My old copy of the Moon Is Always Femaledoesn't have a cover
It is split in two cutting my favorite poem
Cats like angels
in half.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Childhood Spring Zine #7
Their names are remembered like dreams but they are tattooed in my mind. A forever etched memory in my childhood. My old phone number: 503.643.1353. Call it. See if someone still has it. Ask for Rachel. Holly's old number was 646.9466. That was an easy one to remember. I could type it into the phone in less than a second.
***
In front of Holly's house was a pile of barkchips and an old wood trailer. A ham radio antenna emerged from the roof and if you were standing a certain distance from across the street you could see the fort behind the house which was so high you could touch the powerlines if you were standing inside.
Holly had a trampoline in the backyard. The backyard was mostly dry with patches of grass and for reasons unknown, was infested with a huge amount of black spiders.
Most of the time Holly and I ate dry top-ramen and watched tv.
Holly had a square pink FM radio that was always tuned to Z100 and I remember going to sleep listening to Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey. Holly made it very clear she was Christian. Her family took me to their church once. During the youth ministry some guy talked about how in the future, "very soon," people were going to have microchips implanted in their brains. He told us that Chistians would resist having the implants and be persecuted. I on the other hand found the prospects of having a microchip in my brain very exciting.
***
Alice and I walked home from school together for a long time before we ever spoke. I know this sounds weird. we both lived really close and walked home at the same time but we didn't talk. Then one day we did.
***
I guess you could call Steven Mach the Chinese kid. He walked home from school with Alice and I. Alice was the Korean kid. Alice went to my church. Steven was Buddhist. Walking home from school one day Alice found out Steven was Buddhist and said he was going to hell. I disagreed. It was a pretty horrible experience. Alice eventually became kind of exclusive with the other Korean kids in school and stopped walking home from school with us.
***
There were these three brothers who lived across the street from Holly. Justin, Drew, and Mitch . Justin was Holly's age. Drew was my age. Mitch was my sisters age. They were Mormon and liked sports. I went into their house once and it was nothing spectacular. Once Holly and I pranked called their house. We talked through a towel to disguise our voice. Their dad came over because the family had caller ID and wanted to make sure everything was ok. It was really embarrassing.
***
Right next door was Mrs.Kennedy. Ash anyone, she is the Mother Theresea of the neighborhood. If you ask my sister the first thing she remembers from Mrs. Kennedy is candy. There is a video my dad shot of my very young siblings going to Mrs.Kennedy's house for candy, a regular pastime. My dad shoots the film from some distance to capture the moment like the children themselves were coming for a visit. In the video my sister reaches her hand up to ring the door bell. They wait. Then they start banging on the door and window viciously. Mrs. Kennedy never let us down. Once when Mrs. Kennedy gave me a glow-n-the-dark rosary. I had no idea what a rosary was but it was cool getting a glow-n-the-dark necklace.
***
Matt Paris is a liar. He called my parents "Mr and Mrs. Carmichael."
He told my dad once about a burgler breaking into his house and how he, Matt, got a rifle and fended off the burglary while his grandpa was afraid. For reason my dad called Matt's house to verify the story. It was not true. Obviously. Matt played video games all the time. He knew a lot about guns. It scares me to know he is still out their in the world.
***
Celeste was my sisters friend. Her parents had the backyard of my dreams. It had a playhouse with appliances. It had flower, vegetable, and herb gardens as well as fruit trees. Celeste's Mom, Claudia was famous to me for her bagels and cream cheese but mostly for her serving of snack in general which was not customary at my house. Celeste's Dad played wrote software guides (I believe) and played guitar.
Celeste went to a Waldorf school for her early years and had a big fluffy cat named Mina.
When I think of Ashley and Crystal I think of baked beans and kittens. Ashley is one of many Gemini's in my life born three months after me. Our Moms were pregnant together and living next-door so I could almost say I knew her since inuntero. There are many memories of Ashley and I together as we were best friends as young children.
Behind our houses there was a "crik" which was just passed the blackberry bushes and was full of crawdads and shells and treasure. We would wade in with rainboots and pioneer all the way to Celeste's house where there was a secret bush of rasberries.
Blackberry bushes.
Over the three foot chain link fence behind our backyard was a massive wild scrum of blackberry bushes. Unconquerable and growing - reaching their little thorny vines everywhere they can, they are deemed invasive.
