It is very difficult to stay awake past 11 when you've been awake since 8 a.m. Although I am glad to have gotten up so much earlier than usual, I miss my usual reason for late-wake-up--my boyfriend. Only a single night I have been without him, yet already I want him here with me. Kind of. Part of me does, part of me does not. I enjoy being away from him, for just a little while. It may just be that I so very much enjoy being away from western Mass. I do not like it there. For me it is boring and lonely. For him...it is the perfect bachelors' place. We will see how this goes.
I want him here so I can show him around. It's weird. I know I'm supposed to see him as a person now, but I still have this weird obsession with pushing him into the follower position where he won't react. I guess I want him to react, I just don't know how he will. That is perhaps the best part about being with him--I never know what's next. With Chris it was always quiet, or he was scared of something, or whatever; with James there's a bit of bravery, curiosity, an insatiable humor, although it can be somewhat morbid.
I got my hair cut at Wal Mart tonight. Maricel brought me out to lunch (onion & mushroom pizza at Not Your Average Joe's), and then we went with dad to China Buffet (we snuck out lots of, ahem, leftovers), then Wal Mart, and home again. I talked to James on the phone for a little while. I will not be obsessive and check my phone to see how long...but it felt like five or ten minutes. Spent an hour and a half in Staples trying to put together that damn booklet for the mothers at the TLP. Wicked bothersome. I was so out of it after that. Registration tomorrow, for the Honda, for the road trip.
I need to sleep really bad soon, this tired feeling is killing me. Stomach also killing me. Apparently being in Eastern Mass does not heal my intestinal issues. I will just need to not eat. Everybody here keeps telling me I need to gain weight, but how do they expect me to do that when everything I eat just stagnates in my gut from night to night? Sleep calling still. Dreams of storms last night. Perhaps there are more waiting.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Random Scene (fiction)
Stuck in the scene: you, holding onto me weakly, me, trying to escape, to reach for the remote. But you never let me have it. You never gave in. You’d rather leave bruises on my armbands than give to me a second chance at choice.
My first choice was a mistake, I get that now. But everyone, especially greedy little children-and very especially little spoiled greedy children-will try and get what they want. The thing I did was a little over-the-top, which is, I suppose, why I was never given another choice. But father refused me the one thing I’d ever wanted in life: a shock-shooting typewriter. The kind where, every letter you hit, you get a little shock, so that by the time you finish a word your finger’s tip is numb, and by the time you finish a whole sentence your arm is numb, and he wouldn’t get it for me, said it was dangerous. As if. I didn’t realize the apricot seeds would hurt him so bed, would send him into that place-we-don’t-speak-of. But I still don’t regret what I did: standing up for what I believed I deserved has created me the person I am today.
And you held me there, just held me out of reach of that damn remote. You’d watch the spontaneous -trig channel and the “Aren’t Gods Millionaires?” show, and movies like “My wife turned into my testicles,” when all I asked for was a simple space alien or blood-and-guts type show--like my favorite, “Harry’s in the Bloodbath.”
My first choice was a mistake, I get that now. But everyone, especially greedy little children-and very especially little spoiled greedy children-will try and get what they want. The thing I did was a little over-the-top, which is, I suppose, why I was never given another choice. But father refused me the one thing I’d ever wanted in life: a shock-shooting typewriter. The kind where, every letter you hit, you get a little shock, so that by the time you finish a word your finger’s tip is numb, and by the time you finish a whole sentence your arm is numb, and he wouldn’t get it for me, said it was dangerous. As if. I didn’t realize the apricot seeds would hurt him so bed, would send him into that place-we-don’t-speak-of. But I still don’t regret what I did: standing up for what I believed I deserved has created me the person I am today.
And you held me there, just held me out of reach of that damn remote. You’d watch the spontaneous -trig channel and the “Aren’t Gods Millionaires?” show, and movies like “My wife turned into my testicles,” when all I asked for was a simple space alien or blood-and-guts type show--like my favorite, “Harry’s in the Bloodbath.”
