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Thursday, June 23, 2005 Woke up last night around 1:30, the moon shining in the bedroom window, so large and brilliant that the curtains, already sheer, appeared transparent, the room flooded with soft light. Got up, stood at the window for a few minutes, the world outside appearing eerily day-like, moonlight casting long shadows, the scene looking ghostly. For reasons I could not possibly explain, my teeny little half-awake brain got thinking about karaoke, it occurred to me that the only occasion when that strange pasttime has ever appealed to me in any way was Bill Murray's stab at it in Lost In Translation. Back in bed, my thoughts drifting from one thing to another, I found myself remembering -- don't ask me why -- a couple of the more embarrassing moments from this lifetime's earlier years. The first, extremely public: third grade -- in the auditorium with my class, everyone getting ready to give a pseudo-gymnastics demonstration for the rest of the school in a program across the hall in the gym. I'd worn my shorts and t-shirt beneath my street clothes so that all I had to do was peel off the outer layer and I'd be ready to go. Noise, commotion, me lost in thought, completely distracted as I took off shirt, pants. A moment later, Scott, one of my so-called best friends, shouts out, "Blahblahblah, your underwear!" On automatic pilot, I'd pulled off pants, then shorts, leaving me in my white, white, white Fruit-of-the-Looms. My friend's shout alerted everyone, every third-grade female in the place began screaming in titillated horror, every third-grade male guffawing loudly, until Miss Vince commanded some boys to stand around me, providing cover so I could pull shorts back on. The second, not so public: me at the start of my second semester in college. A difficult time, my little brain less than clear, addled from a regular diet of, er, drinkable and smokeable substances. I'd moved from a crowded three-person dorm room into a roomier two-person deal with someone I didn't know, who had initially seemed friendly, affable. Within days, that affability began to slip, replaced by something nastier, less civilized, friendliness morphing into a surly, threatening Mr. Hydeish thing right before my eyes. Well-intentioned attempts to talk things out had no effect, the situation worsened with each passing day, me feeling increasingly stunned, desperate. In the middle of it all, the phone on my night table rang early one morning. Far, far too early, jerking me up out of deep sleep into a barely conscious state. An older phone, it was, with an actual bell, its clanging so loud, so insistent that it felt like a jolt of electricity to my panicky bod. One hand shot out, fastening frantically on the first thing it encountered -- a Kleenex box, it turned out, that I pressed to my ear, calling out, "HELLO? HELLO?" Not understanding why the ringing continued, every nerve in my body quivering, until I finally got what I'd done, dropped box, picked up phone, the horrible fucking noise stopped. Provided Mr. Hyde with quite a show. He went away the following weekend. During those 48 hours, I found a room across campus, packed up, moved out. And this is one of the things I love about life: even the strangest moments pass, leaving us with great stories to tell. Returned to bed, could feel I wouldn't be getting back to sleep right away, turned on the light, read a little. Came across a less than enthusiastic New Yorker review of a television show I've never seen, probably never will see -- "Medium," on NBC, with Patricia Arquette -- in which the writer says, "...the show gets to have it both ways, establishing that Allison is only human and that she's essentially right." I thought about that, couldn't find the problem in being only human and being essentially right about something. (Still can't find it.) Felt my eyelids trying to close, gave in and turned out the light, the room once again flooded with moonlight, the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling shining brightly. Next thing I knew, it was morning, I could hear birds loudly discussing their plans for the day. It's good to be here, the world around us doing its thing. Later. ************* Socks: helping make orgasms attainable. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 8:03 PM [+]
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