sunday march 11 2001    |    1:46 a.m.

i do apologize for the lack of images. apparently my new tripod.com account was found to be in violation of its membership agreement somehow, so i got the boot. i'm in the process of locating a new image host -- problem is, the image files are stored on a network drive at school, so the diaryland will probably remain ugly for a little over a week. maybe it's time to change the template anyway.

or maybe it would be most efficient to get a blog? i'm thinking about it. although i think i'd miss the diaryland. i am a creature of habit after all.

anyway. i did finally speak with coral gables indie-label guy -- ed. he's excited and i'm excited and like i told him, oh my god, i've been living in this place for ten years and i never, ever knew there was a scene. i think we're both a little insane. i think he's going the way i want to go, and he's the place i want to start. i have visions of underground guerrilla publicity, and of the south florida indie scene exploding onto the map. i am also not quite insane enough not to realize that this could in fact explode in my face. i would not be getting paid. it would take years. but goddamnit, this, as far as i'm concerned, is the dream of a lifetime.

you know what? you inspire me. constantly.

so. we'll see about all this.

some three hours ago i was supposed to meet ed at a britpop club in coral gables. he wants to talk more and give me some cds of bands he's working with, bands with names that are lush and stories that alternately make me laugh or make my hair want to stand on end. but, as is usual when things matter, plans fell through. i have no ride. and so i'm stuck at home tonight, wide awake because i woke up at 5 this afternoon, and haven't exactly been running around expending energy today. so there is this update.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

like most babies smell like butter
this one smelled like no other

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

last night patrick and i went to have a little birthday beer at a sports bar to celebrate alison's 24th. it was good to see papo again and to hear the many stories of his tangled lovelife and punctuate them with cigarettes and exclamations. good to laugh with rolando about the same five or ten things we always laugh about and get great hugs and watch him play host so elegantly and effortlessly. good to be crass and silly and drunk with people i've known for so many years, so comfortable in a way, much like you were talking about a couple of days ago.

and then at three-ish in the morning (we like the nightlife, baby) patrick and i drove to the beach. it was a full moon out last night, and it seems that every month when this happens a ton of people flock down to the sand, roughly between 24th & 25th streets, and have bonfires and a drum circle. (are you proud of me?) we got there pretty late and the party was still kicking, still huge, even when we left at five it refused to die out. i'm sure those kids were out there until the sunrise put out their need for fires.

so we met up with denise and johnny, who'd told us about the thing in the first place, and their friend al. we smoked lots of pot, ate lots of cheetos, and watched people dance and drum. it was beautiful, even with patrick getting bored and cranky in the meantime, beautiful even with cops lining the boardwalk behind us, beautiful because it was four in the morning and there were hundreds of kids dancing around fires that were ours and were all we had and all that mattered until day took them away from us again. our little escape. i wish i could be here for the next two full moons. this is what al said to me, "i will see you on the next full moon, then." even if i didn't have a lick of his lollipop. even if i couldn't return his looks. "i will see you on the next full moon."

and this is why i love miami. another installment of the chronicles.

i wish i could've danced around a fire with mikey. he would've loved it. i wish i could have signed his band one day. or given him my lou barlow autograph. (harmacy was a breakthrough for him. it saved him from groovecore.) i can't remember if this summer will mark one year or two.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

i promise not to sell your perfumed secrets
there are countless formulas for pressing flowers

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

i miss you, too. like you wouldn't believe.

tomorrow (today) i think my mom and i will go see traffic, which i am not particularly excited about. the movie, i mean. bleh. and then hopefully ed will want to pick me up and take me to listen to records. i do not do not do not want to think that in a week i will be back. i don't know how i'll make it. but i guess i will.

i will have to keep going to the beach to recharge my batteries. six more weeks' worth. this can only mean one thing: nightswimming.