Site Meter novembre's diary

novembre

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bon jovi autopsy

in ventura on a four-day weekend

i have to keep reminding myself that i am not here for his funeral. yes he is dead. no, his body isn't face-up in the open casket in that musty room filled with cheap tissue and crying people.

yes, he is dead. i came back for family and to sit in my old room, reading ann packer's the dive from clausen's pier. i came back to eat carrot cake with greg while watching trading spaces. to tickle isaiah until he screams so loud george is obliged into father mode and has to calm him down with threats of teeth brushing and early bedtime.

yes, he is dead and i am thinking about the contents of a person's wallet as they grow older. first it is allowance, maybe your parents let you hold onto your social security card, maybe they let you sign it in third grade, your signature then a practised scrawl ending in a cat.

whiskers, ears, tail, eyes and even paws, right after the last letter of your last name.

you thought it would set you apart, tell anyone who saw your signature something about you.

and then there are student IDs. a driver's license, insurance, atm card. perhaps a credit card once you move out, or an only for emergencies copy of your parents' credit card.

more student IDs. memberships to art museums, wholesale discount grocery wharehouses, AAA, outdated discount cards for stores you never spend money in anymore.

bank balance slips, checks to cash, some photographs stuffed in; different eras with different friends that sometimes resurface.

and that social security card. you are holding it up to your eyes now and remembering your exact thought process, your childish need to align yourself with cats.

you remember cats, and then betrayal because your father never liked cats. you have your own now, in your own apartment, and you wish you had a picture of the scared little gray thing behind the social security card in your wallet.

12:09 pm - 02.16.03

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