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28 September 2006 : a fine philosophical distinction
HERS:
it's the neighborhood. charming and new. she slides barefoot toes over the grit of concrete, feet propped on the porch railing while she smokes.
the people across the street smoke, too. their green house looks sad from the west, sunlight in the windows teary. the children have been taken away again. tonight it's too dark to see the woman sitting on her porch, but the burning tip of her cigarette gives her away. movement is sensed more than seen, and suddenly the cigarette stubbed out on the side of the porch is raining sparks from a cupped hand, the only visible thing for blocks.
she's lived here for two months now and this is what she notices: the women across the street holding desperately to their children while they screw up again and again, and the man who walks.
red pants and white sneakers. over time, she will see his method of audio delivery evolve. boombox, walkman, discman, mp3. every day he hurries past at the same time, she sitting on her porch examining her red toenails and sipping whiskey and sprite from a white coffee cup. it has to be the neighborhood; these people are part of its charm.
today when he walks by, he looks up. hurried as usual, like the only thing that matters is his progress southward and the beat of his blood against the beat of a drum somewhere in his head. but he catches her eye and makes no physical form of acknowledgement.
this one she is not scared of. the streets are full of the intransigent, the downtrodden, the wronged - it is a neighborhood on the verge, this place she ended up. the young families and the artists are beginning to encroach upon the junkies and the gangs.
this man is not one of those who makes her wish the roommate were home more often; his broad bald harshness a comfort in the late hours of the night when the sirens come through and she is not used to living in this place.
eventually he will begin to acknowledge her. he'll walk by and there will be the slightest ghost of a smile. of a nod. maybe she imagines it, but she prefers not. i'm a safe one too, she thinks. we've got the street camaraderie.
he'll keep walking even after she's gone and moved on; she sees him from time to time on the other side of town but he makes no motion of remembering her. she must look different against cement block than red brick.
she'll always wonder where he is going.
HIS:
the day turned out dreary and dry, a break from the rain a relief to his knees, his back.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
he doesn't keep track of how long he's been walking, he doesn't like to think about it. with that comes a mess of anniversaries and remembrances that are too cumbersome to embrace. he knows how old he is, but allows himself the luxury of ignorance.
this way, he can think, i smelled her hair yesterday. i patted fingers across her soft pink cheek yesterday. fifteen years and he knows the smell of love's baby soft like he was wearing it himself.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
he won't be busy, he can't be busy. so he walks. the neighborhood is friendlier at some times than others; in the heat of summer he considers buying a knife.
which would indicate that he were mortal. which could indicate that he needed to care about anything more than just walking. it could remind him that it has not been less than a day since he sat in her lap and played with her necklace, listened as she talked on the phone to a bearded man who made her giggle.
so he turns up the volume and adjusts the headphones, resolutely deciding that it hasn't yet reached a point where he'll be shot for walking. he's not going to get jumped for his dirty white sneakers.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
every step is backwards. a step towards yesterday when she wore an orange blouse and curled her bangs upward, clipped blue stones onto her ears and smiled at him in the mirror.
tomorrow can't exist, because tomorrow has the world and the blue water. fifteen years ago, it didn't really mean anything that she was swallowed by that wave. he laughed at the big sister goofing in her red bikini for him. his insteps punish the sidewalks for taking her away, he breathes steady steady up and down each street.
at some point, he'll come home and she'll be waiting. there is nothing in this world but his throat raw with breathing and tiny hope dancing with delusion.
posted by lindsay at 20:44 :: 0 comments
27 September 2006 : the dilemma is most obvious
on monday night, i heard a song that for a brief moment, made me wish to never hear another song. ever again.
it was that good.
i was afraid other music would hurt it.
i am unfortunately unable to share it with you, but i thought at least someone could rest assured knowing that it existed.
sleep easy tonight.
posted by lindsay at 20:06 :: 0 comments
18 September 2006 : an inauspicious ending; part 6 of 6.
you're really never lucky enough to be given foresight about the end of a friendship. sure, you know when someone you've trusted has broken that trust and you must choose to let them go - but i would not call that luck. i'm talking about those relationships that just...end. not because you wanted them to, or didn't care, but due to some circumstance outside yourself that you neither understood nor could control.
but i firmly believe that sometimes frienships are forged out of what i can't quite call convienence, but something close to it. necessity, circumstance.
