filled the empty spaces during the days, the car rides, the long, sandy hours on the beach. Woven together until they became the fabric of a new language, a week-long, secret language, and I think, now that I remember it, I might never forget.
Made more memories in a week than in a year, and that's a gift of childhood.
What brought this on: http://gila.fakingsanity.net/realghost.html. Couldn't make it up if I tried. Or, apparently, I could, when I was twelve. And I don't know, maybe things don't change so much. Interests and what not, but maybe not the core of things.
And, random musing time is over. Stay tuned for making quesadillas at one a.m. is the only way I can convince my husband not to go to Taco Bell. Which, honestly, has it's own spark of youthful madness that I quite appreciate right now.
Tonight, while engaged in the delightful and noble pursuit of Buffy fic -- because the rains are positively biblical, and no, I am not going outside, thank you very much -- I happened upon a repressed memory.
And, okay, that's a lie. It was more like a forgotten memory, in two parts:
Part The First
Twelve years old and vacationing on the Cape with a friend. Thought it delightfully devilish and dangerous to roam the beaches alone at night with a pink casette player playing Weird Al's "Velvet Elvis" on the anniversary of Elvis' death. The man himself didn't show, but even if he had, it would still be the brashness of youth and the anticipation of secret plans that I'd remember.
Nostalgia's like a ton of bricks. A ton of anything, really.
Part The Second
The same vacation, twin beds and talking ourselves to sleep with stories of horses and turtles and mad science. Stories that filled the empty spaces during the days, the car rides, the long, sandy hours on the beach. Woven together until they became the fabric of a new language, a week-long, secret language, and I think, now that I remember it, I might never forget.
Made more memories in a week than in a year, and that's a gift of childhood.
What brought this on: http://gila.fakingsanity.net/realghost.html. Couldn't make it up if I tried. Or, apparently, I could, when I was twelve. And I don't know, maybe things don't change so much. Interests and what not, but maybe not the core of things.
And, random musing time is over. Stay tuned for making quesadillas at one a.m. is the only way I can convince my husband not to go to Taco Bell. Which, honestly, has it's own spark of youthful madness that I quite appreciate right now.