Last night, it was about five thousand degrees in the shade. Being night, most of the neighborhood was shady. Come to think of it, the neighborhood is pretty shady anyway. Hm. Anyway. It was hot.
It started to rain around ten in the evening. Jeff and I scurried down the stairs to stand on the front porch and watch the storm, hoping for some relief from the heat. Paying no mind to the shady neighborhood, we dashed into the streets, broken glass and all, to stomp in puddles. Because of our intent -- that is, going outside and getting wet -- we didn't believe it was a dress-up occasion, and plummeted out into the night in shorts and a tank top (Jeff), and a long, teal-colored, near-see-through nightgown (me). The nightgown, as a matter of fact, showed cleavage I don't remember actually having. Our dress, however, was not the point, and the two of us gleefully made our way all the way up to the Main/Court Street Bridge, stomping in puddles and throwing water at each other.
We found the Mother of All Puddles on the corner of Front Street and Main. We jumped in that until we saw a cop drive by, and then we went home.
I lay in bed this morning, sweaty and somewhat miserable, thinking about thunderstorms. About the night that my mom took my brother and me outside onto the back porch in the middle of the night to watch the lightning. I couldn't have been much older than six, give or take. I think maybe my mom was a little scared and was using us as comfort, especially because I was totally fearless and Joseph's only concern was clapping his hands over his ears at the appropriate moments.
So I lay in bed thinking about that, which led to thoughts about the night I woke Mike up at 5 in the morning to make him see the storm that was raging outside: thunder, lightning, hailstones, you name it. I nearly beat down Mike's door trying to get him to wake up, and by then the storm was practically over and I had to apologize for waking him up.
I thought about driving with Mike, staring out the window for long hours at scenery that never seemed to change, and yet, was so fascinating that you couldn't tear your eyes away. We'd play R.E.M. in the car, and Garbage, and Björk. Sometimes Filter. Sometimes we just played the radio; always The Peak, 100.3. The Peak was usually playing Sublime's "Santeria," Sugar Ray's "Every Morning," or that fucking stupid Barenaked Ladies song, whatever that was. Sometimes I wish I'd been able to fall in love with Mike. Listening to those songs now brings such peace. In Santa Fe, there were never any expectations. From Mike, there were very few expectations. I wish I'd walked more; just picked up my backpack, shoved a couple of cans of tuna fish into it, and walked out into the desert. But I felt so alone anyway, being among all the other kids, why would I want to actually BE alone out in the desert contemplating my stupid lonely life?
I wish I had more time to walk. I wish I had money to join a gym or a yoga group or something. I've been taking somewhat better care of myself lately. Instead of having a cigarette when I feel hungry, I eat food when I'm hungry. It's more expensive when you do it that way, and I've gained a lot of weight and people have been asking me what the hell I've been eating, but I guess it's better this way. For some reason, this time, the withdrawal hasn't been that bad. I think it's because I've been drinking some mad quantities of orange juice. I've been thinking of forcing myself to exercise more, too. It's humiliating to admit what a wimp I am. I mean, I'm not fat -- I'm thin and round, and mostly happy with being thin and round -- but I AM a wimp. Lifting CD's all day does not a bicep make.
I've decided to make a mix-CD. Of course, that will involve me getting a CD-burner, which I don't have the money for, but I'm currently in the middle of downloading songs for a mix-CD. My first one is going to be alternative stuff from 1994; Nirvana, stuff like that...
Jayden and I used to wander through the halls in high school reciting the lyrics to "Loser," by Beck. We thought we were so cool. My parents wouldn't let me listen to that garbage because they thought it was rap and they didn't understand most of the words. "And my time is a piece of wax, falling on a termite that's choking on the splinters..." Jayden thought that line had such potent significance. She tried to explain it once to me, how deep that was, even though it was just a dorky song my parents wouldn't let me listen to, and I pretended I understood, but I still didn't quite see the symbolism in that line... I still don't, truth to be told, and this is coming from somebody who understood "Lost Highway."
I didn't understand "Lost Highway" at first... I rented it with this feeling in my stomach that it was going to make some weird difference in my life, and then didn't have a clue what it was about. Oh, I thought it was beautiful, but I didn't get it. So I called Erich. Erich wanted to be a film major and had taken quite a few film classes, so I thought he'd be able to explain it to me at least a little bit. But he refused to come over and watch it with me. He said he hated David Lynch, who directed it. He said David Lynch made films about nothing and deliberately made them confusing to piss people off and prove that he was better than anybody else. He said there was no significance to "Lost Highway." Erich had never seen a David Lynch film. Erich just hated David Lynch because Erich hated my friend David, who liked David Lynch. It was a jealousy thing, I think. Whatever. I don't care.
It was Erich's birthday the other day. June 10th. Jesus Day 2K; happy 20th birthday, Erich. Ironic, because Erich said I was crazy for believing there could be a god. I didn't say there WAS one, just that there MIGHT be one. Erich said that I was crazy and belonged in a mental hospital. I supposed Erich must have believed, deep down, that the existence of a higher being was possible, but he liked being right and he didn't like conceding that he might be wrong. On his birthday, the same year we had the stupid fight about whether there was a god, he invited a bunch of people over to his house for a party. A few people went outside, a few people went home early, and it was just Erich and Valerie and me in the house. Valerie found some raspberries and whipped cream and persisted in placing the raspberries all over Erich's face and licking them off. She was about to start with the whipped cream, but I kind of glared. Not that I REALLY gave a shit, but I gave a SLIGHT shit and didn't REALLY want Erich slobbering all over some other girl -- one I was kind of friends with -- directly in front of me... A few days later, as I lay on his couch half asleep, I overheard him telling Valerie that I meant nothing to him and that he really wanted to be with her. It all turned out well: Erich got dumped twice, and now he and Valerie are both junkies, and Jesus Day 2K happened to fall directly on the birthday of Mister Psycho Should-be-in-a-mental-hospital Atheist himself.
I just lay in bed this morning, not really meaning to think, but doing it anyway... It's been a long time since I really got a chance to think without being interrupted by, "Scuse me? Can you help me find Frank Sinatra?" or "Helena, guess what my sweetie-pie boyfriend did today?" neither of which I care to respond to with rampant enthusiasm.
All I want in the world right now:
* Silence for a few more hours -- even relative silence would be okay...
* A seafood sub from Subway, with lettuce and lots of black olives. And a pickle on the side.
*My songs to download very, very fast so that I can happily string some songs together and joyfully pretend I have a mix-CD of them.
I think I'm going to go turn on the TV and see if I can't find something to think about that doesn't involve myself...
~Helena*
"I'm never here, I'm never here, I'm never here..." --Tori Amos, "Thoughts Right Now."