Sound-No sound
Turning around in the thick blankets. Warm blankets, sticking like sweat. Breathing. A snore. The sound of hair and pillow against your ears. A car passing by, headlights flashing across the ceiling as it turns out onto the main road. You hear a slight scratching above, the rats or squirrels living in hordes on the floor above. But this is nothing but sound.
Sitting at the kitchen table. Peeling surface rough beneath your fingers. Light pouring in from the sky-roof, landing on the potted plants on the lower sill. They are green-someone gave them a spill of water and in a day, after months of dehydration, they came back to life. You sit still. Not even bird calls can be heard from where you sit: every window is closed and encased in cocking: cemented tightly shut. The washer and dryer are off. Every sink closed, so not a drop clinks against the metal and porcelain sinks. Branches shake outside, send the light and shadows spilling across the wooden floor. An ant scurries across the floor and over to the rug, but the silence is complete. You stay until you can’t stand the quiet anymore. Your ears are buzzing in the quiet, and thoughts just won’t bob to the surface. You run the faucet, say his name aloud, throw his favorite can of Zazz across the room.
Sitting at the kitchen table. Peeling surface rough beneath your fingers. Light pouring in from the sky-roof, landing on the potted plants on the lower sill. They are green-someone gave them a spill of water and in a day, after months of dehydration, they came back to life. You sit still. Not even bird calls can be heard from where you sit: every window is closed and encased in cocking: cemented tightly shut. The washer and dryer are off. Every sink closed, so not a drop clinks against the metal and porcelain sinks. Branches shake outside, send the light and shadows spilling across the wooden floor. An ant scurries across the floor and over to the rug, but the silence is complete. You stay until you can’t stand the quiet anymore. Your ears are buzzing in the quiet, and thoughts just won’t bob to the surface. You run the faucet, say his name aloud, throw his favorite can of Zazz across the room.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Day at the (flooded) beach
There’s nothing like a mug of hot apple cider after a long day in March. A long 68-degree day in March. It was amazing! I got up at eight this morning, ate some of dad’s icky oatmeal (he must have put less than a teaspoon of brown sugar in) eating only clumps of banana and trying to force the rest down, before getting on the computer in search of a publishing house or magazine to get an informational interview at. I tried calling North Shore and Merrimack Valley, both local magazines, but getting hold of an actual person over-the-phone is impossible. I found the North Shore one, but the editor was in a meeting, and a guy at the front desk told me to e-mail or call, so later I called and left a message. I never got a return call. Maybe tomorrow, I hope.
I spent a few hours over my friend Sara’s house with she and her boyfriend. Her half-goldie black dog (90 lbs), Harry jumped all over us until we decided to go to Salisbury beach. We walked down the beach and found Harry-sized piles of black seaweed and half-buried lobster traps in the sand. Intermingled cans and bottles, gloves, boots and other single-paired shoes were trapped in the weeds. A dead fish, its mouth partially open to reveal sharp tiny teeth, made me stumble as I almost stepped on it barefoot. Sara scanned among the debris and sands for sea glass while I searched for anything interesting; a whole clamshell, some driftwood; more dead fish.
And then I started searching for images with the sight of my camera: a still standing on its own in a circle of weeds, right next to a black rubber boot and bleached yellow tennis shoe. Sara pointed to the long cement garage that has forever drawn the curiosity of my step sister and me into its depths: a five by five portion of its ceiling had been blown clear off. “From the waves,” Sara said. Further along the building I found a calling I was unable to resist: the door was gone. The wood that had been nailed over the entrance for my entire life, had been either destroyed or kicked out, and this was my chance to finally explore it.
Sand on the ground, a light film on everything; a dusty beer bottle on a shelf beside a dusty wooden chair; light blaring down from the no-longer-existent ceiling; the ceiling caved in a bunch of splintered beams; two half-open doors beside a refrigerator with its door thrown wide; closer to the entrance, a small room with double-holed cement blocks jumbled on the floor; in focus a rusty sewing machine on its side, Sara and Adam standing together on the beach out the door in the background.