To me they were a blessing and a summer treasure.We would use our shirts to hold blackberries when we were picking. On a succesful day our faces would be red with blackberry juice.
We had blackberry jam.
Blackberry pie.
We had blackberry juice.
Blackberry syrup.
Once we tried to make blackberry bread which was was just flour and blackberries and it didn't work. But it didn't matter, there were plently more blackberries to try again.
Blackberry marinade.
Blackberry with sprite.
Blackberries are best warm by the sun. You know a blackberry is good when it practically falls into your hand. When there are no red "druplets" or when then are soft to the touch.
Two things to keep in mind when picking blackberries: thorns and spiders. Make peace with both, not war.
We found, picking blackberries as children, to be careful of both. All of us believed if one were to fall into the bushes the thorns would cause us to quickly bleed to death. To fall would be to perish, of course.
But always the best blackberries were the one's fathest our of reach. The edelwiess of blackberries, I suppose.
Sirens of the fruit world.
The German People
Across the street in the white house with the green trim was the German people. Not once did I ever understand what they were trying to say even though they apparently spoke English fairly well (I am told). They were a really old couple and it was said they were married before or after WWII. I'm sure you want to know their politics but I'm sorry I do not know. Kids pay attention to the weird smells of people's houses before they are bothered with any kind of philosophic rheotric. I really hope someone besides myself has told their story or that would be a freaking shame.
Nancy from Nebraska
Nancy from Nebraska was a boy with another name but I forget what it was. I think Justin. He talked about Nebraska all the time because he really lived there and had to live in Oregon because of some kind of custory thing with his parents. Eventually he went to Nebraska and never came back.
He was kind of like the "Dill" of To a Kill a Mockingbird to our neighborhood. But instead of To Kill a Mockingbird we would be something like, "To Kill a Mallard Duck" because there were mostly ducks in our neighborhood. Unless you want to focus on the symbolism of the mockingbird in the story as a peaceful creature who never does any harm but is nonetheless persectuted. Take Boo Radley. Our Boo Radley would have definitely been
The guy across the street who had a push mower.
The guy across the street who had a push mower was only persecuted by my father who would often be found scoffing at him from behind the blinds from our living room. The persecution went no farther than that. He had a daughter who lived with him sometimes and he seemed to live like a Buddhist only from lack of initative. Driving a small white car no one besides himself ever seemed to come or go and no one had much interaction with him. Another mystery surrounding the GATSWTPM was that all the cats in the neighborhood used his under the house crawl space as their clubhouse. One would often see a cat or two ducking into the beneath workings of his white ranch-style abode.
Backyard garden soup
Saltlicker
As a child I loved salt. Almost as much as my sister loved sugar. The salt shaker in the cupboard was often encrusted with salt. Occasionally I would slip in from the kitchen and hide in the backyard by the wood pile. There I would lick all the salt off the lid and then sneak it back into the cupboard licked cleaned. Your welcome family.
***
In front of Holly's house was a pile of barkchips and an old wood trailer. A ham radio antenna emerged from the roof and if you were standing a certain distance from across the street you could see the fort behind the house which was so high you could touch the powerlines if you were standing inside.
Holly had a trampoline in the backyard. The backyard was mostly dry with patches of grass and for reasons unknown, was infested with a huge amount of black spiders.
Most of the time Holly and I ate dry top-ramen and watched tv.
Holly had a square pink FM radio that was always tuned to Z100 and I remember going to sleep listening to Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey. Holly made it very clear she was Christian. Her family took me to their church once. During the youth ministry some guy talked about how in the future, "very soon," people were going to have microchips implanted in their brains. He told us that Chistians would resist having the implants and be persecuted. I on the other hand found the prospects of having a microchip in my brain very exciting.
***
Alice and I walked home from school together for a long time before we ever spoke. I know this sounds weird. we both lived really close and walked home at the same time but we didn't talk. Then one day we did.
***
I guess you could call Steven Mach the Chinese kid. He walked home from school with Alice and I. Alice was the Korean kid. Alice went to my church. Steven was Buddhist. Walking home from school one day Alice found out Steven was Buddhist and said he was going to hell. I disagreed. It was a pretty horrible experience. Alice eventually became kind of exclusive with the other Korean kids in school and stopped walking home from school with us.
***
There were these three brothers who lived across the street from Holly. Justin, Drew, and Mitch . Justin was Holly's age. Drew was my age. Mitch was my sisters age. They were Mormon and liked sports. I went into their house once and it was nothing spectacular. Once Holly and I pranked called their house. We talked through a towel to disguise our voice. Their dad came over because the family had caller ID and wanted to make sure everything was ok. It was really embarrassing.
