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Monday, August 19, 2002

in the summer of 1994, i slept with a boy named christe dhosi lazo.
no. in the summer of 1994, i went to art summer school because my family had been extra extra poor that school year and so i qualified to go for 16 dollars. i know it was 16 dollars because i saw a form somewhere with the amounts for the poor and extra poor and the full-price students where the usual cost was 405 dollars. i had a car then, a used ford tempo that was scab-colored and dusty and half-broken and my granny had bought it for me after i ran away from home because she felt i must not be getting enough freedom if i was running off like i did. and i drove it and drove it and drove it, long secret drives to other states and other neighborhoods, just to take a look at them, parks and quiet suburbs and deserted historic towns and sometimes virginia beach because i was born there and like to sit by myself in the dark on the actual beach part and listen to the ocean and think, somehow i have a connection to this and i wonder where virginia beach hospital is, where our apartment is, where that preschool with the blacktop asphalt playground is; i'd sneak away and explore and i did this until the car fell to bits, or dissolved, or i moved to richmond to be collegiate. but before this happened, i woke up every day in august and collected the following girls: anne-marie aubin, leigh baker and zoe palma. we fit precisely in my car as Four. the book amnesia by douglas cooper was my favorite then and a library copy was shoved in between the carseats and everyone would take turns reading it as the month went by.
we had art summer school together and there was one class where the only thing we did was sit and talk with one another with drawing boards on our laps and hands inky or chalky or wet with acrylic and there was a boy who sort of walked all floppy and awkwardly who had a class down the hall and so was always stopping in and would lean over my shoulder and ask pointless questions and hover and look at the floor and say overly dramatic things and say sad goth things and say hilarious things to me all day.
march espedido was my grown-up-est, artist-est friend whose mother was never home and spent whole nights away and march would drive us all to dc and we'd dance at the gay clubs there. her house was the best because we'd eat mangos and her bed was magnetized so that it made your back feel loose when you woke up after sleeping over. and one weekend we drove to alexandria to eat picnic foods in the middle of old town in the center of the night, she had collected chris from somewhere and he was in the backseat sitting next to me with our legs pressed togther because there were a million people in the car with us but i could not separate my mind from our legs touching like this

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