It's not just in movies
You know those moments when you realize that everything for that second is perfect, that no amount of daydreaming could improve upon them?
I've had a couple of those lately and really I guess I just want to brag.
The first one was I the morning after a sleater-kinny concert in Boston. I was a my friend Caitlin’s cousins house in Dorchester. I had never been there or meet the people. it was around 6:30 in the morning and I wondered downstairs and picked up a book on my way. I sat in a colorless rocking chair and started examining the room I was in, ten minutes later a beautiful dark haired indie boy walked into the kitchen, he asked me if I wanted coffee, giggled at the book I purloined (a children’s book about giant vegetables) and exchanged it for a collection of Nabokov's short stories. We discussed the merit of his writing and how they it evolved over the course of his life. After 15 minutes or so of shy stammered conversation that managed to be fascinating despite the awkwardness he handed me some coffee and locked himself into the next room and started playing one of my favorite Rachmaninoff pieces on a dirty baby grand in an empty room with peeling wallpaper. I didn't learn his name for another twelve hours, nor did he ever ask why I happened to be in his home.
Secondly, I had called one of Alex's friends who I always liked and asked him if he wanted to hang out. 5 hours later we were in a small corner park a block from my house on the fun sort of seesaws that have long been banished from school playgrounds because of their habit of getting kids hurt. I loved those things, still do. We spent an hour trying to balance as the sun went down and the air got that perfect crisp night feel. We talked about chemistry and politics. We were both awkward, but the conversation was never forced. I think I’ve made my first Worcester friend.
Finally, last night Alex was visiting, we sat cross legged on my bed in my new sea foam room with the door and window open for maximum cross breeze. It was sticky hot and had gotten dark an hour previous. We had a bowl of strawberry ice cream between us. It had been the cheapest brand at the store and it tasted like it. He picked up a book from my nightstand called "burn collector", a collection of short stories that read like slam poetry with twice the hesitation. I only have you for eight more hours I told him laughing, why are you reading a book instead of kissing me? You are completely right he replied, and as he kissed me somebody set off fireworks in the parking lot in front of my window. They were pink.
In other news, people have been setting off a lot of fireworks, for further confirmation of my small-town roots that the backyard fireworks of your average Massachusetts slum neighborhood equal the yearly town fireworks in Cherryfield that I was always so excited by. Even now when I first hear the cracks of fireworks I have the childish urge to run around the apartment craning my neck out the windows to try to watch what little bit I can see over treetops and between buildings.
I've had a couple of those lately and really I guess I just want to brag.
The first one was I the morning after a sleater-kinny concert in Boston. I was a my friend Caitlin’s cousins house in Dorchester. I had never been there or meet the people. it was around 6:30 in the morning and I wondered downstairs and picked up a book on my way. I sat in a colorless rocking chair and started examining the room I was in, ten minutes later a beautiful dark haired indie boy walked into the kitchen, he asked me if I wanted coffee, giggled at the book I purloined (a children’s book about giant vegetables) and exchanged it for a collection of Nabokov's short stories. We discussed the merit of his writing and how they it evolved over the course of his life. After 15 minutes or so of shy stammered conversation that managed to be fascinating despite the awkwardness he handed me some coffee and locked himself into the next room and started playing one of my favorite Rachmaninoff pieces on a dirty baby grand in an empty room with peeling wallpaper. I didn't learn his name for another twelve hours, nor did he ever ask why I happened to be in his home.
Secondly, I had called one of Alex's friends who I always liked and asked him if he wanted to hang out. 5 hours later we were in a small corner park a block from my house on the fun sort of seesaws that have long been banished from school playgrounds because of their habit of getting kids hurt. I loved those things, still do. We spent an hour trying to balance as the sun went down and the air got that perfect crisp night feel. We talked about chemistry and politics. We were both awkward, but the conversation was never forced. I think I’ve made my first Worcester friend.
Finally, last night Alex was visiting, we sat cross legged on my bed in my new sea foam room with the door and window open for maximum cross breeze. It was sticky hot and had gotten dark an hour previous. We had a bowl of strawberry ice cream between us. It had been the cheapest brand at the store and it tasted like it. He picked up a book from my nightstand called "burn collector", a collection of short stories that read like slam poetry with twice the hesitation. I only have you for eight more hours I told him laughing, why are you reading a book instead of kissing me? You are completely right he replied, and as he kissed me somebody set off fireworks in the parking lot in front of my window. They were pink.
In other news, people have been setting off a lot of fireworks, for further confirmation of my small-town roots that the backyard fireworks of your average Massachusetts slum neighborhood equal the yearly town fireworks in Cherryfield that I was always so excited by. Even now when I first hear the cracks of fireworks I have the childish urge to run around the apartment craning my neck out the windows to try to watch what little bit I can see over treetops and between buildings.