(no subject)
I can't sleep and sometimes I like it better that way. The whole house seems softer, quieter, its outlines blurred. Only I and I alone exist here in my bedroom with the quiet hum of the computer.
The promise of high school is ahead, and it excites me. Older kids. Sexier kids. Stoner kids, goth kids, art kids -- more grown up than the ridiculous eleven and twelve year-old kids here who think they've got some inkling of who they are. A Spongebob lunchbox and a Digimon shirt are the basis of most personality flaws I have to pick from upon surveying the boys of HCMS.
I wrote a scene for drama the other day, for me, Patrick and Tassie. It was about an old couple that came to the seashore to relax on the porch of this summer home they'd rented for years and years and years. Tassie played the realtor -- a bit part, but it was still important. Mostly it centered around Patrick and me. The couple had been married for over fifty years and the old woman could see the end of her time, as if it were a demarcation line on the horizon. But still they talked about forever, like they had plenty of tomorrows to choose from and more than enough todays. At the end, the old woman passed away. It was pretty predictable, but the stuff of substance was in the middle. Their familiarity. Their tenderness. How he knew how she wanted her tea, how she knew to take the onions off his salad. How they argued over the same damn thing that happened twenty years ago and let it go like they always did because it was just part of their pattern of life.
Tassie always says I'm too much of a damn romantic, and now I believe her because as I type this, I'm near tears and it embarrasses me so.
The promise of high school is ahead, and it excites me. Older kids. Sexier kids. Stoner kids, goth kids, art kids -- more grown up than the ridiculous eleven and twelve year-old kids here who think they've got some inkling of who they are. A Spongebob lunchbox and a Digimon shirt are the basis of most personality flaws I have to pick from upon surveying the boys of HCMS.
I wrote a scene for drama the other day, for me, Patrick and Tassie. It was about an old couple that came to the seashore to relax on the porch of this summer home they'd rented for years and years and years. Tassie played the realtor -- a bit part, but it was still important. Mostly it centered around Patrick and me. The couple had been married for over fifty years and the old woman could see the end of her time, as if it were a demarcation line on the horizon. But still they talked about forever, like they had plenty of tomorrows to choose from and more than enough todays. At the end, the old woman passed away. It was pretty predictable, but the stuff of substance was in the middle. Their familiarity. Their tenderness. How he knew how she wanted her tea, how she knew to take the onions off his salad. How they argued over the same damn thing that happened twenty years ago and let it go like they always did because it was just part of their pattern of life.
Tassie always says I'm too much of a damn romantic, and now I believe her because as I type this, I'm near tears and it embarrasses me so.