it's nice but it's not the same
things are basically back to normal. i'm an internerd, pirating music i'm not sure i want and idly documenting my life just because i can. i am procrastinating and complaining and not wanting to leave my house except to shuffle around downtown hallowell in slippers like a crazy person. i want i chew on my hair until the ends are severed and stuck in between my teeth like spinach. i decided to devote my considerable energies (i slept for twelve hours until noon; i don't remember if that is normal or not) to readying myself for rock on the river, my official debut back into the fabulous hallowell social scene, thinking of what to wear and how to do my hair. ultimately, swinging at night was my favorite part. three shooting stars mean three frantic wishes!
i think i miss the yard, consciously or sub-, because i have been spending time at the boat landing, with my sherpa bag of unnecessary accoutrements, lying in the grass and sun, studying (not really) and writing in my other journal (do not be threatened, i think of you as two halves of one nonexistent real journal, similar to bertrand russell's real table) while every insect in the western hemisphere stops by to say hello.
before i lived at harvard, i walked through the yard with my dad a few times as tourists. i remember it being so intimidatingly dank and hallowed and thinking that tourists might not be allowed. (ha. i had to dodge people taking pictures of matthews every morning on the way to class!) now that i can name all the yard buildings it seems completely different like alternate universes that cannot be reconciled. familiarity always does that, changes our perceptions. all i'm saying is, maybe i never want to go back again.
blah blah blah. whatevs, right?
i think i miss the yard, consciously or sub-, because i have been spending time at the boat landing, with my sherpa bag of unnecessary accoutrements, lying in the grass and sun, studying (not really) and writing in my other journal (do not be threatened, i think of you as two halves of one nonexistent real journal, similar to bertrand russell's real table) while every insect in the western hemisphere stops by to say hello.
before i lived at harvard, i walked through the yard with my dad a few times as tourists. i remember it being so intimidatingly dank and hallowed and thinking that tourists might not be allowed. (ha. i had to dodge people taking pictures of matthews every morning on the way to class!) now that i can name all the yard buildings it seems completely different like alternate universes that cannot be reconciled. familiarity always does that, changes our perceptions. all i'm saying is, maybe i never want to go back again.
blah blah blah. whatevs, right?