I just lost this whole entry and had to retype it. Motherfucker.
One of our hostesses at work was having an in depth discussion on which brand of lip gloss lasts the longest, and I couldn't stop myself.
"I wish I were seventeen again."
I'm not sure why I said it. Seventeen was probably my most miserable year. If I'm going to be working with kids when I get out of college, I can't be one of those adults who trivializes the lives of younger people because their problems are not financially based. That hostess, she's actually got a good head on her shoulders. She busts her ass in advanced classes, all the while juggling a job and her first love. When I was her age, I was in danger of failing almost every class, too busy taking stock of the number of pills in the medicine cabinet to bother with homework. No, you couldn't pay me good money to be seventeen again.
It would be eight. If I could go back for a little while, I'd be eight. There is this perfect moment in my life. I can't recall any other details about that day. It must have been summer, and before the divorce. I was in the front yard of our old house, looking up underneath one of its big trees - oak or maple, something sturdy. There was the slightest hint of a breeze toying with the leaves, letting the sun cascade through, a waterfall of golden light tumbling over smooth, vibrant green until it crashed over me. And that was it. I have never felt so right with the world, so connected to everything and at peace. I was perfectly happy to be exactly where I was. I want to feel like that again. I want not to want.
"...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
Jack is all kinds of raw and passionate, with no pretension. I like him.