through the glass moisturize, a sandalwood scents the breath of life
in between the car fuck, then candle-lit oil making caravaggio's seem motionless
i can't stop now, when the candles refuse the flame
you've brought my knees to the dirt
and the hourglass to a stop, forward to an
i like you a lot

Grant asked me to go to lunch with him today at The Hive, and I pretty much knew why. Good people and friends know when things are biting at your heels, you know? And sure enough, he had an idea of what was irking me. Awesome. Really awesome. He asked me if I wrote anything down, like, my thoughts and worries and hopes and fears, whatever and ever, all that skimmed my mind. And I realized that I don't anymore. I used to, a couple of years ago, right here in this xanga. But ever since late 2004, I stopped. I didn't feel the need to let it channel out. Whenever I needed to talk, I'd call up David. Whenever I needed to vent some anger, I'd yell at David. Whenever I needed a hug, yup, David again.

What is wrong lately? I miss parts of home that can't be present here. I miss the Fox, forty times more than I miss anything. I'm trying to find a Silver Creek Road, a small cafe. But I miss The Fox, more than ever, more than anything.

You know what else I miss? I miss Jennifer Turner's eyes and smile, frankly. Those were always a great encouragement for me. I find it so goddamn funny to look on back. I was in eighth grade, still at All Saints, and by this time I think I knew I was gonna be going to Heights for high school, and I went to one of those cheesy award things one evening for my brother, like Yellowjacket Scholar presentation, this or that. And I remember seeing this girl who I thought was really striking, really gorgeous. I kept looking at her. Her name got called to walk across the stage that evening, and I remembered her name, Jennifer Turner. That summer, I took a PSAT class or whatever at Heights, and she was in it. I remembered her face and kept looking at her then, too. Haha, she probably thought I was some creep. And I'd see her in the halls my freshman year at Heights, repeatedly. Sophomore year, I found out she was friends with Lyndsay and some other mutual friends, and she was in the musical that year...so yeah, I could get to know her, actually, still remembering she was that girl that caught my eye two years before. And lo and behold, just a year after that, she and I were dating, that girl that caught my eye in eighth grade. I told her that story when we were dating, but I don't know if she believed me...I think she thought I was just trying to kiss her ass or something like that. But no, true story.

Half the country away, I still clutch to David's feet, clutch hard. Man, I really feel I'm clutching too hard right now. Electric. I still have a crush on him. Spring Break, I found myself still getting butterflies in my stomach.

What do I love the most about him? Making him laugh. I live for hearing his laugh, and so I instigate it at every chance I find appropriate (and inappropriate). I know his every laugh and pride myself in that special knowledge. My favorite laugh of his? The one where I get him laughing so hard that he's no longer laughing...he's almost hyperventilating: no sound, just two white rows of teeth, a blushing face, and tearing eyes, body trembling from laughter. I live for it. Making him howl.

...no double entendre

Don't get me wrong. I love upstate New York. It's got a magic to it, definitely. It's acquired, certainly, but it's definitely there. I've been hearing seagulls all day, crooning overhead, and that cold, cold wind gusting through the air from Lake Ontario. It's a special kind of wind...a retarded wind, really, but I enjoy it. Yeah, it makes the temperature drop fifteen or twenty degrees, but sometimes it's soothing. I can't describe it. And the trees...the trees make the Northeast special. I'm not talking about New York City or any of the bigger cities, I'm talking about upstate, more rural areas. Beautiful trees, real trees. Apple cider, seafood, real pizza, Buffalo sauce, taller accents. Yeah, it's sometimes harder to break a smile from people than it is back home, but once you get that smile from them, you always get it from them, and it spans from ear to ear. People like The Killers up here...no, people insanely like The Killers. Sometimes, I think, it's a religion. I loved them back in high school, but I've even found a deeper appreciation since coming up here. And Bruce Springsteen...all those people from Jersey. But I'm rambling.

Cameron Strittmatter is holy.

Currently Listening Miles from the Lightning By Jeffrey Foucault see related

dear david,

love, campbell

I feel I just can't penetrate you sometimes; can be taken as the biggest insult in recent memory. "You happy?" and gimme then no answer, sway the subject. Not now, sure, but never, you mean. I'm there to vent to, but can you recognize a problem you have with pouring your thoughts out to? Haven't heard your thoughts in about a month's time, and I keep telling myself, you'll come around soon, you'll come around soon. You fail to, time and time again. Without knowing, or perhaps in an almost undetectable passive way, you've closed off from me. At least, that's how you've made me feel during this whole ordeal. I wish I could say I've read your mind this past month, but you're just someone to look at recently, like a memory of a high school summer. So don't do that to me, I know I deserve better from you. And to think all the times you accused me of closing off. But I always, always came around. You've yet to swallow pride and raise yourself up to talking to me. I've just been waiting and waiting to hear from you, "I need you to turn to." But, I guess now you don't. Why? I wouldn't understand, would I? Nor would I care? Or devote my attention to? Right, because I've treated you like that before, haven't I? No, I completely see your reasoning behind closing off from me.

No, don't do that to me.