This finally-really-hot-and-sweaty-summer, I am interested in tromping through grass, finding treasures, laying on rocky beds, embarking on rituals. I am interested in burying ourselves in sand of every color and texture, and hoping to find the biggest piece of seaglass yet. I would still like to exchange postcards about our days and drawings about our dreams and maybe we'll have the best August ever, ever, ever. I am ready to get sea salty wet and humid sticky awful messy and there are just so many campsites out there for us to conquer and creatures for us to spot and I want you to tell me everything. Every last fucking thing, for real.
TO DO: Break 300 at skee-ball
Increase proximity to nothingness
Relax, take a breather, hang loose, simmer down
SELL THAT BITCH OF A NOVA
Watch whales in cold Atlantic, maybe on an awful gray day surrounded by people filled with anything but grayness
ALWAYS visit museums with exciting novelty artifacts
See Pacific
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I live for that unbeatable rush in revealing a most closely-guarded secret.
I pray for someone whom this does not make uncomfortable.
I'd love to talk about our problems.
I really truly want to be excited together.
NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO, PERCY SLEDGE, TREES RUSTLING IN THE WIND, TOOTHBRUSHING. Electric Light Orchestra and awkward AM radio on the JIB. Longwinded voicemail messages and the sound of you chewing. We just have so many things to discuss.
Cary Grant, aka Archibald Alexander Leach. Slowly growing my collection of Wholphins.
PUBLIC BROADCASTING. Jacques Cousteau documentaries. Family heirlooms revered. Factoids on space elevators, bonobo monkeys, Casanova and nuclear warfare.
Lorrie Moore, McSweeney's tiny treasures, Roald Dahl, antique plant & animal picture books, Charlie Smith, Sophie Calle, the Midas touch of Dave Eggers and all his special projects, the first blank pages of yesteryear complete with dedications and well-wishes.
KILLER DOLPHINS