| Other Shit I Was Thinking About When I Was High (Doesn't Fit anywhere) |
[Sep. 19th, 2004|11:19 pm] |
Note: This might fall right at the end of Part 1 when Mooney goes to prison.
By the end of the night when the sun is coming up and the shiny bouncing curls in your hair are matted and bird’s-nest-y, and the pleats in your skirt are all sat on and wrecked and as you walk toward your bed your legs want to give out with pure complete satisfied exhaustion – by that time, you will remember how much you love your friends.
And I’ll say this, that never in life did I feel as close as those early-morning times when we’d stumble in with the first hints of the sun. My windows with red curtains and Mooney would stand there and stretch – every time he would do this – and then fall into bed and deep sleep. Only enough light to see the tip of Mooney’s nose, the curve of his belly, the tiny light-blooms reflected in his eyes which were silver in the dark pre-morning bedroom. Silver tips on everything; eyelashes tipped silver, shoulders, the ends of his hair...Mooney standing by the red window naked, stretching. Me lying in bed thinking how warm that feeling is of falling into bed together so tired you can’t speak really, but it’s okay cause you each already know what the other is thinking. And wondering if Cat was seeing Rio in early-morning light facing the windows in his bedroom down the street from my mother in the old neighborhood. Or Miami, who lived near Mooney's house, I'd wonder if he had those quiet moments with his girlfriend, who was a beautiful stripper with sad eyes and silent mouth.
And mostly, I wondered if it was possible for things to be this close forever (but then, of course, nothing is forever.) |
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| Stuff for Part 2 that I thought about high the other night... |
[Sep. 19th, 2004|11:14 pm] |
So I walked the circle of the street I lived on, the one that runs down to the little park on the river with ALLIGATOR WARNING signs and then curves back around with trees and fences, back up to downtown’s main drag but ducking shy behind it, and then around a last curve, where you come around and see my little house again.
That was a lot of description to get to the point, sure, but I just want to make sure it comes across like it was, because everything was so fucking beautiful and perfect and I felt one with everything, once again. That old-time feeling reminding me of Mooney and me. And of course, Rio and Cat were in the car...
...Anyway, I walked the circle and I put my feet in everyone’s grass to get the different touches. Because sometimes, those times, you forget that there are people around you that watch and judge and you let it all hang out like nobody can touch you. And they can’t! And because it was my birthday, and I was rolling like I did back then. And Mooney was in prison, yeah, but for that one night? He was there. |
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| Chapter 5 (unfinished) |
[Sep. 15th, 2004|06:08 pm] |
So summer came, and all of a sudden it was the end of the road. All of a sudden, all the buildup and the waiting and waiting - suddenly, it was all leading to something. Head Blum had called, son of the Onslow County District Attorney, to inform Mooney that the hunt was on. Mooney was now a wanted man. His mother wanted him to turn himself in, but he had other ideas, mostly because it had been a particularly coked-up couple of days and paranoia was at a maximum. Paranoia radiated from Mooney like actal tangible static electricity. It was catching.
The best thing about the country, I guess, is that nobody's really watching you. We were all too spread out back there, in the miles and miles that went on seemingly forever, in the maze of roads and of farmlands and trailer parks. I always felt anonymous out there, and I could drive those endless roads and smoke. I could yell at the top of my lungs and run through cornfields like in the movies. Release everything. It was calmer somehow. Mooney felt that way too, I suppose, which is why he was out there so much.
( Read more... ) |
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| living situation stuff post-trial |
[Aug. 27th, 2004|06:25 pm] |
Somewhere in there, I guess it was around October or so, I got behind on everything and went back home to my mother's house. Legal fees were adding up. My car was beginning a long descent into retirement like old people with broken hips and forgetful minds and the rest...
...so I left my little trailer in the country. Noelle had left in August during the trial. She moved in with her boyfriend, said she was in love and all. I still wonder, though, if all the heat and the commotion of things was finally just too much. She just wanted a quiet country home to raise kittens and smoke weed. And with me, it was always too hectic. We were still close, but we didn't keep in touch much that fall.
I went home, then. In the fall, when I always seemed to go home, after decadent summers I couldn't afford. This time was different, though. I suppose I'm a very different August than the one who joined Spirit Club in school and had starry eyes and big plans for the future. I guess I'm a whole different ball of wax now. It didn't work, living there. My mother hated my lifestyle. She hated having me back in the neighborhood, where everyone in a five-mile radius knew my name and my business and knew where to find me. People always slowed down driving by the house. Looking. People gossiped. I hated the neighborhood then, and I haven't felt welcome there since - to this day I feel that way.
I gathered my stuff, which becomes less and less the more I wander, and went downtown. A little house with a hole in the roof, but the owner was a hippie from way back and let me paint the walls. He even offered to help. He knew me from the news, sure, but he said it was "one of those things", shrugged, and waived the deposit.
"I'm sure you've got more pressing things to spend your money on right now, sweetheart," is what he said. "Just slip $350 or so under my door on the 1st of every month, and we're good to go." Then he said he knew where to get some fabulous mountain dank, and to give him a call if I ever needed anything.
And then I was home.
Dear Mooney,
The whole time I was moving in this place, I pretended we were doing it together. I picked out all shit that I knew you'd like, which maybe will be cool for when you come back (to me?) Everything's all clear glass in red, blue, and green, cause I know those are your favorites. And I put HBO on the cable cause you watch it even if I don't. I know that's stupid cause I could just add it when you come around later, but I like pretending you're just at work or the store or something. That you'll be home soon.
You think things will be different when you come back? You think maybe you'll be in love? I don't even know if you ever loved anyone or ever will, but if you do I hope it's me! You think maybe you'll stay here with me and keep a toothbrush here and I'll make you steak and do your laundry? Maybe we could get a kitten... |
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| Chapter 1 |
[Jan. 1st, 2003|01:55 am] |
Dear Mooney,
I know the phone number of the county jail by heart, and you can trace the cracks in the wall of C-21 with your eyes closed and know exactly where they will lead. The cracks are like the roads and neighborhoods you memorized and knew so well and drove at ninety miles an hour for the adrenaline rush. The things me and you did together we did at ninety miles an hour, too, but I bet you couldn't trace my curves half as well. I bet you barely even remember.
( Read more... ) |
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| Chapter 2 |
[Dec. 31st, 2002|02:49 am] |
"Mooney."
"Who's this?"
"It's The Don, homes. Who the fuck you think it is?"
"Shit, man, what's up?"
"You don't even wanna know."
"Don't tell me you ain't got my money, Colletta. You got my money, Colletta?"
"It ain't even about that, homes - some major shit just went down."
"Just as long as you got my money."
"Okay, I got your money. It'll help you with your fucking lawyer fees." ( Read more... ) |
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| Chapter 3 |
[Dec. 30th, 2002|02:50 am] |
It's always the little puddles that dry up first is how Rio put it. He didn't add that eventually in a drought, all puddles dried up. But that went unsaid. Basically, all the little dealers went down first. Because they were the ones that dealt directly with the kids. The non-professional set that didn't know just when to keep mouths shut. The bigger guys like Mooney (and Rio, by association) lasted longer. Not forever, you understand, because nothing lasts forever, but we had a little time to stall.
( Read more... ) |
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| Chapter 4 |
[Dec. 29th, 2002|03:01 am] |
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Mooney was from Virginia Beach. He learned how to hustle there. I was from Jacksonville, and while Mooney was rambling around on the strip at 13, learning about poker basements and bootleg CDs, craps games and cranberry vodka, I was shoplifting with the usual kids and watching the skateboarder boys under Carolina skies. ( Read more... ) |
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