Zooey: in memory

"We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead. And yet, it should be noted that in the midst of our sorrow, this death takes place in the shadow of new life, the sunrise of a new world.”
- James T. Kirk

Sometimes I wonder if this blog should just give in and write exclusively about science fiction… find a niche that is marketable and build an expanded readership from there. But then I remember how nice it feels to write about sex and longing and how few the times I’ve masturbated to Princess Leia have been and coyishly considered how many more times I should’ve.

In that same way I also consider writing a blog exclusively about such things as strange sexuality. Weird sex. The works. It wouldn’t be hard; Matt and I have seen such things that would make you wonder, like Birdo bjs and Marty Feldman tits. Even a simple image search for Robert A. Heinlein on Google has led us to a busty and bulging redhead in her baby blue bra and panties. The sub-culture of pornography on the Internet is something I’m going to look back fondly on in many years as one of the more artistically surprising moments of my youth and harden at.

But right now it is not with a smile but a sigh that I write about some such dazzling porn. And that is because my best friend Matt has lost someone very important to him. Her name was Zooey, and she was a porn. And like Zooey Glass neither he nor I are sure we know how to say her name right but we still feel connected to her. I never knew her the way Matt did but he told me about her upon her passing and in preparation for this obituary. Though I never watched her I feel I knew her through his words:

“Zooey? She had blonde hair down to about halfway between her shoulds and shin, rectangular black glasses and a school girl's outfit. It was one of those porns that's supposed to be teacher/student thing, but while the girl MAYBE could be taken for a student, the teacher looks like some guy you'd find playing pool in a dive bar. She gave him head and then he bent her over the desk, it wasn't very original from that perspective, but she was just the prettiest girl...”

She’s dead now, deleted, gone the way of Goatse.cx and the dinosaurs (wink wink.) It’s a sad day when you lose a porn that’s close to you. Some of us only have but a few brief minutes of joy in the sun before like the house fly were gone forever, navigated away, lost forever ins a sea of skin and jpegs.

But luckily there is hope because as one light dies another may be lighted. It just so happens that while Matt’s Zooey lay dying I was just finding my favorite clip of porn. I don’t know her name, but I think I’m going to call her Kevin because she’s home alone. She’s green, like an unripe banana, and like Matt said about Zooey, there isn’t anything particularly special about Kevin or the clip or anything- but some nights she’s just the prettiest little thing to look at.

There are vixens out there; calling. Sweet sweet vixens.

Carrie Fisher- in effigy of Zooey, may she rest in peace

Don Quixote

Let's just get this out of the way at the beginning: girls drive my crazy. They drive me wonderfully, horribly, insanely crazy with desire and curiosity, suffering and a whole slew of emotions that just bounce about in my head until I decide to just bang my head against a keyboard. More about that later. Oddly enough, girls turn into characters in my head, into memories that are vague ghosts of their former selves and they do this constantly.. I fall for them in that schoolboy way, having spoken only a few words to them, or not at all... perhaps even only seeing them as a picture on a screen or text on a page. I fall in love with the idea of them, the possibility that I conjure up in my head. Sometimes, they even last long enough for me to get to know them, but that usually just ruins the illusion. However, they all slowly they fade and morph into something not quite human, something literary, a being that hints at more about myself than them... a girl who once wrote on a blackboard for me, or an Atredies, perhaps the Princess Leia who I met in a corridor, or the blonde in the Tiger's cap, or...

A girl once told me that I was quixotic... a practical girl with a long nose, cute little smile and glasses. A girl who I once walked with around Ann Arbor at night in a hoodie, talking of Star Wars, Shakespeare and the smell of books. It was cool, but not too cool, exciting, but not to the point of nervousness, but comfortable enough where I slipped into that state of goofiness that I show so few. I grinned and laughed, told funny stories and made a fool of myself to make her smile... I really was quixotic, even though she had called me that name weeks before. Perhaps I was trying to prove to her, or myself, that I really was.

Quixotic... like the man of La Mancha, like Don Quixote.

I'm not sure if it was a compliment, but I think it was. I'd like to think I feel it as a compliment in any case, that that is who I truly want to be.

Noble, disillusioned and romantic?

What could be better... except perhaps Star Wars, Shakespeare and the mustiness of old books in an Ann Arbor night?

