Gee golly.
I was going to write about the sexiness
of Mexican racing.
But, I got all silly and nostalgic and ending up reading old e-mails. Specifically, ones to a fellow I never kissed who would later go on to say he hated the word "debauchery." Ah well. Point being: I totally forgot about this girl, even though I remember the sweet smells and aching bones of that spring.
19.Feb.03
I secretly adore the Portland Public Library. The
long walk past parking garages and City Hall. The
businessmen in baseball hats and emo kids ready for
the war against collective heartbreak. The smell of
old books works better than a cup of hazelnut, as I
discovered that I have managed to sit at the
computer center used primarily by the
German-speaking, Somalian communities of Portland
[all of the language configurations are out of
whack, right down to the date being spit out in
pixalated French, and the Google search in Spanish].
And yes, your e-mails make me happy. Make me blush
in public, even though nobody is really looking
[except for the information desk lady, who keep
glancing at her timer]. Your job sounds utterly
fascinating, although I easily recognize/empathize
with your struggles. How does one make math and
science...ahem...fun? I guess it all depends on
levels of interaction with the material being
taught. Kids love to push the buttons, whether they
be literal or figurative in nature.
And I worry about the prospect of being President,
although power is definitely a worthy thing to wrap
a fetish around. I think I'd be better off being the
eccentric old lady with pink flamingos in her yard,
who changes her surrounding community one word of
wisdom at a time. But I stll have a couple of years
until that happens.
Farewell, for the retail slut hour creeps quickly.
- Dianna
11.May.03
I'm mystified with the idea that it's
Sunday. Yes...Dianna has been partaking in much
whiskey and walks along the Eastern Promenade, but,
fear not, for I'm in the good company of
Goddardites. Anywho....blah... I haven't written in
awhile, but do not worry with the concept that this
letter is in conjunction with booze. Aphex Twin is
playing...so lovely. Life has been quietly
wonderful. My semester is going well, if one
considers that I have changed my big scheme fous and
decided to formally embrace my love of writing.
Yah-hoo! I may even work on a book this summer,
while volunteering at the Boston Chinatown
Neighborhood Center (ESL work...blissful). Strange
things reveal themselves as the snow melts and the
trees begin to wave with budding greetings. I don't
think I've even e-mailed you since the beginning of
the war. Needless to say, my opinion can be
precisely assumed with my passive, war-hating
demeanor. I could elaborate at a latter time, with
charming eloquence to boot. Oh....gracious...it IS
Mother's Day. I'll call Mum from work this morning.
Hmmm.....what else? Portland is truly wonderful, in
a quietly charming way. I can't quite bear to leave
it, which contradicts my wandering tendencies.
Regardless, I have hyper-optimistic plans to pay off
my credit card deby and travel to Europe in the fall
(more of a holiday than anything else). Ergh...I
volunteered briefly with the Boston CyberArts
festival. It was swell enough, but I was more
intrigued by the weekly commute to Jamaica Plains
(via bus...then a hop on the T). I adored eating
fried rice and watching 24-hour coverage of the war
with the owner of a rather decent joint that served
Vanilla Coke. The gig, itself though, was passive
and a terrible bore. It would have been nice to meet
up with Bill Viola again though. His films drive me
deliciously mad. The boys are fighting. I may be
impaled with an elbow at any point. Yes, it is
endearing. Perhaps even sincerely nice. I hope
things are well with you. I haven't been some evil
ice princess godess of death...I do have a tendency
to contemplate the world of N while chain smoking
at intersections and listening to college radio. I
fear I could write for eons. It could prove to be a
bore. Ugh...the boys are looking for the BB gun
that's safely hidden in my car's glove compartment.
Chuck will never think to look over my shoulder
though. My lightly tanned, well scrubbed flesh is
protected for now. Right....writing for eons.
Anyhow....seriously...I hope thigns are well.
Perhaps my upcoming once-again commutes to the fair
city of Boston will lead me to stumble upon you for
a brunch of chocolate and my surrealistic French.
Enjoy the sunshine....it warms the creative soul. -
Dianna (^_^)
The last note I received came a week before I got drunk enough to confess to the boy-who-would-be-my-husband that I liked him. A week after having my heart stung lightly by a Viking. A month or so after a crush left me for the entire country of Spain. Now, I lament to my friends about not remembering the life of a single girl...a wild-eyed, heartbroken romantic...
Apparently, it was devastating.
of Mexican racing.
