None of This Is Ever Going to Happen

My sparkly fuchsia notebook is lost. I imagine
running off with Shane to live in a cave somewhere
long ago and far away. Somewhere all we’d have to
do would be find food and climb trees and play
in creeks and get wet and dirty and have fun and
sleep. Like memories distilled from old movies. But
thee are always ticks and bats (rabid) and
malnutrition. Still, there is something very satisfying
the idea of just growing things or fishing or hunting
for food, rather than standing all day in an
airless office and not doing anything to get it. I
would love to go hunting sometime. Wouldn’t
mind going fishing again either, actually. Been a while.
Not in that nasty cement lake the parents live in
though. That’s why I want to move to Virginia
someday; I love the idea of me living in a
little tiny house with a huge garden – vegetable
and herb and hemp. Trees growing crab-apples
and peaches and hazelnuts and walnuts. A few
sheep (for the wool) and a cow or two. No
chickens – they’re dirty and I’m sure I can always
trade something for a few eggs. I could
hunt deer, I think. Not that I’ve ever tasted
venison or held a rifle. I could bake bread
(but where would the flour come from?) I could
make fruit jams, but whence the jars to keep
them? Well, if I grew enough sinsemilla I
could surely trade for what I wanted.
None of this is ever going to happen.


02.08.01
12.22.03