MASTER HUNTER, COMES IN A GREEN BOTTLE
I'm becoming a master of the long-haul of hanging out. The early hours in the morning (four, five, six) when regular people (and even regular party people) are happily passed out have become my province this summer. I won't pretend it isn't a terrible idea because it so clearly is, but this is the point of the summer months when trends and routines have been generally established. That feeling that anything could happen any day has codified itself into a detritus of receipts, new records, Yuengling bottlecaps, and worn-down lipsticks. This is fine and everything, just in case you wanted to know. Tears for Fears, dress-up parties, makeup, girl gangs, t-shirts, worn-though pairs of black rubber flip-flops, early morning grilled cheese sandwiches. Carolyn and I standing in front of the Quiet Storm after the Vale and Year show, me with my round, white suitcase, talking about how we could have gotten each other into so much more trouble in high school, passing a small bottle of Jaegermeister and commiserating about our nausea the next day at the library. Dave and I talking about poetry and imagism at the kitchen table, getting out our portfolios from Terrance's class and talking about how difficult it is to write truthy poems when all you're doing is working at an office job all the time. Adam's apartment that feels like every early '80s summer that I remember, probably because of the gold tone air conditioner set into the wall and the solid, wet, air outside. If you haven't read The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, you should really be doing that now. You're running out of time.
I'm becoming a master of the long-haul of hanging out. The early hours in the morning (four, five, six) when regular people (and even regular party people) are happily passed out have become my province this summer. I won't pretend it isn't a terrible idea because it so clearly is, but this is the point of the summer months when trends and routines have been generally established. That feeling that anything could happen any day has codified itself into a detritus of receipts, new records, Yuengling bottlecaps, and worn-down lipsticks. This is fine and everything, just in case you wanted to know. Tears for Fears, dress-up parties, makeup, girl gangs, t-shirts, worn-though pairs of black rubber flip-flops, early morning grilled cheese sandwiches. Carolyn and I standing in front of the Quiet Storm after the Vale and Year show, me with my round, white suitcase, talking about how we could have gotten each other into so much more trouble in high school, passing a small bottle of Jaegermeister and commiserating about our nausea the next day at the library. Dave and I talking about poetry and imagism at the kitchen table, getting out our portfolios from Terrance's class and talking about how difficult it is to write truthy poems when all you're doing is working at an office job all the time. Adam's apartment that feels like every early '80s summer that I remember, probably because of the gold tone air conditioner set into the wall and the solid, wet, air outside. If you haven't read The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, you should really be doing that now. You're running out of time.
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