it's all talk
1.01.2004
I was tentative while driving the car home this morning, envisioning a repeat stall-out on Carmel Valley road which would send me hydroplaning into either Garland Ranch or the middle school. Only the classical and oldies stations would tune into my radio, and so I flipped between piano pieces for four hands and Smokey Robinson for company when I got to 68 in one piece.
The rain is washing down as I write, making a delicious sound - like fingernails running over cardboard - when it meets the asphalt shingles over my head. Weather like today's is the kind that makes me feel fiercely independent - alone, driving, headlights on, wipers running, radio stations phasing in and out, vision blinded by water kicked up on the windshield by the cars ahead and fogged interior windows. It makes me want to listen to Rachel Loshak's "Rain" for hours on end while wrapped in my down comforter.
But things aren't all perfect; they never are, of course. Will forgot to call me before he left for Iowa with Yale's Glee Club, and I missed having the company of a particular close friend last night as the clock ticked down to 12. Andrew left me messages that I only discovered on my phone this morning, and my Wesleyan men got together in Queens, Yaron told me, to potluck with handmade cheese bread and pear salad to celebrate the holiday. When I came home though, my mom had cut up and saved the last avocado just for me, which I ate while Dad talked about Billy Strayhorn and my brother watched John Williams conduct the National Anthem at the Rose Bowl.
It's 2004. ¶ 17:35
The rain is washing down as I write, making a delicious sound - like fingernails running over cardboard - when it meets the asphalt shingles over my head. Weather like today's is the kind that makes me feel fiercely independent - alone, driving, headlights on, wipers running, radio stations phasing in and out, vision blinded by water kicked up on the windshield by the cars ahead and fogged interior windows. It makes me want to listen to Rachel Loshak's "Rain" for hours on end while wrapped in my down comforter.
But things aren't all perfect; they never are, of course. Will forgot to call me before he left for Iowa with Yale's Glee Club, and I missed having the company of a particular close friend last night as the clock ticked down to 12. Andrew left me messages that I only discovered on my phone this morning, and my Wesleyan men got together in Queens, Yaron told me, to potluck with handmade cheese bread and pear salad to celebrate the holiday. When I came home though, my mom had cut up and saved the last avocado just for me, which I ate while Dad talked about Billy Strayhorn and my brother watched John Williams conduct the National Anthem at the Rose Bowl.
It's 2004. ¶ 17:35
12.30.2003
