sunday april 29 2001    |    3:00 a.m.-ish

three in the morning, in the aftermath of summer sendoff, making a mixtape for fritz's birthday party tomorrow night (today night, actually), currently listening to david bowie and wondering which song to include. that's the problem with mixtape-making, is the compromising.

the all-day music- and drink-fest was, for me, hazy. a good part was spent smoking with fritz, jason, and julie, and sitting out on the lawn listening to shitty band after shitty band, with theo and "cypher divine" breaking it down somewhere in between, which was no less than hysterical -- his lyrical skills, that is, which he had much to freestyle about. a delicious brunch was had at her place, and she even made a cameo appearance, but didn't stick around for too long. (what happened?) it's always anticlimactic, this daylong debauchery of kenyon's. there really are only so many consecutive hours for which you can be altered until, inevitably, you just pass out or turn into a walking-shell/alcoholic-beverage-container of yourself. (the things you learn in college. woohoo it's diploma time!)

so since i already passed out for several hours earlier in the day, i'm up now, finishing this tape and otherwise idling away time.

earlier, before i coaxed my computer into loading the diaryland, i set out to write a long, involved, quote-strewn, rant-filled e-mail. until i realized i had nobody to send it to. nobody to really tell everything about everything and nothing at all. my bed, to the right of my desk: empty. david bowie singing about sorrow and pretty things. nobody with whom to fill the bed, or change the music, or get ready to leave with, or . . . yes, the usual. everybody's list is more or less the same.

i wonder if there's anybody, really, after all. the list of requirements is long, and involved, and quote-strewn and rant-filled, and each one is indispensable. he has a lot to live up to. he has to like smoking pot in the afternoon and listening to the allman brothers. and listen to david bowie and sebadoh and fugazi and joy division. and write well. and dazzle me when he speaks. and cook well. and read well, and much. and not be afraid of poetry. (or drugs or opera or mood swings or uncertainties or obstacles or sushi or money or honesty or squishing bugs or planes or sticking around.) and be sexy in his own way. and be fascinating, and be fascinated. and love shows and divey clubs and bookstores and oceans and interesting buildings and art galleries. and be a little pretentious in all the right places. and drink bourbon. and know what he's talking about. and make me laugh until my sides ache. and like old movies. and escape on road trips with me. and write me letters often. and surprise me. and Listen to me, really Listen. and stay up too late. and not mind a messy room. and speak languages, or want to. and like art. and be a music snob. and stay in bed all day sometimes. and be charming. and be interested. and sit in silence with me. and be blunt. and have a vision, a dream, or many. and be open. and be disarming and generous and kind and spontaneous. and like spending hours kissing. and listen to vinyl. and hate pet names. and wonder. and be fearless. and be optimistic. and think i'm the best thing since sliced bread.

it's not a lot to ask, is it? not put so eloquently, and not complete by any means, but there it is.

and then i think i'm lucky to have one less major headache.

but i don't know. the bed is still empty and the night isn't getting any younger and i still don't have anyone to write an e-mail to.

april has been a bad month for this diary.