I'd like to believe if I could I would spend my life off tilting at wind mills, because isn't that what I'm truly doing here? None of this matters in the long run, it's not putting bread in my mouth, but I suppose it's just my attempt at living. I've given up caring what others think of what I do here, I no longer worry about posting on time, because I'm writing for me, and if others enjoy it, I appreciate it and it gladdens me that I could make a small impact, but... it's not about that.

I'm here fighting dragons. This is about Smaug, not studying or a career. I suppose that's why I embraced that title then, and why I remember it so fondly still. I doubt she even knew how big of an impact that one phrase had on me, I know I didn't at the time, but that's surely not the issue. She's an idea more than a girl now, just like so many others... a memory, a fond, comfortable memory that speaks more about myself than anyone else. Just like all the rest. And I still look for a copy of Don Quixote to buy, but I haven't yet found one that is satisfactory... I need a used one, unabridged, with yellowed pages (but not too yellowed), a torn cover and the rich dampness of a book that's been thumbed through a thousand times, that's been crushed between others and thrown on a couch more times than it could count. I need a book with character, something you could buy with a quarter, or find in a cardboard box surrounded by old westerns, contrived mystery novels and bad romances... I need a novel that is quixotic, not in it's content, but in it's appearance, because sometimes you just have to judge a book by it's cover.

Boys and Girls

Matt asked me to write this. He implored me. I can only assume he felt that I was more aptly prepared and disposed to discuss the themes which are to follow. There is a good chance that this piece will be double posted, here, and also over at The Most Sublime Noise to Penetrate the Ear of Man, a fellow blog I have only recently begun writing for.

I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola. L-o-l-a; Lola.

Vanity Fair said of Nabokov’s masterpiece Lolita that it was “The only convincing love story of our century.” If Lolita is this century’s only convincing love story in literature than The Kinks’ 1970 song “Lola” must be the only convincing love song we are left with.

It’s surprising how catchy the song is when you first listen to it. The strong twanging intro grabs you deep down in your groin with a snug grip only to let go for you to relax as Ray Davies’ tiny, pubescent, boy-girl voice starts to whisper in your ear. There is something entirely faggoty about the sound of the song that, even before you know what it is really about, is exciting and playful to listen to. At first listen “Lola” is simply a summer love song like any other summer love song should like to be, enjoyable; cutesy; moderately lasting. “Lola”, on its surface, is a well to-do love song. But, it is what’s under Lola’s makeup which is truly remarkable and endearing about it as a love story. This love song, like so many good rock and roll love songs, is nothing but a painted whore, a bright pair of leopard print tights, hiding the true nature of love and art, a throbbing, tucked back, veiny muscle of love.

“Lola” is among those other hidden pervert songs like “Blister in the Sun,” “F.H.I.T.A.” and “Longview.” The enduring quality The Kinks managed to impart in this song, besides the slightly masked transvestite and homosexual themes of the story, is that even after the point when it becomes clear to the listener that the song is in fact about an uncommon or expected love affair it is still and incredibly enjoyable satisfying song. Lola dregs up in its listener those feelings of sexual confusion and apprehension that have always lived with us. It’s hard for some people to imagine living a Grecian life style of antiquity and partaking in the styles of man-love only understood between and warrior and his fellow plunderers and spearmen or the occasion and goat farmer and his cattle. The question that should be pressed to our leaders, in politics, religion, and academia, in sociology, anthropology, history and psychology has nothing to do with “nature verses nurture” or “how do we square the cases of child molestation by the forefathers of modern culture with today’s values?” or even “is homosexuality a trait or a choice?” but what would you do for the love of a woman?

Nevermind the bullocks. Over look the five o’clock shadow and that she walks like a man. This is a battle of wills: not the head and the head but the head and the heart. The love for a true woman isn’t physical but spiritual. When you’re left in solitude, away from home for the first time, what will you do for the love of a woman, a woman who you can love and will love you back, just as hard and severely? What price would you pay? Is it so wrong? Should you turn away, run for the door? Or is it more atrocious to deny yourself happiness and to refuse what love there is that’s real?

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
Its a mixed up, muddled up, shook up, world …except for Lola.

-Caleb Michael, not the world's most masculine guy

Dämmerung

A friend once told me that one day I would be in a relationship that made me realize how one really was supposed to be. That, sadly enough, I would actually understand how they work, how I work… understand that I was… happy. That idea bounced about in my head for weeks, months, maybe even longer, my mind, my heart, my soul mulling it over, fighting it, alternately embracing and rejecting that notion. That silly, profound notion of happiness. In the end she was right, I’m sure of it, though I’m not quite sure if I know it yet.

