Oh, I am tired of sitting on my ass in a car! All of Spring Break, I was in a car, it seemed...
I saw some amazingly beautiful things... Rocks and sand and trees and oceans and skies and things... And then there was Disneyland, which pretty much ruined the illusion of a perfect California, but oh well.
Is it sick that I don't see the magic of Mickey Mouse? Is it sick that I find more happy thoughts in my own private Neverland than in Peter Pan's plastic one? Is it sick that I'd rather take a walk through the desert at 5 in the morning on a desperate search for a gas station in western Arizona than spend a day at the (hah) Happiest Place on Earth? Is there anyone in the world who would actually say "no" when asked if they want to go to Disneyland? I mean, other than me? Well, I didn't say no, because my hosts were gracious enough to invite me in the first place, and I knew they wanted to go, but I REALLY didn't want to go... They whole day, I kept seeing through the "magic" into the commercialism, the plastic... It's capitalism in it's ideal state: where you can keep the employees smiling happily enough to sell more and more shit and get customers to come back. But I'm sorry: Disneyland employees are NOT really that happy.
I loved the ocean. I loved it. I had a fever and I felt like I was going to keel over and die miserably any second, but I was just delighted by the ocean. I have missed water, living in the southwest. There's no water in the air here, no rivers or lakes or anything... California was just full of glorious water, everywhere; I felt like splashing around through everything...
I don't really want to talk a lot about the trip right now. I'm glad to be back in Santa Fe, as sick as that sounds. I've missed being next to my computer, sleeping in MY bed, knowing where my damn ChapStick is, that sort of thing. Being able to make coffee in the middle of the damn night if I feel like it... That sort of thing.
I had a weird dream this morning... It was a really cool one, actually: Jayden, Peter, David and I were walking through this forest. The road was brick, like David's old road back home, and the trees were REALLY high. It was getting kind of dark, and the whole thing was very "lions and tigers and bears" reminiscent. Well, we were walking along, singing or some such thing, when Peter stopped walking. I stopped next to him, but David kept going until he was out of sight. Jayden decided to keep going too, but stopped to fix her hair or something, so she was still pretty close by. Anyway, Peter stopped, looked up, and said, "I'm hungry." Well, he leaped ten feet in the air, caught a tree branch, and picked this huge ripe apple out of the tree. He jumped back down and I wrestled with him playfully for a few minutes, trying to get at the apple. Seriously, this thing was the size of a Tonka truck or something... Well, he got a big bite of it, and I grabbed a piece that was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and ate it myself. We stood there giggling together over this apple for quite awhile, while Jayden looked on happily.
I know EXACTLY what the dream meant, but I'm not going to tell you... Not yet... That's an entirely separate entry.
I thought a lot about David this past week. There were only so many topics I could force upon my mind during the car rides to and from California, and then it wandered off to think about whatever it damn well wanted to think about.
So, yeah, I thought about David a lot. It occurs to me that I write a lot about him and I think a lot about him, but now it's always the bad stuff: seeing his stuff laying haphazardly in his hallway, abandonned; meeting him in the coffeehouse and desperately hoping he'd make everything okay after a bad night of partying and unrelaible friends; last Valentine's Day and my conversation with him through my drunken stupor; him ditching me for Peter, swearing it was because I was a girl and not because he didn't care, and then ditching Peter for an obnoxious chick who looked like a whale... I never really think about the good times anymore. Maybe that's a sign that I'm not very good at accepting good times into my life anymore, which may or may not be true... Maybe it's just ancient history. Who knows? But on the ride to California, somewhat feverish, I started thinking again about the good times...
I really do think I was in love with him. No, I guess there's no "think" about it. I was in love with him. I guess I still am, in a way. It was good to lie on the floor of Mike's parents' van thinking about David in good ways. I thought about his weird affinity for Jim Steinman (you know; that guy who wrote Meatloaf's music?). I thought about holding his hand at the JulyFest -- in public, for the love of gahd! I thought about the first night I really realized I'd fallen for him: we were having dinner together under low light while a jazz musician played a really cool version of the Beatles' "In My Life." ("I'm having a Beatles moment!" he said, "And Beatles moments always remind me of you...") He'd invited a bunch of people that night: my mom, a guy he'd met at The Bar who he wanted to seduce, and some other random friends. But everybody else got engrossed in conversations with each other, and David and I were left alone; at first we talked about Saturday Night Live, then the Beatles and my play, and then silence became enough, because he could read my thoughts a mile away. So we just smiled at each other contentedly.
I thought about waking him up in the mornings. I thought about one day when we both became depressed listening to some Sondheim CD (trust me; under the circumstances, it was depressing as hell...), and he said, "Carolyn, why don't you and I just get married and get it the hell over with?" The song changed to "Being Alive," and I sighed and burst into tears on his shoulder. I thought about the two of us making coffee and eating Cherry Garcia ice cream ("It's almost symbolic..." "Uh... yeah.") while watching Twin Peaks videos. I thought about falling asleep on his floor one night after a little bit too much rigatoni a la vodka and a long conversation in which we caught up on each other's lives for the past three years. I thought about the collection of phone numbers he used to tape to his wall, and the little hazelnut candies he kept hidden in his cupboard, each of which came with a little saying in French about bises or something... I thought about the first time we'd kissed, and I'd gone home in a haze of joy. (The first time I kissed Peter, I went home and got drunk, if that says anything... It's weird: David told me once I was one of the best kissers in town. "Maybe second," he said. "Who's first?" I asked, knowing what the answer was without needing to ask. "Mm... Peter, probably," said David, although there was no "probably" about it in his voice... and he wasn't wrong, either...)
I miss David. But he's living his life without me, and I need to do the same. I promised myself I wouldn't get in touch with him except to report major happenings in life, like if I moved or got married (hah) or something like that. I've got to let him keep walking on that stupid brick road in the forest while the rest of us stop to pick apples. But it's still nice to reminisce once in awhile - especially about the good things like Beatles-moments and Twin Peaks episodes.
I thought a lot about my play on vacation, too. One night, sound asleep in Mike's room, I sat bolt upright with a brilliant idea for it -- I have never done anything like that in my life, but the idea wouldn't go away, and it WAS a good idea, considering it was just a dream.
I've pretty much kicked cigarettes. I still kind of want one, but I think smoking right now would absolutely destroy my lungs, which are tortured enough as it is from my cold.
I got three CD's on vacation: Portishead's self-titled, R.E.M.'s "Green," because I couldn't find my tape of it, which was causing me physical pain, and R.E.M.'s "Document," which I haven't heard, but I trust it will be awesome. The two R.E.M ones were used, but oh-so-worth every penny I spent... And the Portishead one, which I'm listening to right now, is giving me those old familiar Portishead feelings: being pretty near sure the world's going to hell and life's not worth it, but then realizing that Beth-the-Portishead-chick is FAR more depressed than I'll ever be, and cheering up.
It's late and I desperately need a shower before bed.
Love,
Helena*
"I recall that you were there, golden smile and shining hair... I recall it wasn't fair, recollect it wasn't fair..." --R.E.M., "I Remember California."