Dear Diary: Natsukashiiiiiii

I suppose it’s still PMS, in addition to the contracted feeling of winter and impending birthday, but today’s theme is things I miss. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what’s present, but I’m having some kind of hollow fearful feeling around the things I am missing.

I miss Bolinas, that little field on the mesa just above Agate Beach where I found the wild strawberry. I can’t forget that flavor, more like a strawberry than any strawberry I had eaten before or have eaten since.

I really miss my first boyfriend.

I miss hanging out at NeverNeverland in Shimokitazawa with the Davids, drinking Oolong-cha.

I miss Stephanie’s blog; I recently wrote and told her so. I missed it so much I started reading its archives.

I miss the crowds at the Zinc Bar when Brendan & Douglas were curating. The new space is better, but NY feels different now.

I miss my cat Nikolai, although there’s nothing wrong with Dante and Nemo and I love them both intensely. I do miss their kittenhoods, though.

I miss The Farm, where was it, way down at the end of Army St.? It’s not called Army Street any more, is it. And I miss the Deaf Club, where Zippy Pinhead once copped a feel, and The People’s Temple, where I would sit on the stairs and split a bottle of Jack Daniels with my juvenile delinquent pals.

I miss my bedloft in Sausalito that later became a bulb box in Bolinas.

I miss learning about blues and gospel at Shasta school.

I miss the really tense, gray atmosphere at 80 Langton St. in the 80s, and my weird asymmetrical haircut at the time. I miss that reading of Clark Coolidge’s of The Maintains I think it was accompanied by piano. I miss going to what was the restaurant, La Fiesta?, afterwards with the poets. La Fiesta?

I miss having my hair bright orange, as recently as three years ago. Two years?

I miss this particular pair of boots I got in Japan and wore completely out. They were burgundy with waffle crepe platforms, round toe, just above the ankles with a lug-sole. No one, no one makes boots like that. They were perfect.

I totally miss karaoke boxes. I miss hearing enka outside or at karaoke and not just in my iPod.

I miss these mentaiko omelettes I could get at this one place in Shimokitazawa; I think they mixed the mentaiko with mayonnaise. It was creamy, Served with shredded cabbage. Divine.

I don’t mean this as a creative writing exercise, I really do miss these things. I think I might also miss creative writing exercises, though. I miss the period I went through when I could never be so guileless as to write something like this.

I miss growing tulips on my veranda. I miss having a veranda.

I miss it being any season but winter. Winter can suck my ass. I really miss tree leaves.

I miss all my lovers except one who should be expunged from the record.

I miss all my Halloween costumes, even the ones I only remember from photographs, like when I was two and I was a clown covered with big polka-dots in primary colors.

I miss last weekend already, and it’s only Monday.

I miss the whole-wheat crust pizzas at the Resh House in Tam Junction where Uncle Vinty played with Pamela Polland and the Cockettes dropped in with their eyelashes and doily-patched jeans.

I miss the experience of eating artichokes being something new, like it was when I was seven.

Gary walks in and says to say I miss him, too. I miss writing to Gary. He reminds me that I’m missing the Preston Sturges movie that is here waiting for us from Netflix, so I will stop this ridiculously indulgent journal entry, which could go on infinitely, I guess, and go watch it, even though it will probably make me miss the 40s, even though I wasn’t even born yet.

What do you miss?

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13 thoughts on “Dear Diary: Natsukashiiiiiii

  1. I miss sex before AIDS. I miss walking to work, smoky bistros, teaching transvestite taxi driver junkies instead of engineers. I miss tomatoes with taste. I miss my mom.

  2. I miss Cadex. More truthfully, I miss working with bright young talent, however much of it was wasted there. I miss walking to work with a home-made espresso in my hands. I miss the rooftop of the Townsend Building. I miss the sawdust floor of Bouncer’s and the employees of West Coast Ship Chandlers, who used to drink beers at TC’s place at 10:30 in the morning.

  3. i miss being in a band. i miss the writing exercises you gave to class at the poetry project. i miss writing to my sweetheart, too. i miss knowing exactly what i want. i miss, nada, your voluptuous curly red hair.

  4. I don’t miss my lovers, but I miss being lonely and thinking about them; I miss humidity and malty assam tea and open air markets full of food stalls; walking to work; poets and friends in DC and Biddy Mulligans and Malcom X Park; running in the mountains above Mexico city and being strong enough to do that in the first place; swimming in lakes, especially lakes in Maine; wood floors; autumn; brunch at Polly’s on U Street in DC; Moby Dick’s House of Kabob (the original Georgetown Location)…ok, I’m getting hungry, I’d better have a snack.

  5. Miss Uncle Vinty too. Somewhere in the grand collage of all the stuff I’ve dragged around with me are photos and even a cassette tape, or so I hope. Ali Baba Cafe, where we all bent for the sensitive artist.Name, Doug Keachie 415 Ash Street, Tam Valley 1975 – 1980

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