I'll give you applesauce if you ask for some.
I wore lipstick tonight. This evening was both glorious and disappointing, yet even the disappointing parts were glorious. It felt like the transition scene in a movie in which a Patty Larkin song plays and the protagonist walks slowly across a bridge or through a park. Everything was nice, but just a little off. I guess I could equate it with hearing music in a store that's just slow enough that you can't keep in step with it. I bonded with a friend who before tonight I had never spoken to one on one. I got warm greetings from people I wouldn't have expected it from, and French bisous that caught me off guard.
I talked with Emily in her apartment for over an hour. Her room is oddly reminiscent of mine when I lived on 84th street (1988-1992). My room was yellow and my brothers had big heavy wooden furniture in their room. I didn't get that furniture until almost two houses later when my room was a shade of powder blue I couldn't stand. The blocky wooden furniture was never in my yellow room. I wonder why I remember it like that.
On the wall in front of me were pictures of Emily and her ex-boyfriends. I'm jealous of her and everyone else for having boyfriends or relationships or something, and I realize how much I miss Laurent. But why? Why him? And I relive one night with him in my mind. It was late. We had just gotten back from a party at his uncle's house in the next province. We smoked out on my balcony and drank some Diablo I had stashed in a drawer. He told me it was the first time he had ever been on the balcony. He had occupied the room next door his whole life, yet had never once set foot on the balcony. He put his head on my chest and I held him. Then he went and lay on my bed. I remember that it was Bastille Day, but it couldn't have been because he was camping with his scoots on Bastille Day. I wonder why I remember it like that.
I took my bun down and walked home with dirty hair at my shoulders. I'm bummed out for no reason in particular. It was such a beautiful night and I wanted to walk around for hours, but I was out of cigarettes so I headed back home. It was such a beautiful night, but at the same time not at all so. Everywhere I went tonight it felt as if I was simultaneously walking toward and away from my home.
The things I love at Chicago are no longer centered around the fifth floor of Pierce. There's a dream catcher hanging on 510's door. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful dream catcher. It even has the bead in the center that so many people forget should be there, but it seems out of place. I'm getting better at remembering that my room is now in the opposite direction from the lounge that it was last year. I only once made it all the way to the door of 512 before realizing that I no longer lived there.
A couple days ago I hurt a good friend. We talked about it, standing in my room with the door closed. For some reason I felt it necessary to give him apples. I don't know why. It just seemed somehow appropriate. He helped me arrange my painted rectangles on the wall. Then he ate some applesauce and we called it a night. I love him and I want him to know that, but I can't seem to get it across. Things are changing. Of course they are. I hope that what I'm doing here is growing. I think I'll go put on some more lipstick.
I talked with Emily in her apartment for over an hour. Her room is oddly reminiscent of mine when I lived on 84th street (1988-1992). My room was yellow and my brothers had big heavy wooden furniture in their room. I didn't get that furniture until almost two houses later when my room was a shade of powder blue I couldn't stand. The blocky wooden furniture was never in my yellow room. I wonder why I remember it like that.
On the wall in front of me were pictures of Emily and her ex-boyfriends. I'm jealous of her and everyone else for having boyfriends or relationships or something, and I realize how much I miss Laurent. But why? Why him? And I relive one night with him in my mind. It was late. We had just gotten back from a party at his uncle's house in the next province. We smoked out on my balcony and drank some Diablo I had stashed in a drawer. He told me it was the first time he had ever been on the balcony. He had occupied the room next door his whole life, yet had never once set foot on the balcony. He put his head on my chest and I held him. Then he went and lay on my bed. I remember that it was Bastille Day, but it couldn't have been because he was camping with his scoots on Bastille Day. I wonder why I remember it like that.
I took my bun down and walked home with dirty hair at my shoulders. I'm bummed out for no reason in particular. It was such a beautiful night and I wanted to walk around for hours, but I was out of cigarettes so I headed back home. It was such a beautiful night, but at the same time not at all so. Everywhere I went tonight it felt as if I was simultaneously walking toward and away from my home.
The things I love at Chicago are no longer centered around the fifth floor of Pierce. There's a dream catcher hanging on 510's door. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful dream catcher. It even has the bead in the center that so many people forget should be there, but it seems out of place. I'm getting better at remembering that my room is now in the opposite direction from the lounge that it was last year. I only once made it all the way to the door of 512 before realizing that I no longer lived there.
A couple days ago I hurt a good friend. We talked about it, standing in my room with the door closed. For some reason I felt it necessary to give him apples. I don't know why. It just seemed somehow appropriate. He helped me arrange my painted rectangles on the wall. Then he ate some applesauce and we called it a night. I love him and I want him to know that, but I can't seem to get it across. Things are changing. Of course they are. I hope that what I'm doing here is growing. I think I'll go put on some more lipstick.