This is something I wrote in my journal and, in the moment, at least, want to share. It's a little disjointed but I feel like it means something for me. Like it shows my life more clearly than I'm often able to share.
6:25AM- I'm at Satellite so early that they haven't even put out the patio chairs yet. There was only one other customer when I walked in a few minutes ago (now there are three). It's so quiet, and the music is soothing and hopeful this morning.
My walk up here was wonderful. The sunrise was just beginning to light up the edges of the sky behind black mountains in the distance, but the rest of town was still in night. It was cold outside and I wore my hat and my shemagh and my black hoodie under my vest. I carried my mp3 player in my hand to fold the faulty cord in place and listened to the Gin Blossoms play. I just finished reading a zine-book called Indestructible about the author's high school years, her queer/bi-ness, her struggle with her Cuban roots and the whiteness of punk rock culture, drugs, and being treated badly at school. It was good and put me in a thoughtful/ hopeful/ stable mood. I never wrote a zine. Or rather, I never went through with publishing one. Why? I suppose that journaling has helped me get what I needed to work out, worked out, so I lost interest after writing things down.
A woman came in to work Saturday, a short, thin, forty-something-year-old woman with a New Yorky accent. Pat Benetar was playing on the radio and she told me a story about how the love of her life used to be in a band with her and they would play that song on the New York circuit. She said he'd died recently and she had asked god if he was okay. She took that song as a sign that he was fine. She made me tear up and I told her about Shawn and how I'd thought about him a lot over the years, but could never find him and how I heard of his death randomly after he overdosed. She said we were linked and to ask and I'd get my answer.
I wish I had run into Shawn again before he died. I fantasized about picking up some traveling kids at the gas station by our house and having them say something like "Oh, we're waiting for our friend, he's off flying a sign," and then when the friend comes back it's Shawn. I don't know why. Maybe I idealized him because I only knew him briefly and he was so happy the last time I saw him. And maybe because I was flattered that he'd asked about me at the street outreach. It hurts me to know that he's dead.
The sky is more light now and they're putting the tables out. At first I intended to go out there when they did, but now I think I like where I'm at. The wood on this old table is soft and smooth. I can see the sunrise from here.
6:25AM- I'm at Satellite so early that they haven't even put out the patio chairs yet. There was only one other customer when I walked in a few minutes ago (now there are three). It's so quiet, and the music is soothing and hopeful this morning.
My walk up here was wonderful. The sunrise was just beginning to light up the edges of the sky behind black mountains in the distance, but the rest of town was still in night. It was cold outside and I wore my hat and my shemagh and my black hoodie under my vest. I carried my mp3 player in my hand to fold the faulty cord in place and listened to the Gin Blossoms play. I just finished reading a zine-book called Indestructible about the author's high school years, her queer/bi-ness, her struggle with her Cuban roots and the whiteness of punk rock culture, drugs, and being treated badly at school. It was good and put me in a thoughtful/ hopeful/ stable mood. I never wrote a zine. Or rather, I never went through with publishing one. Why? I suppose that journaling has helped me get what I needed to work out, worked out, so I lost interest after writing things down.
A woman came in to work Saturday, a short, thin, forty-something-year-old woman with a New Yorky accent. Pat Benetar was playing on the radio and she told me a story about how the love of her life used to be in a band with her and they would play that song on the New York circuit. She said he'd died recently and she had asked god if he was okay. She took that song as a sign that he was fine. She made me tear up and I told her about Shawn and how I'd thought about him a lot over the years, but could never find him and how I heard of his death randomly after he overdosed. She said we were linked and to ask and I'd get my answer.
I wish I had run into Shawn again before he died. I fantasized about picking up some traveling kids at the gas station by our house and having them say something like "Oh, we're waiting for our friend, he's off flying a sign," and then when the friend comes back it's Shawn. I don't know why. Maybe I idealized him because I only knew him briefly and he was so happy the last time I saw him. And maybe because I was flattered that he'd asked about me at the street outreach. It hurts me to know that he's dead.
The sky is more light now and they're putting the tables out. At first I intended to go out there when they did, but now I think I like where I'm at. The wood on this old table is soft and smooth. I can see the sunrise from here.
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