I spent a few hours over my friend Sara’s house with she and her boyfriend. Her half-goldie black dog (90 lbs), Harry jumped all over us until we decided to go to Salisbury beach. We walked down the beach and found Harry-sized piles of black seaweed and half-buried lobster traps in the sand. Intermingled cans and bottles, gloves, boots and other single-paired shoes were trapped in the weeds. A dead fish, its mouth partially open to reveal sharp tiny teeth, made me stumble as I almost stepped on it barefoot. Sara scanned among the debris and sands for sea glass while I searched for anything interesting; a whole clamshell, some driftwood; more dead fish.
And then I started searching for images with the sight of my camera: a still standing on its own in a circle of weeds, right next to a black rubber boot and bleached yellow tennis shoe. Sara pointed to the long cement garage that has forever drawn the curiosity of my step sister and me into its depths: a five by five portion of its ceiling had been blown clear off. “From the waves,” Sara said. Further along the building I found a calling I was unable to resist: the door was gone. The wood that had been nailed over the entrance for my entire life, had been either destroyed or kicked out, and this was my chance to finally explore it.
Sand on the ground, a light film on everything; a dusty beer bottle on a shelf beside a dusty wooden chair; light blaring down from the no-longer-existent ceiling; the ceiling caved in a bunch of splintered beams; two half-open doors beside a refrigerator with its door thrown wide; closer to the entrance, a small room with double-holed cement blocks jumbled on the floor; in focus a rusty sewing machine on its side, Sara and Adam standing together on the beach out the door in the background.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
flood 2010
Our waiter was Herman Munster from the “The Munsters” . . . at least, he looked like that Frankenstein-guy. He was very tall, at least seven feet, and loud. The hair on his head was sparse, although it was hard to make out from all the way down in our chairs. “What Would You Like To Drink Young Lady?” He boomed. I asked for a pepsi. “Coke OkAY?” Nod. I felt our table wobble as he walked away.
We were sitting in a booth on the restaurant half of Bar--“it used to be a really good restaurant,” dad said—where the tables were arranged in a kind of triangle, on either side tables, but slanting to an end table by the far wall. An unequal triangle—obtuse? In any case, the bench is far enough away that one’s beer gut or thick flesh might lean comfortably against the hard edge of the table. For us, this meant we had two choices: we could either lean all the way back (even cross-legged) with our backs against the high wooden back, or we could sit on the edge of the seat, as close as possible to the table, where it would be possibly to reach our plates and waters.
The bar wasn’t really hopping. Saint Patrick’s Day night, and nothing really happening. I wondered if it was because of the time (nine p.m.) or if it was just because the town is Ipswich. When I think Ipswich I see the Ipswich Savings Bank monogram (?): a blue sky with white Vs flying around the name. Then I think of my step sister’s dancing place (Mariana’s) and of the floods.
The floods were the reason I came home. Living out in Western Mass is a bore after growing up Merrimack-North Shore. Where there is ocean here, there are mountains there; a variety of people here, basically all tree-hugging hippies there; real city-like during the school year, but rolling ghost-town during breaks: summer, winter, middle of March.
Dad left a message on my phone when I refused to answer it at 9:30 in the morning. “Man, you should have taken yesterday off from work and come down here! The floods are amazing and Ipswich river is all backed up, everything’s underwater…” not his exact words, but close. I called work, cancelled, and drove to Rowley.
Just before the bar we parked by the EBSCO building, with its giant mural painted on one long wall. The river was high. Trees were halfway underwater, but it was hard to tell. When we crossed town and stood in front of the footbridge, the damage was more striking: EBSCO, that enormous brick building, was a little underwater; the lights were still on through the windows. “They must be water-protected,” dad said, and we nodded. The water was moving fast like rapids. It went into a short waterfall on a long wall; this fall was only a few feet, when normally it’s a little further. The foot bridge was being pummeled, and for that reason the entrance to it was strung with many caution tapes, to keep us out. On the other side of the bridge, where the water came out, we could see it struggling to move; it was so fierce that I was sure it would have to break eventually.
