Rendezvous
02 June 06 : 12.29 AM
I had a too-deep-into-the-mud-slimy-insect-parts kinda dream last night. It was terrible. I dreamt I was in school, but the ground was shaky and I couldn't stand still. I had to hold on to things, to railings to windows to rough grounds so I wouldn't fall. I was late for class, but I lost my way and took a long time because I was so scared of falling, but the teacher wouldn't believe me. She was this hair woman thing with thick glasses that reflect my nakedness.
I don't want to go back to that place.
I spent the entire weekend with Sern, Raymond and Jack. Sometimes, with others, like Jermaine, Andy, Marilyn, Edmund, Jack's girlfriend, Michael (on Sunday for dinner) but mostly it was us. It was gun-powdered nights; long car rides, caffeinated drinks, the stench of cigarette and the occasional jazz on the radio before someone switches the station again.
I am envious of everyone who went for Coachella. All the raving reviews and goth poetry about it, I'm so jealous I could die. I need my roadtrip soon; to go alone to Coachella and see the Burning Man, and drop by Rockingham, NC (I still love that country boy), but only for a day. But the sad truth is, I'm too much of a weakling for the dirt and debris, the vile lingering and the scorching Sun. The sand stinging my eyes like too much tears and pocket knife gloves, I can't even begin to explain how much of a teeny I'd feel there, among beautiful pot-smoking, kohl-eyed goddesses with hair dyed black, statuesque with tattoos encircling their bodies like dragon motifs. Mine on my back would feel too pretty and vulnerable and vague against theirs. What about the boys? The dirty long-haired boys with painted faces and thick, dangerous necklaces. I'm better off at the silly, mild pseudo-indie pop tart event here, or some air-conditioned room in a club dressed in shimmering clothes with thick makeup and coifed hair.
How does one detest where they fit in best?