Memory, all alone in the moonlight . . .

It’s been about a year. I’m sitting outside on the back steps of the house at 5:29 am on the 4th of June, 2007 and this memory sidles up on me. It was last year and it was evening and I was waiting for a call from Maddi. The sky was that perfect shade of blue, that stunning ultramarine between dusk and dark and the the pale yellow green of the leaves, front lit by the porch light, contrasted brightly against the horizon. I was scrawling ideas out in my sketchbook. I think I was working on the Douchebags of America series which--quel suprise--still hasn't gotten of the ground. Then I wrote a diary entry about the beauty of the sky and the whether or not France would beat Brazil in the World Cup game that was due to happen the next day. That was the summer after my first year at college. The summer that the cat who I named Nastassya Filippovna after the main female character in The Idiot. She was such a sweet cat and she came everyday for awhile and didn't even take food when we offered it. That was when I decided that I am both a dog and cat person.

And now I'm back here. But this summer no one else is home except for Karlene and Agnes and Agnes barely qualifies as at home seeing as she hardly ever answers her phone and when she does she has to work or study for her MCAT class. I love Karlene and we can talk, but really we are quite different. Mostly it feels as though everyone else has grown up and I'm still here--at home--barely cleaning my room when my mother asks and trying not to make too much noise when I stay up until 3 am. I'm considering getting a job at Martha's Vineyard next year. I've got a place to live and if I can convince a friend or two to get a job out there too it could be a blast.

Yesterday was totally insane. Poor Gramp in the hospital! At least he's all right. I was kind of worried for a bit that this family reunion would turn tragic. It's funny thinking about getting old. It seems so far off now . . . but when I was young so did twenty.

listening to--Rilo Kiley: Take Offs and Landings