I imagined the damage it would cause, if it was forced from its hold and pulled downriver. It was probably tumble a little (the bridge is at least 20 feet long) and maybe break apart in a few pieces, but it looks like the water could still hold it up. It would tumble downriver, gashing great holes in the sides of buildings, ripping through windows and flooding more basements. In seconds it would be to the major bridge in the center of town, the one that cars and people go over all the time, the bridge where the water is only a foot or so from completely touching the bottom of the bridge; it would tear it apart. Well, first, it might lean against the bridge, and maybe a piece or two would make it through underneath, but it would clog, and water would keep pushing, and eventually, eventually, that shit would break into pieces, the road would fall in, any cars or people standing on top would surely drown, and it would lead to incredible chaos.
But that didn’t happen. Not yet, anyway. From the news reports on NECN, it appears that the entire town of Billerica is underground. I’m not sure if that’s true.
Only a few weeks ago, the coast of New England was slammed with some seriously damaging winds, hurricane-style, 60-, sometimes up to 70-mile-an-hour winds. I missed it because of school. But it did damage: trees down everywhere, on houses, on top of cars, onto pedestrians walking by! It howled and shook houses and trailers, tore down weaker trees and challenged stronger ones, and I missed it! Now with the flooding. We haven’t had quite this bad flooding since the floods of 2006, when I fell into river-runoff and almost got sucked into the sewer under the road (my step sister rescued me).
We were sitting in a booth on the restaurant half of Bar--“it used to be a really good restaurant,” dad said—where the tables were arranged in a kind of triangle, on either side tables, but slanting to an end table by the far wall. An unequal triangle—obtuse? In any case, the bench is far enough away that one’s beer gut or thick flesh might lean comfortably against the hard edge of the table. For us, this meant we had two choices: we could either lean all the way back (even cross-legged) with our backs against the high wooden back, or we could sit on the edge of the seat, as close as possible to the table, where it would be possibly to reach our plates and waters.
The bar wasn’t really hopping. Saint Patrick’s Day night, and nothing really happening. I wondered if it was because of the time (nine p.m.) or if it was just because the town is Ipswich. When I think Ipswich I see the Ipswich Savings Bank monogram (?): a blue sky with white Vs flying around the name. Then I think of my step sister’s dancing place (Mariana’s) and of the floods.
The floods were the reason I came home. Living out in Western Mass is a bore after growing up Merrimack-North Shore. Where there is ocean here, there are mountains there; a variety of people here, basically all tree-hugging hippies there; real city-like during the school year, but rolling ghost-town during breaks: summer, winter, middle of March.
Dad left a message on my phone when I refused to answer it at 9:30 in the morning. “Man, you should have taken yesterday off from work and come down here! The floods are amazing and Ipswich river is all backed up, everything’s underwater…” not his exact words, but close. I called work, cancelled, and drove to Rowley.
Just before the bar we parked by the EBSCO building, with its giant mural painted on one long wall. The river was high. Trees were halfway underwater, but it was hard to tell. When we crossed town and stood in front of the footbridge, the damage was more striking: EBSCO, that enormous brick building, was a little underwater; the lights were still on through the windows. “They must be water-protected,” dad said, and we nodded. The water was moving fast like rapids. It went into a short waterfall on a long wall; this fall was only a few feet, when normally it’s a little further. The foot bridge was being pummeled, and for that reason the entrance to it was strung with many caution tapes, to keep us out. On the other side of the bridge, where the water came out, we could see it struggling to move; it was so fierce that I was sure it would have to break eventually.
I imagined the damage it would cause, if it was forced from its hold and pulled downriver. It was probably tumble a little (the bridge is at least 20 feet long) and maybe break apart in a few pieces, but it looks like the water could still hold it up. It would tumble downriver, gashing great holes in the sides of buildings, ripping through windows and flooding more basements. In seconds it would be to the major bridge in the center of town, the one that cars and people go over all the time, the bridge where the water is only a foot or so from completely touching the bottom of the bridge; it would tear it apart. Well, first, it might lean against the bridge, and maybe a piece or two would make it through underneath, but it would clog, and water would keep pushing, and eventually, eventually, that shit would break into pieces, the road would fall in, any cars or people standing on top would surely drown, and it would lead to incredible chaos.
But that didn’t happen. Not yet, anyway. From the news reports on NECN, it appears that the entire town of Billerica is underground. I’m not sure if that’s true.
