Happy birthday, Vigils. When we were young we played in plum trees and swimming pools and spoke the irascible language of quarrelsome children in the suburban heat. Now we are old and two of us live extraordinary lives and then there’s me.
This talk pisses Katie off I think. She says, I am living in Boston sick with walking pneumonia. Where do you get extraordinary from that? Dave lives at home and rides bikes. But really I believe it’s all in the presentation. What I hear is, Katie lived on her own in New York for four years and graduated from an absurdly prestigious university, not failing to attend many clandestine poetry readings and tiny Village artist-type actions along the way, and also picking up, like a social disease, a social conscience. Now she lives in a house of poets and sex and works in a battered women’s shelter. Dave rode his bike all over hell and Iowa, spent his senior year of high school in Venezuela (a country I can barely spell), then drifted in and out of the group legend, every so often flattening out in the rumor mill. Right now, sure, he’s home. In a few months he’ll be on a farm in New York somewhere. Beat that with a stick.
Me, I’m just selling my soul little by little to the French department, drinking a lot of coffee and reading books that are bad for me. In August, when I move, my life will start again, but right now I’m hanging out in the place I go to vacation from my life. Not that I don’t love it heres, but neither is it always challenging.
Well anyway. San Francisco rears its bridged dragon head on the horizon. August, my friends. The month when we will all be shaken up like dice and tossed out again. At least some of you are coming closer, not that that makes up for Michele possibly leaving, the dumb bitch. And with this charming descent into profanity: end blog.
Oh, p.s., credit where due: the link to the slang page in yesterday’s blog was courtesy of The Lad.