that's how this one worked. he was fresh in town from austin. i was fresh in town from san francisco. we were hired at the same restaurant over the same week by the same man for the same rate of pay.
it took me a few days to notice. it was the day i left my wallet two hours away and didn't notice until halfway to work with maybe a gallon of gas left in my tank. i turned around and was reunited with my money by some undeserved miracle, not running out of fuel on the freeway or in the middle of an unfamiliar city. when i finally rushed into work, the supervisor and all the employees were running a pool to see whether or not i got stranded. and this stranger was totally in on it.
that night, i wiped icing off a counter as he vacuumed the carpets and quizzed me about my musical interests. "what's in your cd player right now?"
i don't remember my answer, but it was september of 2003 so my two best guesses are remy zero's villa elaine or counting crow's recovering the satellites.
he was nice. i didn't see this coming. as far as i was concerned, i was destined to be alone forever. i had been permanently abandoned, un-chosen as i've said before. i had just abandoned the life i'd declared loudly and publicly to be "perfection!" because it had been hollow and disappointing, and had come dangerously close to killing me.
but he asked me to come over and dye his hair. persistently. finally after a shared shift one evening we drove to the apartment he shared with his parents and i stood over him in the bathroom rubbing black goo onto his skull. that was pretty much it.
i'd say it was about six months. he was everywhere i was. i was everywhere he was. it wasn't the kind of relationship i used to gloat about as an adolescent, we didn't sip expensive coffees and talk about important things, there was no soul baring. we went to movies, we ate dinner. he made me laugh so hard that my stomach hurt. he helped me move (twice). he was smart and quick and said the most ridiculous things. he listened to beautiful music and then gave it to me.
it was fall, and then winter. my failures on the west coast didn't matter so much. he was my best friend. i was happy.
looking back, i know it really ended with the girl. she was suddenly there, and i understood why he liked her so much. i understood why she liked him so much. i was happy for them - he was my best friend, and i liked her too. but suddenly he didn't have time for me, suddenly there was too much going on. i spent more time with her than i did with him. i left that job for something marginally better, moved about twenty minutes away. saw him only by appointment, direct request. things were different now - i had school, i had other friends. he had school, he had his new girlfriend.
they broke up maybe two years later. he sat drinking coffee with me one night and told me point blank, "she didn't want me to hang out with you. she thought i was closer to you than i was to her."
i was stunned, though maybe i shouldn't have been. but i was friends with both of them - close enough to her that she should have known i had no interest in her boyfriend. i'd been friends with him a long time before she even existed in our lives, and i hadn't been interested then - why would that change?
and the worst part was not that she passed the edict. the worst part was that he followed it. i wanted him to have been stronger than that, more than i wanted her not to be that kind of girl. i couldn't place the blame solely on her, the party about whom i cared less - i had to acknowledge that he was the one with the power to hurt me, and he had to bear some responsibility.
that's when i stopped trying. didn't really call all that often, and tried to fight the urge when it came. i'm a busy girl, i have a lot of friends. i didn't need him anymore.
but circumstance, necessity - they can't explain it all. i still miss him, to this day i miss him. i haven't in the past three years met anyone who could make me laugh quite like he did. and i wish i'd had the foresight to know this was happening. but it tiptoed quietly under the radar that had been pushed aside by my overflowing calendar and never said a word.
two weeks ago when i called, just to ask him to have a few beers on saturday night, he broke the news. "i'm moving to chicago next week." swore up and down that he'd told me before, but i knew it wasn't true.
i was a little sad, but only a little. see, chicago is only a three hour drive. if it mattered, i could drive to see him no question. but it wouldn't matter. the move may as well have been symbolic, because i could cite at least three hours distance between us even at 12 miles. he'd been gone for a long time.
but he was there when i needed him the most - he was the perfect answer to what i needed in those dark days right after i came home from california. and i'll always remember that.
so i'm taking the high road tonight and forgiving everything between then and now, and saying just this:
i'll keep missing you like i've missed you already, bud.
i hope you knock them on their asses.
posted by lindsay at 23:13 :: 2 comments
05 September 2006 : which road to el dorado; part 5 of 6
her name was carolina and she was the prettiest girl in the sixth grade.
