joel thinks bonnie and i were having sex

Our room smells so strong of summer right now, of being a kid, family picnics, classic rock, and covertly sipping beer out of adults' cups like you're cool and grown-up. Inevitably, someone will soon put too much potato salad on my plate. That too, always happens. Someone near us, down wind of us, is having a bar-b-que, and our fan is sucking it, the scent of burning charcoal, of too much lighter fluid squirted by overeager guys, of roasting flesh, of death, but even more so, of life into our little second floor room in Babcock House. It smells utterly lovely and Bonnie recently remarked about how she could not stand the scent. She is weird like that, and is far too sensitive about meat, the smell of it in our room, in her self-righteous vegetarianism, which has made her moralistic about all the wrong things. About death, which is lovely and fascinating, the sight of uncooked meat is her own death, and well, its mine too. But for her, thats a problem. For me, it is something I relish, something I love. I am fascinated by meat - I want to mash my hands into some right now, to feel alive, to feel something that is not and to love that feeling, that contact, and to wonder what it means.

Today, we went to the beach, sat in the sun, and read. It was an entirelly wonderful sort of feeling, of delirious living. Heat waves, sweat, dehydration, and the smell of the lake, that ishy lake smell combined to produce some warm feeling, of being alive. I thought about my mother when I read some Sharon Olds line, and wanted to be next to her, to hug her, to make sure that she lived forever. I was for some reason worried that even though she is a healthy middle-aged soccer mom, that her death was so soon, and I wanted to prevent hers. And now, I am off to go see Road to Perdition with Bonnie if she would put on a fucking shirt.