this is not art * v.4

there was a time in my life - not so long ago, and not too recently - where i danced on tables in a dark-blue room with a ms. pac-man machine and a lopsided pool table. where i sat in a wood booth and read books, or wrote in my spiral notebook, or sat on the front stoop and admired a boy in a hat. where i watched cigarettes being lit and consumed, relationships formed and broken, sexual desires taken to the next level. where i had five best friends that i saw every night in our own personal haven. a place of refuge, of familiarity, of fun, of desire, of co-dependency, of unhealthy lingering. a place called cafe mocha. set on a street in l.a., down the corner from a lamp shop you walked past after parking in their lot, a lot that saw plenty of action - be it 11pm or 7am. i've yet to get back the feelings of being 16 and 17 in mocha. of dancing on the roof with suzanne to the strains of our voices singing 'the little mermaid,' and watching cop helicopters flying past us, shining lights on our heads. of sitting on a couch and drawing suns, over and over again. the same sun. trying to perfect it. of never being better at playing pool, even though the table listed slightly starboard and warped my dimensions. it may have been that my dimensions were already warped, and it just so happened to fit perfectly. it's something that would make sense. the new years i spent there, until 5am, age 17, drinking champagne and lying in the booths, watching shaunti dance on the tables. coloring with my crayolas, blank paper, coloring books, the sort of thing you feel superior for, because you're older than age 7 and still enjoy it. nights that ended too soon, and yet never ended - morphing into each other, so the whole experience seemed to last 2 years. or maybe 9 years. maybe it's still lasting - that feeling of freedom, that so often flies away and leaves you floating. of having friends with history, who know everything about you. of sitting at a table with your 5 best friends and talking about whose spit you've shared. and laughing when you realize you've shared spit with all five. past the jealousy and denial and bullshit - at the heart of it all, i had 5 best friends. girls who were smart and beautiful and who i loved fiercely. who i still love fiercely, despite not having spoken to a couple of them in the recent past. time can go by, but you can never forget what you shared - when your heart and soul were poured on a table for them to consume. i want that back - that freedom, that fierce love, the rawness of being 16 and experiencing things for the first time.

and now, one of us is going to experience something for the first time. simone - i love you to death. i wish you all the congratulations in the world on your engagement - you're the first of us. you give me hope.

i love you.

julie