Journal
home is the place where they catch you when you fall
Something in my dreams or sleep at night has me waking up in the morning short of breath and with a racing heart. I can’t recall my dreams, really—something about a man who was very tall, something about kissing girls, but nothing I can remember would warrant this panic that lasts halfway through the day.
Brin tells me that he spent the weekend in Boston with Amanda and Brian, filming a dvd. I sent him a shirt and had him deliver a letter, but it’s not the same. Although I don’t miss the city or the subway or the smells (well, most of the smells) I do miss my old friends badly. I miss the costumes and the talks and the inspiration. I want to go gather them up—Franz and Emily, Meredith, Jack Terricloth and Yula and Amanda (Brian too), not to mention the notorious Peter Hess—and set them up here, in my living room in the woods, and just sit for a while.
I love my friends here, the few close ones I’ve made. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But it would be so nice and sweet to see some old familiar faces among them, drinking and laughing and singing our lives away, screaming, speeding down the BQE at four in the morning after hours and hours of song.
— katie
I fully intend to come and visit you soon.
xxx
Mer
— Mer
A LOT. We miss you A LOT.
— Mer
i’m drunk and in mexico. but i’ll be back in new york on july 2nd, and when you invite me up to your palace of malice i’ll totally be there.
sluts and mezcal,
— emilyn!