i don't think anyone but me ever noticed - because her clothes were shabby and outdated, everyone looked right over her. i was grateful that this was what they cared about, patent leather and brand names, because it meant that i would have less competition. she would be my friend, i would make certain of it. i just didn't know how.
i first saw her in the cafeteria. it took me a long time to figure out that her dark skin and wide eyes and broad cheekbones meant that she was the child of migrant workers, in school only during the fall and gone after christmas, never to be seen again. she wasn't like the rest of the girls who talked loudly to one another in spanish and laughed when you walked by and couldn't understand what they said.
i knew why they stuck together; you can walk the entirety of tipton county and never encounter a person of color. that's probably for the best - i'm always tempted to warn away those i do see. "trust me, you don't want to be here. someone's going to be ignorant and mean in your direction before the hour's out." and sixth grade, well, i don't have to tell you how vicious sixth grade is. factor out an unusual skin color, a migrant background and citizenship. you're still left crying in the bathroom during free period.
but carolina, she wasn't like the rest of the girls. she sat alone at lunch reading books and didn't flirt with the boys, she didn't go to the basketball games or hang cheerful posters in the cafeteria. she was like me. but i was afraid of her, like i was afraid of everyone in 1994.
it was a miracle when we changed from art class to music class in the middle of october. i was waiting for class to start having arrived minutes before the bell, not caring to linger in the halls where the boys would make fun of my weight. when carolina came in, she stood looking around the room while everyone ignored her and then headed for the empty seat at my table. i was sharing it with the stack of ms. fredericks' books and papers, and andrew brown (who was the janitor's son and a smartass but not in a funny way, so nobody liked him).
i sat and jiggled my leg and bit at my nails and tried to look cool, sneaking peeks at her over the top of my geography workbook. she was completely calm and unaware of everyone else, a quality i admired (and still do). i wanted to be nonchalant. andrew brown babbled through class like he always did and always would, annoying because i thought he was supposed to be. i hated him, and i hated that he talked to carolina and she talked back to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. she understood that he was a outcast though, and kept her answers to a minimum.
but andrew brown, he rattled on and on over his workbook, talking about mexico as though he knew all about it. i pretended to fill out the blanks on the page in front of me, while dreaming of ways to shut him up. if i was clever enough, carolina and i would be giggling over our paperbacks in a corner of the lunch room before the end of the week. her skin was so beautiful. i wanted to know what it was like in mexico, and if she had to work with her parents on the weekends. i wanted to know if she went to school all the time, or just sometimes. i wanted sleepovers and summer trips to chiapas, i wanted it all.
finally, i couldn't take it anymore. andrew brown was talking too much, and it was offensive the way he kept talking about mexico as though carolina weren't sitting right next to him, knowing more than he would ever know (even at age 11 my sense of justice and empathy was overwhelming to a fault). and he was pronouncing mexico all wrong, like he was making fun of her. i was furious with him for being so insensitive.
"shut up!" i said. "stop saying 'mexico' like that, it sounds stupid!" i slapped both hands down on the table, righteously. i would defend her honor, her foreignness.
andrew stared at me. ms. fredericks stared at me. carolina stared at me, with fire in her eyes. i was avenging her, she would love me forever, write me letters with exotic stamps i could cut out and paste in my photo album. the moment lasted forever, and then it happened.
carolina opened her mouth and spoke to me for the very first time.
"that's how you're supposed to say it," she told me calmly. "it's not stupid." andrew brown bent whistling over his notebook. ms. fredericks hid a smile behind her hand and tried hard to look like she hadn't overhead. carolina glared at me like i was the one who was being rude.
i blushed furiously through the bus ride home, burning with humiliation over my mistake. how could i explain to her that i was protecting her? that i wanted her to ride home on the bus with me, and we could play computer games together and check each other's homework. there were no words. she sat at a different table the next day.
carolina didn't come back after christmas break, and i never saw her again. that year, i used a swear word for the first time and started asking my mom for brand name clothes and expensive shampoos, but i never forgot about carolina and how badly i wanted to be her best friend forever. and how much it hurt that my intentions were misconstrued.
sometimes i can't help but wonder if that rainy fall day in the music room isn't the reason i am becoming an anthropologist.
posted by lindsay at 22:08 :: 2 comments
HERS:
it's the neighborhood. charming and new. she slides barefoot toes over the grit of concrete, feet propped on the porch railing while she smokes.