***
Right next door was Mrs.Kennedy. Ash anyone, she is the Mother Theresea of the neighborhood. If you ask my sister the first thing she remembers from Mrs. Kennedy is candy. There is a video my dad shot of my very young siblings going to Mrs.Kennedy's house for candy, a regular pastime. My dad shoots the film from some distance to capture the moment like the children themselves were coming for a visit. In the video my sister reaches her hand up to ring the door bell. They wait. Then they start banging on the door and window viciously. Mrs. Kennedy never let us down. Once when Mrs. Kennedy gave me a glow-n-the-dark rosary. I had no idea what a rosary was but it was cool getting a glow-n-the-dark necklace.
***
Matt Paris is a liar. He called my parents "Mr and Mrs. Carmichael."
He told my dad once about a burgler breaking into his house and how he, Matt, got a rifle and fended off the burglary while his grandpa was afraid. For reason my dad called Matt's house to verify the story. It was not true. Obviously. Matt played video games all the time. He knew a lot about guns. It scares me to know he is still out their in the world.
***
Celeste was my sisters friend. Her parents had the backyard of my dreams. It had a playhouse with appliances. It had flower, vegetable, and herb gardens as well as fruit trees. Celeste's Mom, Claudia was famous to me for her bagels and cream cheese but mostly for her serving of snack in general which was not customary at my house. Celeste's Dad played wrote software guides (I believe) and played guitar.
Celeste went to a Waldorf school for her early years and had a big fluffy cat named Mina.
When I think of Ashley and Crystal I think of baked beans and kittens. Ashley is one of many Gemini's in my life born three months after me. Our Moms were pregnant together and living next-door so I could almost say I knew her since inuntero. There are many memories of Ashley and I together as we were best friends as young children.
Behind our houses there was a "crik" which was just passed the blackberry bushes and was full of crawdads and shells and treasure. We would wade in with rainboots and pioneer all the way to Celeste's house where there was a secret bush of rasberries.
Blackberry bushes.
Over the three foot chain link fence behind our backyard was a massive wild scrum of blackberry bushes. Unconquerable and growing - reaching their little thorny vines everywhere they can, they are deemed invasive.
To me they were a blessing and a summer treasure.We would use our shirts to hold blackberries when we were picking. On a succesful day our faces would be red with blackberry juice.
We had blackberry jam.
Blackberry pie.
We had blackberry juice.
Blackberry syrup.
Once we tried to make blackberry bread which was was just flour and blackberries and it didn't work. But it didn't matter, there were plently more blackberries to try again.
Blackberry marinade.
Blackberry with sprite.
Blackberries are best warm by the sun. You know a blackberry is good when it practically falls into your hand. When there are no red "druplets" or when then are soft to the touch.
Two things to keep in mind when picking blackberries: thorns and spiders. Make peace with both, not war.
We found, picking blackberries as children, to be careful of both. All of us believed if one were to fall into the bushes the thorns would cause us to quickly bleed to death. To fall would be to perish, of course.
But always the best blackberries were the one's fathest our of reach. The edelwiess of blackberries, I suppose.
Sirens of the fruit world.
The German People
Across the street in the white house with the green trim was the German people. Not once did I ever understand what they were trying to say even though they apparently spoke English fairly well (I am told). They were a really old couple and it was said they were married before or after WWII. I'm sure you want to know their politics but I'm sorry I do not know. Kids pay attention to the weird smells of people's houses before they are bothered with any kind of philosophic rheotric. I really hope someone besides myself has told their story or that would be a freaking shame.
Nancy from Nebraska
Nancy from Nebraska was a boy with another name but I forget what it was. I think Justin. He talked about Nebraska all the time because he really lived there and had to live in Oregon because of some kind of custory thing with his parents. Eventually he went to Nebraska and never came back.
He was kind of like the "Dill" of To a Kill a Mockingbird to our neighborhood. But instead of To Kill a Mockingbird we would be something like, "To Kill a Mallard Duck" because there were mostly ducks in our neighborhood. Unless you want to focus on the symbolism of the mockingbird in the story as a peaceful creature who never does any harm but is nonetheless persectuted. Take Boo Radley. Our Boo Radley would have definitely been
The guy across the street who had a push mower.
