We came together in herds in packs of ten twenty maybe thousands we were all the same age we had the same tastes we liked old things that were newly expensive we liked artisanal sodas, freelance, hardwood and hardware, warehouses, house sitting, sitting around, and no one had parents and whiskey was okay and pork belly was better and we had stairwells, for christsake, stairwells and when we didn’t have stairwells we had stoops.
I miss the days where nature fascinated me where I could pick up a slug and watch it sparkle where I could do an impersonation of the position of a leaf where I could photosynthesize with the best of them where I could rough house near the outhouse or rattle the rattle snakes or catch up with a kite…I miss when a redwood tree was more fascinating than a Rauschenberg and a date was just a wrinkled fruit and nobody knew anything because there was so much to know.
We did drugs sometimes there was a dime bag somewhere we got so dramatic we got so dream like there were wood beams still because we weren’t in the city, not quite yet, not yet, just a little longer, let’s hold out, let’s stay pure up here, up in the fog house, we had houses, for christsake, houses and apartments were something foreign something fucked we didn’t know how small the bathrooms could be we didn’t know how sad the sinks.
I miss the days where I traveled and was miserable but knew it would be good for me in the future like that time when we blasted through Barcelona to the beach and I slept next to a half-Asian who half-liked me and we could beach ourselves on the beach, we could blast off to another barrio we could get so salty so salty I could love you, maybe, if you bought me another carafe of Rioja, if you took me in a canoe, if we could sit in the church blasting trance music while it rained outside and you kept me a little bit warm.
In the city we can be close but far away because everything in the city is close and faraway at the same time and we can be real together here because we are up against the fake together here, we are washing our face in the kitchen sink, buying aloe at Ikea, making macrobiotic rice, there are twenty of us, thousands, with the same taste, the same artisanal freedom, the same hand picked post-modern paraphernalia, and I can love you now, we can be sisters again, its raining, I’ll let you hug me, remember when we were kids, remember when we watched the mud, when we hid sometimes, when we hadn’t let the city into our bodies yet, when we were made of musk strawberries, eucalyptus, pine smell, when we were so mild, and wild, and green.
Remember in San Francisco how we wore sweat pants and had shorter hair? I do. I remember all of the ways the air felt. I remember the salt in the fog.
Remember how wine tasted? Remember how wine tasted better with you? I do. It was the same with coffee shops. It was the same with winter.
Remember the last stretch of hill to the house? Remember when Nick did the French press and we did the eggs? Remember when so many people came? When the windows fogged? I do. I think about how our computers glowed. I think about how you had so many tabs open all at once.
I remember a certain sense of spaciousness, a certain sense of relief. It was a time when our minds were opening and combining, when we read books hopefully, when it was never quite warm enough to wear shorts but sometimes we tried anyway. There was a back yard, an avocado tree, an upstairs. I memorized the sounds of everybody's footsteps. I memorized the feeling of that home.
I like how home can be a time period. How back porches can become poloroids. How we don't really have to grow up that much ever. I like Carmen in the kitchen and you on the couch. Remember all of those episodes? Remember all of those coffees? Remember all of that love?