the people across the street smoke, too. their green house looks sad from the west, sunlight in the windows teary. the children have been taken away again. tonight it's too dark to see the woman sitting on her porch, but the burning tip of her cigarette gives her away. movement is sensed more than seen, and suddenly the cigarette stubbed out on the side of the porch is raining sparks from a cupped hand, the only visible thing for blocks.
she's lived here for two months now and this is what she notices: the women across the street holding desperately to their children while they screw up again and again, and the man who walks.
red pants and white sneakers. over time, she will see his method of audio delivery evolve. boombox, walkman, discman, mp3. every day he hurries past at the same time, she sitting on her porch examining her red toenails and sipping whiskey and sprite from a white coffee cup. it has to be the neighborhood; these people are part of its charm.
today when he walks by, he looks up. hurried as usual, like the only thing that matters is his progress southward and the beat of his blood against the beat of a drum somewhere in his head. but he catches her eye and makes no physical form of acknowledgement.
this one she is not scared of. the streets are full of the intransigent, the downtrodden, the wronged - it is a neighborhood on the verge, this place she ended up. the young families and the artists are beginning to encroach upon the junkies and the gangs.
this man is not one of those who makes her wish the roommate were home more often; his broad bald harshness a comfort in the late hours of the night when the sirens come through and she is not used to living in this place.
eventually he will begin to acknowledge her. he'll walk by and there will be the slightest ghost of a smile. of a nod. maybe she imagines it, but she prefers not. i'm a safe one too, she thinks. we've got the street camaraderie.
he'll keep walking even after she's gone and moved on; she sees him from time to time on the other side of town but he makes no motion of remembering her. she must look different against cement block than red brick.
she'll always wonder where he is going.
HIS:
the day turned out dreary and dry, a break from the rain a relief to his knees, his back.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
he doesn't keep track of how long he's been walking, he doesn't like to think about it. with that comes a mess of anniversaries and remembrances that are too cumbersome to embrace. he knows how old he is, but allows himself the luxury of ignorance.
this way, he can think, i smelled her hair yesterday. i patted fingers across her soft pink cheek yesterday. fifteen years and he knows the smell of love's baby soft like he was wearing it himself.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
he won't be busy, he can't be busy. so he walks. the neighborhood is friendlier at some times than others; in the heat of summer he considers buying a knife.
which would indicate that he were mortal. which could indicate that he needed to care about anything more than just walking. it could remind him that it has not been less than a day since he sat in her lap and played with her necklace, listened as she talked on the phone to a bearded man who made her giggle.
so he turns up the volume and adjusts the headphones, resolutely deciding that it hasn't yet reached a point where he'll be shot for walking. he's not going to get jumped for his dirty white sneakers.
one foot in front of the other. one foot in front of the other.
every step is backwards. a step towards yesterday when she wore an orange blouse and curled her bangs upward, clipped blue stones onto her ears and smiled at him in the mirror.
tomorrow can't exist, because tomorrow has the world and the blue water. fifteen years ago, it didn't really mean anything that she was swallowed by that wave. he laughed at the big sister goofing in her red bikini for him. his insteps punish the sidewalks for taking her away, he breathes steady steady up and down each street.
at some point, he'll come home and she'll be waiting. there is nothing in this world but his throat raw with breathing and tiny hope dancing with delusion.
Labels: old chestnuts
posted by lindsay at 20:44 :: 0 comments
27 September 2006 : the dilemma is most obvious
on monday night, i heard a song that for a brief moment, made me wish to never hear another song. ever again.
it was that good.
i was afraid other music would hurt it.
i am unfortunately unable to share it with you, but i thought at least someone could rest assured knowing that it existed.
sleep easy tonight.