Only a few weeks ago, the coast of New England was slammed with some seriously damaging winds, hurricane-style, 60-, sometimes up to 70-mile-an-hour winds. I missed it because of school. But it did damage: trees down everywhere, on houses, on top of cars, onto pedestrians walking by! It howled and shook houses and trailers, tore down weaker trees and challenged stronger ones, and I missed it! Now with the flooding. We haven’t had quite this bad flooding since the floods of 2006, when I fell into river-runoff and almost got sucked into the sewer under the road (my step sister rescued me).
Monday, February 22, 2010
Joy Ride Gone Wrong
“It wasn’t a joy ride.”
“Then what do you call driving halfway across the state, then coming back in less than an hour?”
“Paul, you don’t get it…we were out there-”
“In Turner’s Falls?”
“Yeah-we were out getting some gorgeous speakers installed. Jeff said he knew this cool mechanic who would do it for cheap. He said we wouldn’t have to pay much.”
“So why aren’t the speakers in your car?”
“Because Jeff…Jeff…the guy wanted some money none of his wanted to give him. Can I talk to mom?”
“No, she’s busy and doesn’t want to be bothered. She doesn’t even want to talk to you after what you’ve done--abandoning your little sister like that-”
“What are you talking about? She’s friggin’ fourteen! She could have taken the
bus. I told her to find another ride home.”
“She obviously didn’t think you were serious. Hey, didn’t your girlfriend go with you?”
“Um….”
“Where is she?”
“Home?”
“Did you drive her home?”
“Rachel didn’t come with us.”
“Don’t answer that.”
“But it’s Jeff. I gotta’ tell him something important. He left his…wallet in my car.
“Hey Jeff. What’s up?”
“Dude, I don’t think we should tell anybody what happened.”
“Dude, I’m not. But do you think she’ll be okay?”
“Who, Rachel?”
“Duh.”
“Tell him what you need then get off.”
“One sec, Paul.
“Yeah. I’m wor-….thinking about it a lot. Your wallet’s in my car.”
“No it’s not. It’s right here in my pock--oh shit.”
“What?”
“I think I really left it back there…”
“Oh.”
“What do you mean ‘oh’ this is a big deal brotha!”
“That’s too bad.”
“Off the phone, NOW.”
“I think I gotta’ go.”
“Paul startin’ in on you again? We’re gonna’ have to go back there tomorrow. I don’t want that creepy jerk getting hold of where I live and shit, you get me?”
“Totally, bye.”
“No internet, T.V. or video games for a month. And-no more car.”
“shit.”
“How’d you get hold of this sweet ride, bro?”
“Careful, don’t smudge the windows, Jeff. We’re going in and out, in and out, just
like the burger-place, right?”
“Sure, don’t sweat it. This dashboard is smooth. I can’t believe your step dad let
you drive his Ferrari!”
“Trust me, Paul doesn’t know anything about it. He left this morning and
shouldn’t be back ‘till tomorrow. I’m just hoping he doesn’t come home early. I will be
So screwed.”
“Got that right. He’ll sell that beauty Mustang your dad got you.”
“I’d kill him.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Who? My dad? Nah, it’s been awhile. Like…a year.”
“Harsh. At least he gave you the car before taking off for good.”
“Yeah, right.”
“This place still gives me the creeps.”
“We shouldn’t have come back, but I really need my wallet.”
“Did we really bring Rachel here? What were those things you made us take?”
“The pills? Some guy at school sold them to me for something he needed me to
do.”
“Do I even want to know.”
“Eh. It was just business. He just told me the pills would make us a little out of
it.”
“I don’t remember anything, really. How the hell did we drive out here on that
shit?”
“Like I’d remember anything you couldn’t? Chris, maybe your girlfriend isn’t
even out here. Maybe she’s safe at home. I mean, we couldn’t have really just…left her
here. I mean, we wouldn’t, right?”
“I don’t think so, but . . . Remember what he was going to do to us?”
“That’s why we had to get out of here.”
“But what if he did those things to her? I don’t feel so good.”