The guy across the street who had a push mower was only persecuted by my father who would often be found scoffing at him from behind the blinds from our living room. The persecution went no farther than that. He had a daughter who lived with him sometimes and he seemed to live like a Buddhist only from lack of initative. Driving a small white car no one besides himself ever seemed to come or go and no one had much interaction with him. Another mystery surrounding the GATSWTPM was that all the cats in the neighborhood used his under the house crawl space as their clubhouse. One would often see a cat or two ducking into the beneath workings of his white ranch-style abode.
Backyard garden soup
Saltlicker
As a child I loved salt. Almost as much as my sister loved sugar. The salt shaker in the cupboard was often encrusted with salt. Occasionally I would slip in from the kitchen and hide in the backyard by the wood pile. There I would lick all the salt off the lid and then sneak it back into the cupboard licked cleaned. Your welcome family.
Monday, March 29, 2010
ZIne intro
This zine is set in winter.
If your not in the mood to read about winter put this zine under your pillow. Save it for a cold day.
As I write this it is raining outside. The mood is austere. It is still winter in Bend and will be until June, promise.
This zine was written between November and April 2009 & '10. In December I was had tea with Bend Bulletin reporter David Jasper about my zines and the potential for a zine community here. Late December revealed a photo of myself and a flurry of words I have craved the people of Bend to read for some time. This place is a good place for zines. There are many cafes and many people in deep musings and skill. Thanks again David Jasper.
In January I saw Patti Smith in Portland and came in aquatiance with the fabulous Laura Walker, another zine writer in Bend.
Also in Janaury, Handsome, my family's golden retriver, breathed his last. Never in my life have I ever witnessed anyone transistioning from life into death. Death has been a thing that happens in secret. This amazing friend I grew up, who never knew for one second that he was old, let go of his struggle and it was so absolutely sad and perfect. He was old and very tired and he had done enough for that day I suppose. Putting my hand on his head and told him "thank you." We buried him in the backyard next to the young birch tree. My Mom sang "We Will Raise Him Up on Eagles Wings."
February a story came out about members of the Aryan (neo nazis) nation considering John Day, Oregon as a headquarters. The people of John Day are resisting the movement and gathering in demonstration for equal rights. A guide to making patches was begat from my need to express support for their cause. This is around the time when a little brown cat from the Humane Society came into my life. An odd brown colored cat, I call her Miso and she bites sometimes but neve mean.
In March I turned 24.
For the past three months I have been drawing daily comics about my day-to-day. These comics, made for the Stumptown Indie Comic Fest, have revealed to me how truly banal my life is. I long for the messy inspiration of Spring. Going downtown and scabbing my knuckles drawing with chalk.
Winter was funny this year. I was more ready for it than I have ever been and mostly stayed indoors save for night walks with Kevin. It was winter and satisfying in a strange way.
And with that, Show & Tell #6.
If your not in the mood to read about winter put this zine under your pillow. Save it for a cold day.
As I write this it is raining outside. The mood is austere. It is still winter in Bend and will be until June, promise.
This zine was written between November and April 2009 & '10. In December I was had tea with Bend Bulletin reporter David Jasper about my zines and the potential for a zine community here. Late December revealed a photo of myself and a flurry of words I have craved the people of Bend to read for some time. This place is a good place for zines. There are many cafes and many people in deep musings and skill. Thanks again David Jasper.
In January I saw Patti Smith in Portland and came in aquatiance with the fabulous Laura Walker, another zine writer in Bend.
Also in Janaury, Handsome, my family's golden retriver, breathed his last. Never in my life have I ever witnessed anyone transistioning from life into death. Death has been a thing that happens in secret. This amazing friend I grew up, who never knew for one second that he was old, let go of his struggle and it was so absolutely sad and perfect. He was old and very tired and he had done enough for that day I suppose. Putting my hand on his head and told him "thank you." We buried him in the backyard next to the young birch tree. My Mom sang "We Will Raise Him Up on Eagles Wings."
February a story came out about members of the Aryan (neo nazis) nation considering John Day, Oregon as a headquarters. The people of John Day are resisting the movement and gathering in demonstration for equal rights. A guide to making patches was begat from my need to express support for their cause. This is around the time when a little brown cat from the Humane Society came into my life. An odd brown colored cat, I call her Miso and she bites sometimes but neve mean.
In March I turned 24.
