who?
september twenty first | one thirty ante meridiem
"Half an arch won't stand, Clarice."
Albuquerque, NM
Throwingjuly writes about the dynamics of attraction and how we can be totally aloof when someone is standing before us, singling us out as their object of affection, but then later, in our lonelier or darker moments we cling to that memory of being desired for comfort or an ego boost, but without the messy business of actually having to deal with them. It's so true: I've done it, you've done it, everyone's done it. There was a girl I obsessed over in high school; if I really wanted to stretch things I'd call her my first girlfriend, though she of course wasn't. She toyed with me for awhile then dropped me in an attempt to sleep with my best friend (he shot her down HAHA!). She lives in Seattle now; when I lived in Portland a mutual friend who's in a band with her would come down on business trips, and she'd always say, "AG says hi, she asked about you again, she'd really like for you to call her." I never did; I knew exactly what she was doing because, as I've said, I've done it too. It's really best for the desired one to remain aloof, I suspect: I've since had relationships with girls who are far cooler and more intelligent and attractive than her, and if it wasn't for our friend's occasional visits I'd never have given her another thought. The girls I've done this too probably feel the same way as well.
You wouldn't know it from the way I live, but I hate sleeping alone. It's not just about sex: anytime I stay with !!! or FemaleTrouble, we sleep in the same bed, and there are other friends I've shared platonic sleepspace with. I've found sleeping on assorted couches and in random rooms helps alleviate that need for a familiar body swelling and sinking next to you in your familiar and therefore dull bed. The motel rooms, however, with their queen and (in Vegas) king sized beds have the opposite effect; their size, privacy, and debauchery-encouraging anonymity amplify the solitary attempts at slumber. I haven't slept well in them.
Saw Laura (who is so adorably innocent sometimes; she was describing one of our wilder college friends: "she partied a lot, did a lot of coke, and had trios." "Trios?") tonight. We drank beers and made paper with a few of her friends, one of whom eagerly dropped his pants to show me his hernia scar within the first five minutes. Otherwise had a great time; we get along very well now, with (at least on this occasion) no weird neurotic power games. Beforehand we picnicked at the foot of the Sandia Hills (Mountains?), where we got caught in a brief thunderstorm. Drops of rain the size of marbles fell on us while we ran and danced around; we stopped when the lightning began, and as we were leaving, just after the sun had set, coyotes began howling at what sounded like mere yards behind us. When we drove out of the park, the ranger who'd shown us in suddenly and creepily appeared around the corner of his hut, with his arm raised as if to wave goodbye, except he stood stock still, not moving an inch in the 20 or so seconds until the road dipped and he was out of sight.