It has always seemed to me that the beginning of relationships are the easiest… they are the most awkward and worrisome, but they are also the most exciting and simple periods.

I think that once you get past that, you really know where you stand, you should truly be able to see where things are going, even if you are too blind or stupid or ignorant to realize it at the time. If you really sit back and look, maybe, just maybe you can see into the future. Sometimes I wish I had last time, because I know it would have saved me a lot of stress, heartache and frustration, and a whole lot of anger. But, again, I’m not sure I would want to give up those experiences for anything, no matter how awful they were.

Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m sabotaging it all, that I’m just a screwed up and demented to the point of no return. I fear that I cultivate the arguments and frustrations or that I somehow engage in some sort of campaign of psychological warfare to destroy it all. In those dark crevices of my mind I wonder if I don’t enjoy the misery, but I know I cannot linger on that. I know that I have to fight those thoughts, and those impulses with every ounce of my strength just in case they are real, because anything less would be surrender, would be utter destruction.

I know it is hard in that initial stage to know where things are headed, and since I have the misfortunate (or perhaps the gift) of over-thinking everything, I am sitting here pondering whether it is all going to come crashing down like some castle of building blocks under the wrath of a child’s tantrum. I know that someday I will look back on this and laugh at my ignorance, but for now all I can do is wonder and wish that I could just leave things be.

It terrifies and excites me simultaneously to think of what might come, to think that this happiness welling up in my gut could actually last (and I don’t mean intermittently like last time). To think that I could feel that joy spreading throughout my body, radiating until it feels like I’m going to burst ‘less I release it, unless I lose myself in her arms, against her lips, or with my face pressed against the top of her head like some little kid clinging to a teddy bear. Because, despite the way that this all sounds, I am not all that worried… intellectually, sure, but not in my heart, stomach, or soul.

I know that I’m a fool; that I’m naïve, but the oddest part is that I don’t care. The emotions are too pure, too vibrant to just sit back and let them happen. I cannot help but embrace them, but raise my arms to the cold night sky to stare up at the stars and be… to let out a barbaric “yawp” as every nerve ending in my body lights up like a Christmas tree. I don’t know any other way to do this, any other way to love, than completely, to dive right in and let the waves buffet me and hopefully bring me to shore.

And, I think it just all comes down to something a friend told me, that once all the worrying and overanalyzing and everything else is done, you have to let it all go and just be.

So, I will just be. And while I know all those demons will be in the dark recesses of my mind, I’m just going to ignore them, because “the world is puddle-wonderful” and I wouldn’t have this any other way.

Apartment A2

My first apartment had bumpy, uneven floors and a tick in the walls. I was living in the old apartment when she broke up with me. The second night I spent there she and I went around the apartment and had sex in every one of its rooms. This was before I’d even gotten any furniture moved in. My bed would remain on the floor where I first dropped it for the entirety of my time living there.

We had sex in every room that night: mine, the closet, the living room, even my roommates room, right next to the frame of his bed, a cold painted steel frame leaning against the wall. She was on all fours and I was on my knees too, right where he’d eventually put his bed, right next to his picture of Jesus.

She sat on the ledge in front of the sink in the kitchen and I fucked here there too. I was bumpy and uneven and paunchy and she was perfect, fit and slim; dark, olive skin; callous and still fragile.

After she’d broken up with me it was never very easy to do dishes again, to stand in front of the sink, facing in, my hands down in the water, my finger tips wet and pruning, hesitating and burning down there. If I left the window open the steam would rush up in my face and sometimes the pilot light in the stove would blow out too and the room would smell like gas. It got a lot easier eventually, and even now I just hate doing dishes for all the normal reasons, for all the reasons I had for hating to do the dishes when I was young, before things got complicated. Before sex and kitchen sinks had anything to do with one another the way they sometimes do now.



Caleb, the no fun apt. room A2

Revisited

Today I found a porno-magazine in the middle of the road. It was all alone on the asphalt. The pages were turning one over another, back and forth, exposing young girls and their breasts and asses and more. When my bike tire rolled over the magazine I thought I heard the crunching of dry leaves but as I looked down I saw her. I saw her two legs, pinned down by me now, spread eagled underneath the rubber of my tire. Held there, her legs disjointed, her smile gazing up at me, wet and pink, spread wide across her youthful face. She is clean and pristine and nice but undeniably dirty and corrupted on the page. She looked happy to me. She looks happy to me still. She looked ready to make someone else happy too. “This girl is a giver,” I thought. “Someone who really understands the meaning of altruism. A real tart of empathy.”

