from my womb to my tomb

Guess ill always be a child


I dont want anyone to read this. for the time being. I suppose this little disclaimer is for the off chance someone stumbles upon it and puts two and two together (really shouldnt be hard, always equals four). I just dont think I have anything to say, but much more to learn. So if i collect my thoughts and memories, guess ill have something to go back and read.

Spring Break 10 carries on. I laugh at the children who will waste it at a bar in Cabo. I Laugh at myself for getting back on a plane to the east coast. Very torn between Bard and anywhere else, which is funny because I didnt know I liked Bard all that much. But being in the California sun, closer home and the love that dwells there, closer to self assurance and my known identity, is beyond tempting. Mouth watering. Like a big bone I just had to come back and lick.

We went to the cliff overlooking Ocean Beach. The sutra baths were to the right, meeting the sandy beach. We took a left, passed the ornamented deer, and through the scattered trees. There was the first view, with tiny specks playing in the sand, with the road stretching down the best coast, with the stand still windmill in the distance. We hopped over the guard rail, to find carved stone steps. They were narrow, and somehow winding down the cliff. After a few steps, we climbed over some rocks, into the most perfect perch. A big red chair, the kind that swallows you up, fit into the cave. Whoever dared put it there wouldnt of risked their life for us strangers, but we appreciated it. We could see the corgi dogs running on the beach, their asses stretching higher into the air (and closer to us) than their heads. We could see the rocks where the gulls nested, the sun beat down on us, and we smoked a cigarette. Beautiful.


Devendra Banhart played that night. We walked through the tenderloin, surely lost, until a block later the mysterious SF spat us back out in the nicer part of town. The venue was similar to the crystal ballroom, but embroidered with the regalities Portland lacks. The crowd was a jar of buttons: dorks, hipsters, hippies, raving midgits... different sizes, different eyes, different intoxicants, different drinks.
Banhart had chopped all his hair off. Unmistakably, a slut for attention. But as a San Francisco native, the crowd of natives loved him. Vetiver covers, spliffs and joints lighting up faces in the crowd, the enjoyment that transcended over all us buttons.
Shaun went and meditated. I searched for william, but instead found a face from Bard. Devendra took his shirt off.


Quite the spring break.
Id rather see the desperate faux-hippie slut Devendra shirtless than a desperate Cabo-tanned set of tits.