But, I got all silly and nostalgic and ending up reading old e-mails. Specifically, ones to a fellow I never kissed who would later go on to say he hated the word "debauchery." Ah well. Point being: I totally forgot about this girl, even though I remember the sweet smells and aching bones of that spring.
19.Feb.03
I secretly adore the Portland Public Library. The
long walk past parking garages and City Hall. The
businessmen in baseball hats and emo kids ready for
the war against collective heartbreak. The smell of
old books works better than a cup of hazelnut, as I
discovered that I have managed to sit at the
computer center used primarily by the
German-speaking, Somalian communities of Portland
[all of the language configurations are out of
whack, right down to the date being spit out in
pixalated French, and the Google search in Spanish].
And yes, your e-mails make me happy. Make me blush
in public, even though nobody is really looking
[except for the information desk lady, who keep
glancing at her timer]. Your job sounds utterly
fascinating, although I easily recognize/empathize
with your struggles. How does one make math and
science...ahem...fun? I guess it all depends on
levels of interaction with the material being
taught. Kids love to push the buttons, whether they
be literal or figurative in nature.
And I worry about the prospect of being President,
although power is definitely a worthy thing to wrap
a fetish around. I think I'd be better off being the
eccentric old lady with pink flamingos in her yard,
who changes her surrounding community one word of
wisdom at a time. But I stll have a couple of years
until that happens.
Farewell, for the retail slut hour creeps quickly.
- Dianna
11.May.03
I'm mystified with the idea that it's
Sunday. Yes...Dianna has been partaking in much
whiskey and walks along the Eastern Promenade, but,
fear not, for I'm in the good company of
Goddardites. Anywho....blah... I haven't written in
awhile, but do not worry with the concept that this
letter is in conjunction with booze. Aphex Twin is
playing...so lovely. Life has been quietly
wonderful. My semester is going well, if one
considers that I have changed my big scheme fous and
decided to formally embrace my love of writing.
Yah-hoo! I may even work on a book this summer,
while volunteering at the Boston Chinatown
Neighborhood Center (ESL work...blissful). Strange
things reveal themselves as the snow melts and the
trees begin to wave with budding greetings. I don't
think I've even e-mailed you since the beginning of
the war. Needless to say, my opinion can be
precisely assumed with my passive, war-hating
demeanor. I could elaborate at a latter time, with
charming eloquence to boot. Oh....gracious...it IS
Mother's Day. I'll call Mum from work this morning.
Hmmm.....what else? Portland is truly wonderful, in
a quietly charming way. I can't quite bear to leave
it, which contradicts my wandering tendencies.
Regardless, I have hyper-optimistic plans to pay off
my credit card deby and travel to Europe in the fall
(more of a holiday than anything else). Ergh...I
volunteered briefly with the Boston CyberArts
festival. It was swell enough, but I was more
intrigued by the weekly commute to Jamaica Plains
(via bus...then a hop on the T). I adored eating
fried rice and watching 24-hour coverage of the war
with the owner of a rather decent joint that served
Vanilla Coke. The gig, itself though, was passive
and a terrible bore. It would have been nice to meet
up with Bill Viola again though. His films drive me
deliciously mad. The boys are fighting. I may be
impaled with an elbow at any point. Yes, it is
endearing. Perhaps even sincerely nice. I hope
things are well with you. I haven't been some evil
ice princess godess of death...I do have a tendency
to contemplate the world of N while chain smoking
at intersections and listening to college radio. I
fear I could write for eons. It could prove to be a
bore. Ugh...the boys are looking for the BB gun
that's safely hidden in my car's glove compartment.
Chuck will never think to look over my shoulder
though. My lightly tanned, well scrubbed flesh is
protected for now. Right....writing for eons.
Anyhow....seriously...I hope thigns are well.
Perhaps my upcoming once-again commutes to the fair
city of Boston will lead me to stumble upon you for
a brunch of chocolate and my surrealistic French.
Enjoy the sunshine....it warms the creative soul. -
Dianna (^_^)
The last note I received came a week before I got drunk enough to confess to the boy-who-would-be-my-husband that I liked him. A week after having my heart stung lightly by a Viking. A month or so after a crush left me for the entire country of Spain. Now, I lament to my friends about not remembering the life of a single girl...a wild-eyed, heartbroken romantic...
Apparently, it was devastating.
posted by Di-Di at 10:20 AM
2 comments