“Okay then, let’s go. I forgot about the glass room and the smell . . . Oh god, let’s
just leave!”
“But Rachel, we have to get her out of here!”
“Then what do you call driving halfway across the state, then coming back in less than an hour?”
“Paul, you don’t get it…we were out there-”
“In Turner’s Falls?”
“Yeah-we were out getting some gorgeous speakers installed. Jeff said he knew this cool mechanic who would do it for cheap. He said we wouldn’t have to pay much.”
“So why aren’t the speakers in your car?”
“Because Jeff…Jeff…the guy wanted some money none of his wanted to give him. Can I talk to mom?”
“No, she’s busy and doesn’t want to be bothered. She doesn’t even want to talk to you after what you’ve done--abandoning your little sister like that-”
“What are you talking about? She’s friggin’ fourteen! She could have taken the
bus. I told her to find another ride home.”
“She obviously didn’t think you were serious. Hey, didn’t your girlfriend go with you?”
“Um….”
“Where is she?”
“Home?”
“Did you drive her home?”
“Rachel didn’t come with us.”
“Don’t answer that.”
“But it’s Jeff. I gotta’ tell him something important. He left his…wallet in my car.
“Hey Jeff. What’s up?”
“Dude, I don’t think we should tell anybody what happened.”
“Dude, I’m not. But do you think she’ll be okay?”
“Who, Rachel?”
“Duh.”
“Tell him what you need then get off.”
“One sec, Paul.
“Yeah. I’m wor-….thinking about it a lot. Your wallet’s in my car.”
“No it’s not. It’s right here in my pock--oh shit.”
“What?”
“I think I really left it back there…”
“Oh.”
“What do you mean ‘oh’ this is a big deal brotha!”
“That’s too bad.”
“Off the phone, NOW.”
“I think I gotta’ go.”
“Paul startin’ in on you again? We’re gonna’ have to go back there tomorrow. I don’t want that creepy jerk getting hold of where I live and shit, you get me?”
“Totally, bye.”
“No internet, T.V. or video games for a month. And-no more car.”
“shit.”
“How’d you get hold of this sweet ride, bro?”
“Careful, don’t smudge the windows, Jeff. We’re going in and out, in and out, just
like the burger-place, right?”
“Sure, don’t sweat it. This dashboard is smooth. I can’t believe your step dad let
you drive his Ferrari!”
“Trust me, Paul doesn’t know anything about it. He left this morning and
shouldn’t be back ‘till tomorrow. I’m just hoping he doesn’t come home early. I will be
So screwed.”
“Got that right. He’ll sell that beauty Mustang your dad got you.”
“I’d kill him.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Who? My dad? Nah, it’s been awhile. Like…a year.”
“Harsh. At least he gave you the car before taking off for good.”
“Yeah, right.”
“This place still gives me the creeps.”
“We shouldn’t have come back, but I really need my wallet.”
“Did we really bring Rachel here? What were those things you made us take?”
“The pills? Some guy at school sold them to me for something he needed me to
do.”
“Do I even want to know.”
“Eh. It was just business. He just told me the pills would make us a little out of
it.”
“I don’t remember anything, really. How the hell did we drive out here on that
shit?”
“Like I’d remember anything you couldn’t? Chris, maybe your girlfriend isn’t
even out here. Maybe she’s safe at home. I mean, we couldn’t have really just…left her
here. I mean, we wouldn’t, right?”
“I don’t think so, but . . . Remember what he was going to do to us?”
“That’s why we had to get out of here.”
“But what if he did those things to her? I don’t feel so good.”
“Okay then, let’s go. I forgot about the glass room and the smell . . . Oh god, let’s
just leave!”
“But Rachel, we have to get her out of here!”
Monday, February 8, 2010
Prom #3
A curtain of turquoise and deep blue falling
from the doorway, aired up fish floating the papery-
-ocean depths; a balloon arch of the same colors,rising
over a mouth-piece-less microphone: hanging on curtains
behind the mike, a collage of fish and sea-like creatures
drawn and colored in; on either side safety pins hold up
computerized images of birthday men and women their faces
those of the fish, or inside the fishes' mouths.
