| Bees enjoy landing on my chest- just high enough that I can't see them. It kind of tickles, kind of feels good, but scares me anyway. I like nice collarbones. I don't mind mine, actually, except that it ends in knobby shoulders. All of me is too knobby. I feel like a Tristessa- skinny, deteriorating, but not so very hungry for food, only for something less healthy and more fufilling. The water's warm and lovely and the huge waves are good for body surfing. Unfortunately, they're also very good for putting string bikini's in very comprimising positions, then draining away to leave you exposed in six inches of water. Or, if you're really lucky, you'll body surf too far up the shore where the wave folds under itself to go back and you'll get smacked into the sand, half drowned- it's a scary feeling, when you can't come up. I'm more afraid of drowning than I am of dying- my hip is bleeding and I'm still coughing up salt and sand. I removed at least a full cup of sand from my swimsuit, and you know how small my suit is (or if you don't...it's small, trust me.) My knee's all scraped up too, and the sand refuses to leave the many crevices of my body and hair, even after two showers. There's also some sort of weird water resistant oily orange paint-stuff on me, I don't understand why. The blue line still runs up and down my wrist where I attacked myself with this very pen. Doesn't hurt anymore- just blue. I wonder if it's bad to have sand in some parts of your body- it could have bacteria on it or something, don't you think? I left my clothes at the other room, on the other side of the resort (by room I mean small adobe cabin/hut things.) Blast. Katie's got freckles from being int he sun. I don't think I have freckles, though a lot of people do if you close. Take Rory for example- he has freckles, you just can't seem them because he's tan. You can't kill all the Irish in people, I guess. Then again, I have Irish in me, but I'm not freckly...I don't think...where's a mirror? I'll be back. Nope, I'm definately one of the few (the proud?) in which the English skin has sufficiently beat down the Irish. If you ignore any blemishes, I'll never be anything but pure English white, with a couple freckle-sized moles on my arms and elsewhere. I always called them freckles when I was little, but I see now that they're too permanent. There's a lot. Someday I'll count them all, but I need someones help (someone I'm rather close to, it seems) since I can't see so much of me. I realize why the main street in Playa is strange, now, it's because it's closed to cars. It reminds me of Venice, except even more touristy. People don't live in Playa Del Carmen. I like Italy, and after senior year I'll go stay in our old refurbished mill on the river, so lovely, hopefully with some company, but we'll see. If you want to come, better woo me now. I've decided to spend a good deal of the summer with Charlie, in England. I should consult him on that. Probably a bad influence, but it's fine- I'll come home your Tristessa, your crazy sad starving dark eyed junky dying in your arms. If you ask what I eat I'd say I don't know- I can't think of how I get full on random small portions of things I don't like much. The birds crackle before they cry out, like a staticy radio, trying to come in. The wide variety of noises they make remind me of so much, maybe that's why they're mocking birds, they seem to imitate so many awful noises. If I could be called anything, it would be Pigeon. Just Pigeon. (at this point I write "pigeon" in cursive alot, and then "is that even how it's spelled?" and then my name in Russian.) Am I the only person who talks to the bugs in the shower? I worry- first, what kind of person talks to bugs in the shower? But then, what kind of world is it where we can't talk to our showermates, regardless of species? You've already seen each other naked, a level of intimacy has been acheived. I believe it's bad luck to kill anything that's seen you naked, unless it's out ot hurt you. (This means yes, you can kill ex-lovers! Hurrah! But not harmless long-antennaed brown beetle things.) I'm listening to Amelie, music which makes me happy and nostalgic and sad. Amelie is the ultimate test of character, in my opinion. If you got it and you liked it than you can't be all bad. I want to take you somewhere- I know where, I know everything about it and it will be lovely but only you can tell me when and you must be sure and give me several days warning but mostly you must be sure you want to go- I can't tell you where but you'll know when you want to go, best if it's warm out, nice out, but adjustments can be made, I hope you make it there before anyone else but there are no promises, not by far. It's your oppertunity until someone else wants to go (not that I"ll make that offer, you can see it in a person, when they want to go, and before all this I could see it in you but had no car) but I'd prefer it was you, it means much less without the common memory -I know you no longer believe in memories, their importance and validity- but everything we perceieve is buildt on memories and no solider a foundation can be found for anything. Tears and actions. Tears and actions are often (always maybe, if you think more abstractly) rooted in memory. Tonight I sit in the night warm in the hammock, listening to the Amelie, looking at the new surroundings and thinking of old ones- such beautiful music but so full of emotion, so many emotions and it inspires you, makes you want to do crazy romantic things that you know would never work because life is not a movie and certainly not one so beautiful as Amelie- but if you ever do such things you've found the only soundtrack that will do. Amelie Ann Arbor- velvet seats- theater- boy - Europe! - how beautiful- big big brown eyes and a love story- rustling of beaded curtains and italian bread in small cafes, olive oil and all- quirky- the bed, double bed and the heat reflecting in the canals. Horrible dessert fed to fish off a ledge- no railing, you could fall- fish don't eat grapes like plums but old women do- cup noodles and the boy, he didnt' like it, Amelie that is- a trip to france (not mine) and a trip to the airport, end of California and beginning of the end, but first, something new- gondoliers in their cafe, striped and jovial- the bridge, big bridge, big advertisements, littel bridges too, cute bridges- Amelie is in France, not Italy, silly- but it's Italy that will never leave mea lone, and Venice + Amelie means something else altogether- what was that movie, about that woman who leaves her family and tour group and goes to Venice? Independent are the films in Ann Arbor, and foreign and good, on warm nights- Starbucks like after Pearl Jam, and art- life is art, was art, still art, but lonely. |
| I'm tired of over planning my life and I'm tired of manipulations. I'm done with them. |