for jane
225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
----Charles Bukowski
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Yesterday was brilliant. Today was like rubbing my face on a brillow pad. Must everything be a pendulum? Sometimes I'm not so sure I'd rather just sit on the bench that revolves rather than experience the carousel affect.
Since the two weeks post-graduation and the 4th of July have been my only real holidays this season, this is the first summer I have not felt like a child, and it is strange. Except for that one summer when my childhood ended. That mile marker was twenty.
This summer still stands out because I have not seen a lightening bug, and that seems to have made all of the difference. Do they disappear when you age?
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Back in the years when I kept a live journal, (I just re-read two years worth of one of them, what a waste of an hour), I was able to post what music I was listening to, and that feature seemed to express more than anything I ever wrote. I think typepad should implement it, too.
It frightens me how much of my life I have forgotten. I had so many vague references to things that I assume were fun occurences, inside jokes, etc. and now I have no idea what I was talking about. Other things jar my memory like a semi colliding into my brain. And ouch, it hurts.
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