Sunday, August 4, 2002

yesterday retold, version 2.0

In retrospect, things seem differently, things seem overexaggerated that I wrote last night, a little too sentimental, a little too much. Now that I think of my day, of my yesterday, it seems all in all like a lovely day and rereading my entry from last night fails to convey that, in fact it makes my day seem utterly shitty. But, that is not the case, or was not the case, and so I am feeling the sick imperative to rewrite my day, to make it sound better, to write myself a better, less pathatic life. Last night what I wrote is not even how I felt last night, but how I felt at the end of last night, after walking two miles home by myself, insanely drunk, stumbling on raised sidewalk cracks, on curbs that I forgot about, on the self-loathing line of thought that rarely occurs when I am drunk and is the reason that I probably tend to get drunk so often, to avoid it, to hide hide hide in bushes from those thoughts, but which appear nevertheless when three things interesect: solitude, drunkenness, and [percieved] rejection. So that is why last night's entry is so insanely whiney, because it was not written with the benefit of hindsight, was not written when I could rationally and soberly weigh the many pluses of the day against a self-constructed minus - it was written in the heat of the moment, as someone, some singer has said before.

And so, just for my own benefit, my need to see that I had a good day, to write it, to attempt to make it true - here is my yesterday written from the vantage of today, perhaps a more distorted perspective, but whatever, that is so subjective to say that one perspective, one interpretation of a day is no more distorted than any other.

I woke up, bright and early, excited by life yesterday at nine, with energy pulsing through me. Picked up Bonnie from the PIRG house, said good-bye to Jessica, who I will very likely never see again, and which is weird, always weird to say good-byes to people you have spent time with, have had good times with, have formed a Team Satan with - to say good-bye casually and hope that everything works out for them, but even more so, for you - since her departure is also mine, forcing me to conceive of this present time frame as a new one, one demarcated by this moment, this parting, wondering what lies ahead.

And what lied immeaditely ahead, not in the imagined future, but in the one hours away, which still has the perspective of the present, is grounded by the reality of your plans, of your to-do list, of your trip to the bank that you have to take, of what you are really going to dotoday, not in the future where you are going to do big things, big motherfucking things that you tell yourself you have always wanted to do - what lied ahead in this immediate, impending future was indeed a trip to the bank, and then later a trip to the nude beach, Mazomanie, with Jason, Bonnie, and Alex, which was a wonderful experience save for the mosiquitos attacking me and the forced hippy conversations of Jason and Alex that tried to force beauty and wonder on to the moment. The beach was on a river, one with a super strong current that Bonnie and I let drag us far down the river, a little too far, submitted to the current, floating on our backs, being moved, carried, displaced even, by capital n Nature. We then tried to swim our way back upstream, thinking that we would be adventurous rather than walking back along the shore like everyone else. The swim back proved to be extremely difficult with the current pushing us back almost just as fast as we could swim, having to tread water, not being able to reach the bottom, which was scary at times when the current threw us around, and we seemed to be one misstep, one accidental swallow of water away from drowning, from really losing ourselves to the current.

Finally, we did manage to swim our way back to the beach, looked for our towels, for Alex and Jason, and felt an even more weird version of the looking for your towel experience since we were naked and even more on parade to all the people we had to walk by. Sat down, ate delicious cherries that squirted bright, red juice all over my hands, a red real close to blood. Lied in the sun, got rid of my farmer's tan, and people watched, people listened, listened to silly conversations that sounded so good, so comforting for some reason, as if I could be talking to someone about silly things and not care, that this is still an open possibility for me, not closed off yet

We came home, showered, and then I was dropped off at Rebecca's because neither Rebecca or I wanted to go to the "hippy night" [as Rebecca disparinginly referred to it], where Alex was making portabello sandwiches, and then they were going to go to the hookah bar. Rebecca and I instead went to this really nice Mexican restaurant on Willy Street, ate really good food, and drank margaritas. After dinner, we walked to the Paradise where we talked about silly stuff - see I am capable, I can be a normal person one day who talks loudly about nothing and loves it, is thrilled by the domesticness of it all - split a pitcher of beer and felt our bellies expand into little bloated pots of gassy Mexian food with lots of cheap beer mixed around with it all. When we finished our pitcher, we went to the Cardinal Bar with Bonnie and the PIRGers, who we didn't even talk to that much. They were fucked up from their "hippy night" - and left after a short time to go get pizza since they are silly stoners and had the munchies. Rebecca and I sat and talked with Pete, the boy I had sex with last week that gave me tons of coke and voted for Bush. He said that he was calling, trying to get some coke, and I didn't really care, was just sitting with him and his friends because I knew them.

I talked to Brent a couple of times. Brent is this cute, blonde kid who last week when I tried to hit on him, threw me into one of his friends, saying "Here, talk to my friend." He said that he didn't mean to be bitchy, told me about his boyfriend of five years, asked me if I was on drugs since I was laughing non-stop, and I said no, and Rebecca was ready to go, to leave, and I was too - Giancarlo did not show up, and he was the only person I wanted to go home with. Pete can go fuck himself with his I'm-a-rich-spolied-corporte-whore-and-voted-for-Bush self. I said good-bye to Brent who started to hold my hand, which made me want to stay and talk to him more, but the pull of Rebecca on my back was too much for my drunken self to resist, to try to hold my ground against. I left with Rebecca, splitted at James Madison park, and walked home the two miles by myself, having way too much time to think about things, particularly a one Mister Giancarlo, as is evidenced all too clearly by the silly entry I wrote last night after getting home. I also got the nicest e-mail in the world from Tiffany that was astounding in how well it was written, how beautiful she said some things, some things that seemed all too true, meaning all too familiar. And that made me so, so happy - to be able to read good writing. I then passed out into my bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth.


Oh, and Rebecca is real excited that they put her picture on the Cardinal Bar website, andhere's the picture. It was taken last Saturday night, and the guy she is with is Mark Pocant, a state represenative, and one of the many people I made out with that night.

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