Suddenly, I’m passed it and before anything can register I’m hearing the leaves rustling again, pages turning quickly, full of nature and instincts and carnal matters. Did I just see that?

I did. Yes. Yes! And there it is again, and there again! It’s as if some little boys (maybe two or three, let lose from somewhere inside of me) are gathered greedily around it, the magazine, and are flipping glossy pages, silk slick first and then clammy with sweat against their blood-flushed fingers. The pages seem so dry though, so worn there in the road that one more turn by those invisible spit licked fingers might tear the pages, mutilating some poor girl’s body or face and bending staples out of this book’s binding.

I double back and there she is again, and again (or is it now her sister, or her lover?) They’re young and fresh and all different shades of the same well known (or well learned) pinkish hue. But I’m more struck by their faces- each is happy. Everyone is smiling up at me with perfect pearl teeth, high polished on the pages. “What’re you so happy about?” Even their looks of longing and hard-pressed, long waiting glimpses of anticipation seem more playful than anything else. There is nothing these girls are missing. Except, maybe, their clothing. But, I don’t think they even miss those all that much.

The pages keep turning at a heartbeat’s rate and I’m standing over them. My bike is in the grass and I’m in the middle of the road staring down at my feet and her face, and ass, and more, intently and not so unlike Mosses I’m on a mountaintop with God. After all, I’m staring down with my eyes averted from all the people walking past me, from all their disgust, from the drab sky and cold wind that was before in my eyes. But is this so much better or so much worse? I was content today, void of thoughts and feelings until these girls fell underfoot and under tire and flaunted their happy, content, fresh faces in my way. How can I feel sixteen and sexy and stupid all over again? And lost like John the Baptist awaiting god in wilderness untouched, uncontrolled, and all alone before all majesty, at once? How can I feel so old and stupid and decrepit too? These girls are running past me like all girls do, but flipping one by one past me, turning back flips and bending over, wide and low and long, across beds and barn doors and stable walls. They are taunting me and are unkind, and dance past my old, cold weathered stiff bones.

By the grace of God I’ll walk by all this and won’t take off my jacket and fold it over my lap today. Not today. I’m not all that young and uncontrollable and untouched. This isn’t freshman year again, not like every other day has been. I’ll walk by all of this today. Or, maybe I’ll roll it all up tight as her and stuff them in a black back pack. Maybe I’ll save it away not for pleasure, but as a tool, a reminder, a talisman of fall and sex and being young again, or never again, or always still.

Who knows really?


Caleb, 19

Stare into the Abyss

There is nothing worse than reaching out desperately for someone to take your hand and pull you from the abyss, only to watch them stare back at you in confusion. Worse even than them looking down at you in derision, or callous indifference. To know that it’s not that they don’t want to help you, but that they cannot. How could they when you don’t even know what you’re searching for yourself?

You’re just Holden wandering through the wintry streets of New York, faking a gunshot wound in a bathroom, running about with that goofy ass hat on.

I want that hat.

And the most fucked up thing is that I want to be Holden.

I know I care too much, worry too much, analyze too much, think too much. I pace, fret and wonder about everything until I can’t do it anymore. But, I want that. Giving in would be too easy, being content would just feel like giving in. Feel like settling.

It’s not that I’m unhappy, far from it really. That’s not to say that I’m never upset, but generally I like my life, I like who I am. But, that’s the thing… I enjoy this. I enjoy the good fight. I enjoy the discontentment and endless self reflection. I like the torture.

Why should I push it away? Why should I pretend? Why should I try to feel something that I don’t? I’m looking for something. What? I don’t know… I don’t even think I truly believe I will ever find it. I’m not sure how any human ever can. Maybe this is where people think fate comes in, God comes in; maybe this is why so many of us are so bitter and cynical.