For the past three months I have been drawing daily comics about my day-to-day. These comics, made for the Stumptown Indie Comic Fest, have revealed to me how truly banal my life is. I long for the messy inspiration of Spring. Going downtown and scabbing my knuckles drawing with chalk.
Winter was funny this year. I was more ready for it than I have ever been and mostly stayed indoors save for night walks with Kevin. It was winter and satisfying in a strange way.
And with that, Show & Tell #6.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Patti Smith
Driving North on Hwy 97 the desert turns to forest and snow falls softly over the Mt Hood Pass. I am going to Portland.
It's still winter and a good time for being alone. Good time to drink tea, clean house, and listen to the radio. But this was last week when I was cleaning my house listening to Fresh Air.
Terri Gross was interviewing Patti Smith. They were discussing her recently published memoir of her formative years, "Just Kids." In was the background between dishes and vacuuming I caught her story: a twenty-something New Jersey girl dropping out of college and heading to New York City, making lifelong friends, transforming beatnik poetry into something prepunk and becoming the iconic "white-shirt black-tie" image of youthful angst in the seventies and eighties.
Patti Smith did not instantly fascinate me. She was dry. She had a rough South Jersey accent and talked slowly and almost irritably.
They played Horses and Birdland. I had never heard these songs before and I liked them.
Patti brought up her various experiences with death.
"Each of us, you know, leaves in a different way according to the person - according to the energy of the person - the way the spirit manifests. Each of us dies differently and I believe we have a unique journey. Whether it's a journey of pure energy, if there's any intelligence within the journey but I think each of us has our own way of dissipating or entering into the new field."
"Horses" Patti Smiths first record plays over and over as I drive. I begin to connect with the words and by the time I hit Gresham I am singing along.
Her voice is ugly and so am I.
The music makes no sense to me. I make no sense to me.
In Portland I celebrate getting into town by getting lost. At the Bagdad Theater I am close to a nervous breakdown from the drive. I drink the darkest beer on draft, turn in my ticket, receive my edition of "Just Kids," and a find a seat to the pack venue. An MC introduces Pattie Smith and she comes out tall and thin and takes her place in front of the microphone.
Why am I here?
There is something in Patti Smith which I need in this time of my life. I wanted to learn from her something I can not do. And what is that? Dealing with her pain. Through her I wanted to learn how she carried it.
"Let go of the spirit of the departed and experience your life's celebration. Time heals all wounds isn't true, we just learn how to walk with them. We learn that some days we're going to feel intense pain all over again & we just have to say, 'ok, I know you - you can come along with me today.'"
As I draw in the margins of her book Patti Smith is talking of the summer she turned 23 - the same age as me. My copy of the book is imperfect. The paper on the inside of the cover is crumpled. Patti Smith is talking to my pain.
I want it all to come together, this whole experience - Patti Smith, my life, the hard stuff. "That's ridiculous," I think as I gaze up at my newly adopted patron saint of youthful troubles. It's her slow irritable voice which drew me here - that is what speaks to me. It speaks to the dark parts and coerces them out. The voice replaces my desperate worrisome chatter and it talks me down.
"You can come along with my today," she tells them - I tell them. You can sit on my shoulder like a heavy cumbersome bird as I cook in my kitchen, make my tea, and lie next to my partner. I won't shuffle you around the contents of my head but I won't stare you in the eyes, today. You can come along with me.
Patti Smith is so many people's personal goddess. Looking around at the Bagdad Theater and as people step up to ask their questions people are almost bowing. If there were a table for it the audience would likely place icons and animal sacrifices.
Patti Smith spoke strong words for a lot of peoples hard times: homosexuals and women and disillusioned youth. And now she speaks for mine.
It's still winter and a good time for being alone. Good time to drink tea, clean house, and listen to the radio. But this was last week when I was cleaning my house listening to Fresh Air.
Terri Gross was interviewing Patti Smith. They were discussing her recently published memoir of her formative years, "Just Kids." In was the background between dishes and vacuuming I caught her story: a twenty-something New Jersey girl dropping out of college and heading to New York City, making lifelong friends, transforming beatnik poetry into something prepunk and becoming the iconic "white-shirt black-tie" image of youthful angst in the seventies and eighties.
Patti Smith did not instantly fascinate me. She was dry. She had a rough South Jersey accent and talked slowly and almost irritably.
They played Horses and Birdland. I had never heard these songs before and I liked them.
Patti brought up her various experiences with death.
