of showbos and rivers and the kind of memories perfect persons never make.
Today was amusing. We went down to the old pier. It's huge and old and covered in a canopy of rusty framework and graffiti like IN VINO VERITAS and GND (Grass N; Dirt Band). Christina and I want to tag it, too.
There were blankets and toothpaste under the hangar, and a mat and some burned logs. We wondered who was living there, and talked about how amusing it would be to live there ourselves.
While Mark was fishing I was singing a Hoobastank song on my iPod, and we saw these two hobos approaching us.
That turned out to be scads of fun- they were Joe Bob and Dumbass (Joe Bob never called him anything else), a pair of homeless Vietnam vets who, as it turned out, lived under the hangar. The mat and things were theirs.
Joe Bob, apparently, is a knuckle fighter (he gets into fistfights for money) and Dumbass boxes for money, and they're both covered in scabs and their elbows have absolutely no skin, only massive scabs and healing flesh flushed a pale creamy strawberry; they call each other Bubby and kept calling Christina and me baby girl. The whole thing was a lot of fun; we spent the entire afternoon watching the river and listening to their stories of knuckle fights and policemen, of the vagabond life and its vagaries. They smoked pot with Chris and Mark and I took photos with my camera like a nomadic three-eyed ghost, catching Joe Bob's missing teeth and the glitter of sunlight on a river whose wrinkled satin surface bore no hint of the vicious current underneath, or my people's bloodlines that rush strong in its bedrock, nor the painfully frigid waters that sluice around feet that numb the moment you dip them into its murk. I fucking love that river.
I got home a bit after eight, and now here I am, actually ready to start this week off, if only so I can make it to Friday and the possibility of another memory.
I'm thinking of dressing as Louis XIV for Halloween.
There were blankets and toothpaste under the hangar, and a mat and some burned logs. We wondered who was living there, and talked about how amusing it would be to live there ourselves.
While Mark was fishing I was singing a Hoobastank song on my iPod, and we saw these two hobos approaching us.
That turned out to be scads of fun- they were Joe Bob and Dumbass (Joe Bob never called him anything else), a pair of homeless Vietnam vets who, as it turned out, lived under the hangar. The mat and things were theirs.
Joe Bob, apparently, is a knuckle fighter (he gets into fistfights for money) and Dumbass boxes for money, and they're both covered in scabs and their elbows have absolutely no skin, only massive scabs and healing flesh flushed a pale creamy strawberry; they call each other Bubby and kept calling Christina and me baby girl. The whole thing was a lot of fun; we spent the entire afternoon watching the river and listening to their stories of knuckle fights and policemen, of the vagabond life and its vagaries. They smoked pot with Chris and Mark and I took photos with my camera like a nomadic three-eyed ghost, catching Joe Bob's missing teeth and the glitter of sunlight on a river whose wrinkled satin surface bore no hint of the vicious current underneath, or my people's bloodlines that rush strong in its bedrock, nor the painfully frigid waters that sluice around feet that numb the moment you dip them into its murk. I fucking love that river.
I got home a bit after eight, and now here I am, actually ready to start this week off, if only so I can make it to Friday and the possibility of another memory.
I'm thinking of dressing as Louis XIV for Halloween.