A Punk Rock House

Dust and I are remodeling the looks here. It'll all be good again soon.

A Punk Rock House

Things continue to pull themselves together for me, but oh so slowly. I've now got my first decent paycheck in 10 months, my tiny tax return, and a dash of shiny new self-confidence.

Last Friday I wasn't needed at the movie theater, so I rambled down to Little 5 Points and treated myself to nice evening of reading comic books in a coffee house, something I haven't done in ages. There was plenty of good people watching to be had down there too - club kids, homeless, and your usual post-graduate stew of the poverty-stricken over-educated twenty-somethings. Also a lot of people whom I suspect over use hyphens.

Anyway. While I was there I read a 'zine form Vancouver, all about this guy who owned a house where loads of people would crash and where bands played in the basement. The 'zine made me all remembery about Aral and our rock-on apartment back in Boston. And I looked up from that 'zine and just sort of drank in all the people in the coffee house around me for a moment. There was a guy and a girl behind me folding and stapling their latest self-publication. There were a group of art students to my left laughing about something sexual. There were people outside walking along in the warm Friday dark of the Atlanta night with dyed hair and odd jackets and nose rings.

And I almost cried, because I realized how long it had been since I had really had my life. I mean, I've been learning a lot the past 7 or 8 months. It's been a great growing experience I've been through, and I really owe my cousins more than I can talk about for putting up with me all this time. But I miss my life, my assembling-'zines-with-friends, hanging-out-in-coffee-houses, throwing-big- parties-with-no-money life. I miss party leftovers. I miss hangovers. I even miss the bad boyfriend drama.

I'm going to have to work really hard to get it all back, but it's do-able. I'm moving to Little Five in May, come hell or high water.

You know, it's quite sunny and funky down there in the way I need places to be. I wrote Aral all about these longings this week, about how we needed to be in places that made us happy in that special party kinda way. It'll happen. I know it will.

I really want to own (though I'll probably just end up renting) a big funky punk rock house, with odd people stuffed in rooms the size of walk in closets. I want to be surrounded by people who stimulate me intellectually and artistically. I'm gonna have bookcases and bookcases of graphic novels, new music whenever I want it, pretty young men who want to sleep with me, loads of the best cooking things, big tea parties where everyone wears drag queen hats. The lawn will be properly lumpy and full of weeds and wild strawberries. I want aluminum lighting fixtures from Mexico with bits of colored glass in them, quilts made by the black ladies at the Atlanta flea markets, hardwood floors with a history.

And I want you to know that when I get all this stuff set up - it won't be too long, I promise - I want you to know that my friends are all quite welcome whenever they'd like to stop by for a week or two. Because wherever I set up my home for good will be full of sunlight and good things to eat and comfortable pillows.

We all deserve to have a place like that to lay about, full of good smells and warmth and comfort.

And I'm gonna make it happen.

It'll be just that way, for as long as I can help it, for the rest of my life.

Promise. Pinky promise. Sealed with a kiss, man. Happy Valentine's Day, I loan this dream to you.