and the wind. cries. mary.

sometimes, when hannah calls, i answer the phone before turning down the car stereo just to mess with her. it's only funny when i'm listening to, say, soldierboy or alicia keys. not that i'm ever listening to soldierboy or alicia keys. or keith urban, for that matter. so i do it today and she's like:

what was that, guns and roses?

me: no. jimi hendrix. castles made of sand.

han: nice throw back to 13. listen, i'm about to turn on pink floyd's the wall.

me: yeah, i'm about to get really stoned and watch tommy.

han: yeah.

me: janis joplin rules.

when i was in the eighth grade i wore this black jimi hendrix shirt, breaker jeans with holes (i cut myself) in the knee, and navy plaid vans. i got kicked out of student council for wearing that very outfit to initiation. same year, i told my orchestra teacher to go to hell and threw my cello bow across the room. also got in trouble for giving lauren johnson (still my best friend) a haircut in miss kilbreth's lit class. i skipped class with my friend halina, who carried dr. pepper bottles filled with bourbon in her purse. the guy who was in love with her--a friend of ours who passed away last week--blared "eyes of the world," "cassidy," and "looks like rain" outside her bedroom window from a jam box. we had this babysitter, her uncle mark, who took us to the nu way in the middle of the night, propped us in front of the foose ball table and got hammered with his girlfriend cheri, the bartender. we played with devil sticks. we hacky sacked. i owned peter tosh's legalize it, despite the fact that i don't like the pot or the reggae.

about this time, hannah was in some hawaiian prep school taking hits of acid. kidding. the FBI would never let her be mitt romney's assistant if that had actually happened. which is her dream.

this post, as hannah would say, is the literary equivalent of the larry king/paris hilton post-prison interview. only, it's a little sad that we can make fun of the music that opened so many doors, the songs we listened to riding in old trucks, going down country roads lined with luminaries...okay, i can't go through with it. i was going to open up into some sort of lyrical rant that involved the words:
cicada
kaleidoscope
peet moss
jonquils
fireflies
christened
lullaby
transcendence
and then act like it was sincere, you know, to totally mortify hannah. it's not worth it, though. i will say that recently my mother found one of the first poems i ever wrote. it was about listening to blood on the tracks for the first time and crying and falling asleep hugging the vinyl cover. sweet jesus.