I wish I knew if I believed in fate or not. I always pretend to be such a logical person, but I’m really not. I always felt I believed in progress, but I don’t know if I do. I’m a burning pyre of contradiction. The rationalist and the dreamer, the optimist and the pessimist, Aristotle and Plato waging war in my very core. I love and hate humanity simultaneously, and that’s probably the hardest to admit. How can I even be? I feel like the main character of some Romantic novel…

I want to spread my arms out to the night sky, tilt my head back and scream my lungs out to some dark street corner, but I know I could never do it, just as Holden never could speak when he called Jane. Something holds us back, leaves us mute. So, I’m left to sit here and use my sign language on this keyboard, to bang out my frustration at the world, my frustration with myself, and wish I was making some actual noise.

“Got to admit it’s getting better, a little better all the time.”
“It can’t get any worse.”

A Serious Moment...

There’s something really magical about sitting around at two in the morning the night before a big test, in your underwear, slamming down milanos, pounding the keys and rocking out to sympathy for the devil. It’s a wild a feeling when you’ve left the windows open and there’s a shiver rising up you, straight from your belly and jittering legs. "Please to met you, hope you guessed my name."

Singing in the shower is all right, but sometimes I like to dance too. I know it isn’t a good idea, because I could slip and fall, but I don’t mind, I do it anyways.

I don’t especially like Tricks cereal. Also it turns your poop green. Superman ice cream has the same effect, but I can’t help but eat it for the sake of childhood nostalgia. And it makes me feel little less like Clark Kent.

When I hear tornado sirens it makes me wish I was having sex with a beautiful and caring woman. Someone I really loved. That way, if we died at least we’d be happy. At least I know I would. Also, I would have died the way I lived, wishing that I was having sex with a beautiful and caring woman.

-Caleb, that silly rabbit.

NORAD of Camelot

I'm not really sure if anyone understands human relationships, or how they even can. I know that I don't, and I'd bet the farm that I never will. I'm pretty sure that it takes truly understanding the other person to have that sort of connection, and who even understands themselves that well? How is it even possible? It's getting to the point where I'm beginning to think that human social interactions are just too complex for our species' intelligence. I have never met any two humans that have a relationship that can be said to be easy that truly care for one another. That can't be said about dogs or rabbits or pigmy marmosets, can it? Do dolphins passive-aggressively torture one another? Do they get into fights for no reason? Do they play mind games with one another and obsess over every little thing until they go insane? No, they fight or play or ignore one another, or whatever else, but they don't really have so many problems. I'm not saying they aren't complex creatures, any of them, but I can't imagine it being the same.

Even the relationships that seem the stablest, the best, the happiest, rarely are. People put up these walls and act as if they are happy together, but everyone bickers and fights. And I believe that's what shakes my foundation in all of this the most... no one really seems to have that happy of a relationship, even those relationships that I always took for granted as being wonderful really aren't once you peel off the outer coat. Everyone has their problems, and maybe that's how it is supposed to be, maybe there is some philosophical reason for it, but damned if I know what. So how am I supposed to be happy, how am I supposed to make things work with anyone if those relationships that seem so happy are just farces? It's like finding out JFK cheated on Jackie, or about Lancelot and Guinevere... how odd is it that both our Camelots fell prey to the same virus? I know that I'm probably over-reacting, that this is just how life works, that relationships are hard work and they can work out as long as both parties care enough, but it just seems like it would be so much easier to be a frog or something. Maybe someday I'll figure it all out, but I have my doubts.

People are just neurotic, as old George here shows.

Maid Marian

I've been getting some suggestions lately, which is good... I'm glad to have ideas on what to write about, but normally it just doesn't work that way. To write anything that I consider good, I need to be in the mood to write on the subject... so instead of writing a season preview for Michigan football, or posting funny youtube videos, I'm just going to ramble for a while about a subject that I know nothing about.

I guess it doesn't help that the first lesson of love I remember came from a Disney movie. As a child I watched Robin Hood daily, and a hen always told me that, "absence makes the heart grow fonder". I'm not sure if that's true, but maybe if something is meant to be it is. Maybe crocodiles do truly come back if they are yours... or butterflies, if you'd rather. Sometimes, I think that maybe absences just make it easier for the girl to forget about me, to convince herself that it is best to stay apart. I don't know. I never find that that's true for me though, as it seems like I'm always there daydreaming about what I once had. Not having something just seems to make me want it more. Maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic, maybe I was just brainwashed by Disney as a child, but I really don't care. I want to be able to rob from the rich and give to the poor, to dance with the girl in the twilight, the sky lit with fireflies, to scale castle walls and defeat the evil usurper with a cocky grin. I want to be able to look into someone's eyes and know it's right, it's perfect, and that nothing can ever change that.