Labels: Blog vomit
posted by lindsay at 20:06 :: 0 comments
18 September 2006 : an inauspicious ending; part 6 of 6.
you're really never lucky enough to be given foresight about the end of a friendship. sure, you know when someone you've trusted has broken that trust and you must choose to let them go - but i would not call that luck. i'm talking about those relationships that just...end. not because you wanted them to, or didn't care, but due to some circumstance outside yourself that you neither understood nor could control.
but i firmly believe that sometimes frienships are forged out of what i can't quite call convienence, but something close to it. necessity, circumstance.
that's how this one worked. he was fresh in town from austin. i was fresh in town from san francisco. we were hired at the same restaurant over the same week by the same man for the same rate of pay.
it took me a few days to notice. it was the day i left my wallet two hours away and didn't notice until halfway to work with maybe a gallon of gas left in my tank. i turned around and was reunited with my money by some undeserved miracle, not running out of fuel on the freeway or in the middle of an unfamiliar city. when i finally rushed into work, the supervisor and all the employees were running a pool to see whether or not i got stranded. and this stranger was totally in on it.
that night, i wiped icing off a counter as he vacuumed the carpets and quizzed me about my musical interests. "what's in your cd player right now?"
i don't remember my answer, but it was september of 2003 so my two best guesses are remy zero's villa elaine or counting crow's recovering the satellites.
he was nice. i didn't see this coming. as far as i was concerned, i was destined to be alone forever. i had been permanently abandoned, un-chosen as i've said before. i had just abandoned the life i'd declared loudly and publicly to be "perfection!" because it had been hollow and disappointing, and had come dangerously close to killing me.
but he asked me to come over and dye his hair. persistently. finally after a shared shift one evening we drove to the apartment he shared with his parents and i stood over him in the bathroom rubbing black goo onto his skull. that was pretty much it.
i'd say it was about six months. he was everywhere i was. i was everywhere he was. it wasn't the kind of relationship i used to gloat about as an adolescent, we didn't sip expensive coffees and talk about important things, there was no soul baring. we went to movies, we ate dinner. he made me laugh so hard that my stomach hurt. he helped me move (twice). he was smart and quick and said the most ridiculous things. he listened to beautiful music and then gave it to me.
it was fall, and then winter. my failures on the west coast didn't matter so much. he was my best friend. i was happy.
looking back, i know it really ended with the girl. she was suddenly there, and i understood why he liked her so much. i understood why she liked him so much. i was happy for them - he was my best friend, and i liked her too. but suddenly he didn't have time for me, suddenly there was too much going on. i spent more time with her than i did with him. i left that job for something marginally better, moved about twenty minutes away. saw him only by appointment, direct request. things were different now - i had school, i had other friends. he had school, he had his new girlfriend.
they broke up maybe two years later. he sat drinking coffee with me one night and told me point blank, "she didn't want me to hang out with you. she thought i was closer to you than i was to her."
i was stunned, though maybe i shouldn't have been. but i was friends with both of them - close enough to her that she should have known i had no interest in her boyfriend. i'd been friends with him a long time before she even existed in our lives, and i hadn't been interested then - why would that change?
and the worst part was not that she passed the edict. the worst part was that he followed it. i wanted him to have been stronger than that, more than i wanted her not to be that kind of girl. i couldn't place the blame solely on her, the party about whom i cared less - i had to acknowledge that he was the one with the power to hurt me, and he had to bear some responsibility.
that's when i stopped trying. didn't really call all that often, and tried to fight the urge when it came. i'm a busy girl, i have a lot of friends. i didn't need him anymore.
but circumstance, necessity - they can't explain it all. i still miss him, to this day i miss him. i haven't in the past three years met anyone who could make me laugh quite like he did. and i wish i'd had the foresight to know this was happening. but it tiptoed quietly under the radar that had been pushed aside by my overflowing calendar and never said a word.
two weeks ago when i called, just to ask him to have a few beers on saturday night, he broke the news. "i'm moving to chicago next week." swore up and down that he'd told me before, but i knew it wasn't true.
i was a little sad, but only a little. see, chicago is only a three hour drive. if it mattered, i could drive to see him no question. but it wouldn't matter. the move may as well have been symbolic, because i could cite at least three hours distance between us even at 12 miles. he'd been gone for a long time.
but he was there when i needed him the most - he was the perfect answer to what i needed in those dark days right after i came home from california. and i'll always remember that.
so i'm taking the high road tonight and forgiving everything between then and now, and saying just this:
i'll keep missing you like i've missed you already, bud.
i hope you knock them on their asses.
posted by lindsay at 23:13 :: 2 comments
05 September 2006 : which road to el dorado; part 5 of 6
her name was carolina and she was the prettiest girl in the sixth grade.