"Each of us, you know, leaves in a different way according to the person - according to the energy of the person - the way the spirit manifests. Each of us dies differently and I believe we have a unique journey. Whether it's a journey of pure energy, if there's any intelligence within the journey but I think each of us has our own way of dissipating or entering into the new field."
"Horses" Patti Smiths first record plays over and over as I drive. I begin to connect with the words and by the time I hit Gresham I am singing along.
Her voice is ugly and so am I.
The music makes no sense to me. I make no sense to me.
In Portland I celebrate getting into town by getting lost. At the Bagdad Theater I am close to a nervous breakdown from the drive. I drink the darkest beer on draft, turn in my ticket, receive my edition of "Just Kids," and a find a seat to the pack venue. An MC introduces Pattie Smith and she comes out tall and thin and takes her place in front of the microphone.
Why am I here?
There is something in Patti Smith which I need in this time of my life. I wanted to learn from her something I can not do. And what is that? Dealing with her pain. Through her I wanted to learn how she carried it.
"Let go of the spirit of the departed and experience your life's celebration. Time heals all wounds isn't true, we just learn how to walk with them. We learn that some days we're going to feel intense pain all over again & we just have to say, 'ok, I know you - you can come along with me today.'"
As I draw in the margins of her book Patti Smith is talking of the summer she turned 23 - the same age as me. My copy of the book is imperfect. The paper on the inside of the cover is crumpled. Patti Smith is talking to my pain.
I want it all to come together, this whole experience - Patti Smith, my life, the hard stuff. "That's ridiculous," I think as I gaze up at my newly adopted patron saint of youthful troubles. It's her slow irritable voice which drew me here - that is what speaks to me. It speaks to the dark parts and coerces them out. The voice replaces my desperate worrisome chatter and it talks me down.
"You can come along with my today," she tells them - I tell them. You can sit on my shoulder like a heavy cumbersome bird as I cook in my kitchen, make my tea, and lie next to my partner. I won't shuffle you around the contents of my head but I won't stare you in the eyes, today. You can come along with me.
Patti Smith is so many people's personal goddess. Looking around at the Bagdad Theater and as people step up to ask their questions people are almost bowing. If there were a table for it the audience would likely place icons and animal sacrifices.
Patti Smith spoke strong words for a lot of peoples hard times: homosexuals and women and disillusioned youth. And now she speaks for mine.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
When I am dead.
When I am dead I hope they will play the Imperial March at the funeral.
I hope I didn't eat so much preservatives in my time that my body can decompose naturally.
I hope nobody had anything left to say to me and I hope I died in a non-embarrassing way.
I hope Terri Gross will rehash an interview she had with me years before in my memory and everyone will remember what I genius I was at one time and think what smart things I said.
I hope at least one person gets black-out drunk to deal with my loss. Just one.
I hope I didn't eat so much preservatives in my time that my body can decompose naturally.
I hope nobody had anything left to say to me and I hope I died in a non-embarrassing way.
I hope Terri Gross will rehash an interview she had with me years before in my memory and everyone will remember what I genius I was at one time and think what smart things I said.
I hope at least one person gets black-out drunk to deal with my loss. Just one.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Ok.
Things are going to be ok.
Let me tell you a story.
In the laundry room at my apartments there are boxes and bottles of laundry detergent, bleach, and fabric softener. It hasn't always been like this. When I first moved in nobody left their laundry supplies. If anything was left it was a few parcels of "Watchtower." My laundry room is located in a seperate building perhaps fifteen paces from my backdoor. Sometimes there is a light on at night which I can see from my kitchen window but sometimes not. What I am trying to say is the laundry soap, we just leave it in there because it's easier than bringing it to and fro our places. We leave it there because we've learned to trust one another and we've learned to trust everyone else.
I like this place. "I don't know where it's likely to go better," as Frost would say.
Let me tell you a story.
In the laundry room at my apartments there are boxes and bottles of laundry detergent, bleach, and fabric softener. It hasn't always been like this. When I first moved in nobody left their laundry supplies. If anything was left it was a few parcels of "Watchtower." My laundry room is located in a seperate building perhaps fifteen paces from my backdoor. Sometimes there is a light on at night which I can see from my kitchen window but sometimes not. What I am trying to say is the laundry soap, we just leave it in there because it's easier than bringing it to and fro our places. We leave it there because we've learned to trust one another and we've learned to trust everyone else.
I like this place. "I don't know where it's likely to go better," as Frost would say.
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