I'm not sure I have ever felt more confused in my life, yet more certain at the same time. I'm not even sure if I know what that means. I know something is missing right now, but that it's not possible to fix it at the moment. Maybe time really does heal all wounds, maybe things will turn out right in the end, maybe all those things I was told about love and relationships and women are right, maybe they aren't. I really don't know if it matters or not. The oddest thing is that I don't even want to feel better. I know that it's okay to hurt...

"When everything seems like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive."

I know that I could go on for ever, just spewing off movie quotes and love songs, poems and sayings... from Tennyson to The Beatles, and Shakespeare, and Casablanca, but I'm not sure if it would do any good, or even if it would make any of this better. I'm not even sure if it would make any sense. "with your feet in the air and your head on the ground...", "'tis better to have loved and lost..." "O happy dagger!", "here's lookin' at you kid", "pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the mind beholds at every turn", "she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah", "I can't see me lovin' nobody but you for all of my life"... It doesn't make any sense in my mind, anyway.

"And if I hurt you, then I'm sorry, please don't think that this was easy"

I know I'm rambling badly, but it's a projection of my thoughts, I suppose I'm almost at stream of conscious at this point. Intellectually, I know that I will be all right in the long run, I know that things will get better eventually, but none of that is penetrating this shell at the moment. Even this writing feels incomplete, but maybe that is just a reflection of my own self.

"I woke up today without my left arm"

Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

Oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day...

And as I am Peering down Springs Blouse...

Why will I continue to search for meaning in a seemingly meaningless universe? Why must I reject those beautiful bouts of chaos? They hit me like pleasant strokes, bubbles in the brain-at the park last summer they floated through that cramped air and sun streaked sky.

Sitting in the tub I am four and my mother’s blowing bubbles over my head and they stick to the white tile walls and the water is getting cold and the bath is full of mountains of white that keep popping and a hair floats by and I get scared. When the water is too chilly for me to take and the heater in the basement is already dead from exhaustion mother fills a pot on the stove. Pouring it over my toes I know she loves me.

But then it was summer again and for some odd reason music sounded better then it ever had before. Something in the air had changed and what more than that, Spring had crept out from 45 degrees of rain into a stuffy car and suddenly its 63˚ at the city airport. And that damn it all to hell April 6, 2006 or was it 2005 or 1994-0r-2 had pumped me full of thoughts of perfect folds of red summer blouses and divine bosoms with perfect playful cleavage as a girl asks me to turn in her paper for her because she can’t be bothered by the niceness of the day to leave her seat and I’m peering past her name in the upper corner and seeing her smile and the shrug of her shoulders on the same depth of field while her breasts pull daisy stalks into that V you see when two leaves or petals or legs or parts of summer met.

And then I am back at the park and that damn it all to hell April has set girls on every thought and emotion and sense I have. And there’s something in the air where I breath that causes something inside of me to feed and I can’t tear any bit of my over worked mind away from the breasts I see floating across the sky and over my bath and then I realize that they're bubbles I am remembering and I was four in that tub again.

And sometimes, we just have to be happy that summer and winter are so set in their ways. Spring and Fall, no matter what month, have a way of going either way, running a bit cold or feeling un-restfully warm as the wind blows. But, there is something about the middle of summer, something which is absolute, solidified by the heat of a July day which only summer has. Summer time is strong and sure, letting itself be known in every drop of sunlight into sweat, shouting out it’s presence like a boy with his ball in every long hour of the longest days. Summer burns a memory into your mind so surely that your brain peels. So definite that every blade of grass ever plucked up and rolled between your fingers, pulled at from the ground till it burst out singing dirt into the air as it gave to you is locked away in your mind. Summertime brings on emotions so dormant that even the bugs shoot off electric joy as they dance through the night, little thunderstorms so soft they could mock the lull a baby’s sleep. And, what’s more there is the memory of the first smear of that galvanizing green against the pavement where it is smeared into the heart and the soul of you the first time you see a fire fly die. Summer brings all the calmness of a nap, all the comfort of grass hugged feet, all the joy of nights so dark the sky is filled with lights that out shine cities and so warm that the day might not ever end and summer will just last forever.

And then I realize that it is April again and I’ve set out to get myself and there are a million pretty girls I’d love to kiss before I’ve lost my sense of Spring-supple breasts and supple heat that reaches inside of me and turns my chest up to the nth˚.