novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- sensory pumpkins. where are my doormice? i keep editing the list of bands i listened to in high school because i keep remembering more. i can't believe i forgot nation of ulysses. damn, that band defined tenth grade. and tiger trap, autoclave, laurie anderson. tonight evelyn and i were talking about sensory memories as i was painting her kitchen pumpkin. she was describing unpacking boxes from law school in boston and coming across candles. i imagined her picking them up, hold them close to her face, and just standing there for a minute with a half-smile on her face. and when she would look up, it was like she had forgotten where she was. i bought running shoes today. and my mother called and gave me a forty-five minute update. highlights include: the labrador's birthday celebration of scrambled eggs and bacon. the homeless man sleeping in my dad's van in the driveway. my father never calls. he emailed me once this summer. i am thinking he doesn't care about the details. maybe i'm not giving him enough credit, and he has followed my ebbs and flows. sometimes when i talk to him it seems like he knows everything but has elected not to lord this over me except in passing. it's unnerving. we were in a car together last month, driving i don't remember where, and it felt like my life as an adult was sitting, palpable, between us. the fear, the body hate, the oral fixation, the tapping foot, the insomnia, the propensity towards using "Yay!" at any given moment. that moment passed and became like it usually is. parallel roads, paved in the same way, never butting heads. repelling like magnets. "new car smell" reminds me of my father as i knew him when i was a little girl. surf boards and curt voices. swerving down the road, never making eye contact. 1:34 am - 09.15.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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