i don't think anyone but me ever noticed - because her clothes were shabby and outdated, everyone looked right over her. i was grateful that this was what they cared about, patent leather and brand names, because it meant that i would have less competition. she would be my friend, i would make certain of it. i just didn't know how.
i first saw her in the cafeteria. it took me a long time to figure out that her dark skin and wide eyes and broad cheekbones meant that she was the child of migrant workers, in school only during the fall and gone after christmas, never to be seen again. she wasn't like the rest of the girls who talked loudly to one another in spanish and laughed when you walked by and couldn't understand what they said.
i knew why they stuck together; you can walk the entirety of tipton county and never encounter a person of color. that's probably for the best - i'm always tempted to warn away those i do see. "trust me, you don't want to be here. someone's going to be ignorant and mean in your direction before the hour's out." and sixth grade, well, i don't have to tell you how vicious sixth grade is. factor out an unusual skin color, a migrant background and citizenship. you're still left crying in the bathroom during free period.
but carolina, she wasn't like the rest of the girls. she sat alone at lunch reading books and didn't flirt with the boys, she didn't go to the basketball games or hang cheerful posters in the cafeteria. she was like me. but i was afraid of her, like i was afraid of everyone in 1994.
it was a miracle when we changed from art class to music class in the middle of october. i was waiting for class to start having arrived minutes before the bell, not caring to linger in the halls where the boys would make fun of my weight. when carolina came in, she stood looking around the room while everyone ignored her and then headed for the empty seat at my table. i was sharing it with the stack of ms. fredericks' books and papers, and andrew brown (who was the janitor's son and a smartass but not in a funny way, so nobody liked him).
i sat and jiggled my leg and bit at my nails and tried to look cool, sneaking peeks at her over the top of my geography workbook. she was completely calm and unaware of everyone else, a quality i admired (and still do). i wanted to be nonchalant. andrew brown babbled through class like he always did and always would, annoying because i thought he was supposed to be. i hated him, and i hated that he talked to carolina and she talked back to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. she understood that he was a outcast though, and kept her answers to a minimum.
but andrew brown, he rattled on and on over his workbook, talking about mexico as though he knew all about it. i pretended to fill out the blanks on the page in front of me, while dreaming of ways to shut him up. if i was clever enough, carolina and i would be giggling over our paperbacks in a corner of the lunch room before the end of the week. her skin was so beautiful. i wanted to know what it was like in mexico, and if she had to work with her parents on the weekends. i wanted to know if she went to school all the time, or just sometimes. i wanted sleepovers and summer trips to chiapas, i wanted it all.
finally, i couldn't take it anymore. andrew brown was talking too much, and it was offensive the way he kept talking about mexico as though carolina weren't sitting right next to him, knowing more than he would ever know (even at age 11 my sense of justice and empathy was overwhelming to a fault). and he was pronouncing mexico all wrong, like he was making fun of her. i was furious with him for being so insensitive.
"shut up!" i said. "stop saying 'mexico' like that, it sounds stupid!" i slapped both hands down on the table, righteously. i would defend her honor, her foreignness.
andrew stared at me. ms. fredericks stared at me. carolina stared at me, with fire in her eyes. i was avenging her, she would love me forever, write me letters with exotic stamps i could cut out and paste in my photo album. the moment lasted forever, and then it happened.
carolina opened her mouth and spoke to me for the very first time.
"that's how you're supposed to say it," she told me calmly. "it's not stupid." andrew brown bent whistling over his notebook. ms. fredericks hid a smile behind her hand and tried hard to look like she hadn't overhead. carolina glared at me like i was the one who was being rude.
i blushed furiously through the bus ride home, burning with humiliation over my mistake. how could i explain to her that i was protecting her? that i wanted her to ride home on the bus with me, and we could play computer games together and check each other's homework. there were no words. she sat at a different table the next day.
carolina didn't come back after christmas break, and i never saw her again. that year, i used a swear word for the first time and started asking my mom for brand name clothes and expensive shampoos, but i never forgot about carolina and how badly i wanted to be her best friend forever. and how much it hurt that my intentions were misconstrued.
sometimes i can't help but wonder if that rainy fall day in the music room isn't the reason i am becoming an anthropologist.
Labels: old chestnuts, pretentiously introspective: a series
posted by lindsay at 22:08 :: 2 comments