Monday - December 29, 2003
The who that you were.
In search of an old Shu Uemura makeup bag, I
found a journal from 1996. It is a big fat Mead notebook with a red cover, and
the spine barely holds the pages together. I recognize her, this girl who sang,
"I get high in my low-assed bootcut jeans," who wrote, "I will not only dine
under the stars, I will taste
them."
She also wrote:
"961213. Friday, the day curling up.
Not even I know how deep down the pain goes. I feel emptied, turned over and shaken, then ignored on a grimy table in some shitty bar. Love, I know I'll get over this and the rain will still fall. But now it's the emptiness ruling. The disbelief that there will be another such as you to share with me the blood running strong, the burning, the road to nowhere exactly, the blue blue sky. You were my pole star, and I feel adrift now, steering blind."
"9/20/95 16:53
It was not too far off to assume that she liked writing letters a lot more than actually living a life to write about."
And a quick poem from October 15, 1996:
Who abandons these cars
and allows them to live anew:
cat motels, dust magnets,
flutes when the city's hot winds
go through one cracked window
then another:
who? And who smears hasty hearts
on all those windshields,
made-to-fade messages of love
to Veronica or just anyone
passing by? Take a number,
then any street,
find that door and knock on it.
Whoever answers can be
the woman who is always the question,
freshly arrived from the airport,
smelling of lavender and
sex on the beach.
"Who are you?" she asks, and
dizzy with love, you can't answer.
She also wrote:
"961213. Friday, the day curling up.
Not even I know how deep down the pain goes. I feel emptied, turned over and shaken, then ignored on a grimy table in some shitty bar. Love, I know I'll get over this and the rain will still fall. But now it's the emptiness ruling. The disbelief that there will be another such as you to share with me the blood running strong, the burning, the road to nowhere exactly, the blue blue sky. You were my pole star, and I feel adrift now, steering blind."
"9/20/95 16:53
It was not too far off to assume that she liked writing letters a lot more than actually living a life to write about."
And a quick poem from October 15, 1996:
Who abandons these cars
and allows them to live anew:
cat motels, dust magnets,
flutes when the city's hot winds
go through one cracked window
then another:
who? And who smears hasty hearts
on all those windshields,
made-to-fade messages of love
to Veronica or just anyone
passing by? Take a number,
then any street,
find that door and knock on it.
Whoever answers can be
the woman who is always the question,
freshly arrived from the airport,
smelling of lavender and
sex on the beach.
"Who are you?" she asks, and
dizzy with love, you can't answer.