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like fugitives & refugees

I. Fugitives

We meet in parked cars or playgrounds after dark. It's one of those things where you could make a bet with yourself in your head, say it to someone else even: "If someone told me two years from now...." and then you look at where you are and where you and you trail off and you laugh because it's so absurd or hysterical. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Oh, if someone would have told me Id'a just never believed 'em!

Anyway, I don't think I'm the bad guy in the story anymore. I guess there doesn't have to be one. He looks to torn up about it, if he can look at me, which he only does if I need him to say something to my face. And I usually do, like a kid by the swing sets. One thousand self-help books later, I'm not angry about it, I'm saying I wanna be friends buddy, I think that's fair, pal. And then I can kick some dirt with my foot because the tone is unfair and I aged you like Barack Obama and now you're gonna talk trash like that? Say it to my face, man. Say it to my face.

So he does. And it's not mean or awful. It's just kind of beautiful and sad. I don't have homefield advantage but we did used to run 'round this court to wear the dogs. When your dogs call you Momma and Daddy because it's like an independent film where you live together but have pets instead of children because two or four or six years later, someone doesn't want t be friends. No matter how amicable the break-up. No matter how many promises not to be like Sammie and Ron-Ron, or blog about it on the Internet.

II. Refugees

The biggest differences that I want to tell you about before I go to bed and finish packing for Seattle and the San Juan Islands (which are not tropical, don't they sound terribly tropical?) the biggest difference between New York and Portland that I want to tell you about before bed is the reaction of strangers to a young lady who may happen to be weeping as she walks down the street.

In New York City, I could and have made love to the anonymity. The pavement can be gray and match the sky and all the face of the strangers and your own soul and the lack of eye contact leads to all expressions of a person walking alone sans cell phone, smile or other human being the same. Fairly aloof, half present, straight ahead. I am walking quickly nothing is in front of you. You are very attractive I will look at you or your clothing but not really.

Many times I have walked down the city in New York City sobbing, and I have watched others do the same. Occasionally, in Brooklyn, in my own neighborhood this has solicited something if the ground was solid and the terms were related. I found solace in this. It meant that almost anything could be private. If I felt my life was ruined, it could be like this on the train or up Broadway. It was no one's business and they were well aware.

If you walk down the street in Portland-- and I've never been given the chance to even attempt sobbing, though I cried once and I believe I wept twice, it is not a private affair. It is a public matter. It is almost like a new petition will be written and signed. I have been given a slice of chocolate cake, which came quickly after an unsolicited hug by a child. I have been pulled aside for palm readings and told that I was fine-- more than fine wonderful. I once tried t keep walking to no avail until there was nothing to cry about and the worst time I had to keep crying because sometimes tears just stream down my face without cause or reason. Even on backstreets I had my palms licked by golden retrievers, which I am sure I must have attracted myself, because The Pacific Northwest cannot be as powerful as the universe and it's not the island of Manhattan's fault that it cannot provide itself with large front yards.

I still cannot pick a best coast.

But I can tell you I am not leaving.

III. Like

I am terribly in love with it all.

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ABOUT THIS BLOG

Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.







I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.

Danielascrima@gmail.com




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