Giant mural made of boxes of cardboard glued together,
the bodies of Ariel, Flounder and Sebastian painted
faces cut out, mural leaned back against the piano for support:
a grinning face, little hair, from the face of the fish, a curious
mermaid looking up for him.
The dresses were poofy black with sequin-shiny top
fanned shoulders; and a short red dress pointing down
at the crotch like a heart, puttered sleeves and big bow on back
crimped hair and bare legs, golden shoes and hoops and Shawna;
or long blue gown, big-back-tattoo, who does splits
and twists, known only as "blue dress girl" (Prom queen show-off);
or tight-shoulders, tight-ass, tight-hips, tight-thighs shine bright
dull gold Becca, excellent dancer, didn't win; or dances-with-blow-up-shark
hay-colored hair, big red dress Kim, back it UP and keep the drink COMING.
There was also black dress, layered-hair (with side-bow) knee-high stockings,
tennis shoes girl Stephanie. There were tight, falling-
-out yellow dresses, and poofy-skirt, pretty curls (small) Cinderella-type dress
(Karra); and goldy-locks (glamorous!) black dress pearls, pink-slack's girlfriend.
Among the boys there was pink slacks, grey vest, pink shirt and tie; then there was good dancer, frilly shirt, red-and-gold vest, short hair & glasses, looks like he should be smoking a pipe (Mick-D?); and open jacket, tussled tie, moosed-up
hair, sunglasses, stomping-the-floor "he's in character" Greg McWilliams;
There was, of course, red-head Smile, pink cheeks and open-coat-by-end-of-night
grabbing me for last slow dance (Beatles), lights on, people cleaning up,
angry-about-the-judging, James. He was talk-to-everyone introduce, introduce, forget forget forget; flask in his pocket.
Sober-Girl-in-purple-and-gold-medieval-dress dancing/making-out-with/straddling/hugging/laughing with Legendary Jim/James.
from the doorway, aired up fish floating the papery-
-ocean depths; a balloon arch of the same colors,rising
over a mouth-piece-less microphone: hanging on curtains
behind the mike, a collage of fish and sea-like creatures
drawn and colored in; on either side safety pins hold up
computerized images of birthday men and women their faces
those of the fish, or inside the fishes' mouths.
Giant mural made of boxes of cardboard glued together,
the bodies of Ariel, Flounder and Sebastian painted
faces cut out, mural leaned back against the piano for support:
a grinning face, little hair, from the face of the fish, a curious
mermaid looking up for him.
The dresses were poofy black with sequin-shiny top
fanned shoulders; and a short red dress pointing down
at the crotch like a heart, puttered sleeves and big bow on back
crimped hair and bare legs, golden shoes and hoops and Shawna;
or long blue gown, big-back-tattoo, who does splits
and twists, known only as "blue dress girl" (Prom queen show-off);
or tight-shoulders, tight-ass, tight-hips, tight-thighs shine bright
dull gold Becca, excellent dancer, didn't win; or dances-with-blow-up-shark
hay-colored hair, big red dress Kim, back it UP and keep the drink COMING.
There was also black dress, layered-hair (with side-bow) knee-high stockings,
tennis shoes girl Stephanie. There were tight, falling-
-out yellow dresses, and poofy-skirt, pretty curls (small) Cinderella-type dress
(Karra); and goldy-locks (glamorous!) black dress pearls, pink-slack's girlfriend.
Among the boys there was pink slacks, grey vest, pink shirt and tie; then there was good dancer, frilly shirt, red-and-gold vest, short hair & glasses, looks like he should be smoking a pipe (Mick-D?); and open jacket, tussled tie, moosed-up
hair, sunglasses, stomping-the-floor "he's in character" Greg McWilliams;
There was, of course, red-head Smile, pink cheeks and open-coat-by-end-of-night
grabbing me for last slow dance (Beatles), lights on, people cleaning up,
angry-about-the-judging, James. He was talk-to-everyone introduce, introduce, forget forget forget; flask in his pocket.
Sober-Girl-in-purple-and-gold-medieval-dress dancing/making-out-with/straddling/hugging/laughing with Legendary Jim/James.
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