132. my lips were dry enough to feel my heart beating.

29Dec08

A wonderfully beautiful day, sunny and windy, jacket-hat weather. An end of a decades-old Italian restaurant, burnt and dripping water, the front of the store looking aged and crisp while the back didn’t exist, sun peeking through the broken windows.

Present exchange. Naughty lipstick, a manatee necklace, and lots of tea for me. Mostly caffeinated, hallelujah. The wonderful kind barrista being the morning worker, in the charred-smelling shops of downtown.

Exploring an antique shop, we laugh at a toy, look at all the crazy things – lumpy dolls and therapist chairs. I find a “Vintage Soviet Hat” in the back. It fits perfectly, and I salute the shop. A man pantomimes at me, joking about my rather communist appearance. I don’t know why he’s unable to speak words, but I laughed as the point got across.

The leftover snow held dog-track as big as my hand, bootprints half again as big as my foot beside them. Hagrid and Fang for a walk?

Sickness and dog-walks and quietly enjoying the day, napping and hallucinations and guitar hero and brawl. Huge dinners with stares and spills and laughter. Friends and movies, jokes and various memories. Everyone is now a dictator. No one wanted to be Juan Peron.

At the little shop, we bought beautiful Japanese bowl/sushi sets. There were stones and hats, the remnants of another hippie shop come and gone. The first time in the store, he pointed out the weeping buddah to me, little wooden figure. My head went still. I nodded, but that was it. The second time, I picked him up, purchased him.

He’s by my bed right now. A part of my mind stops whirring and clicking when I glance at him, and I can’t really find a good reason why.

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