Nineteen Ninety Eight

Bubble gum flavoured, power pop nostalgia. When the lights in our heart blinked as furiously as those in our sneakers, when Baby and Posh and Ginger sang their sticky commercial dance tracks to us, and we loved them for it. When Johnny still loved Winona and we were true. Hurt was hurt, anger was anger and joy was joy. Before we were taught to feel shame we were bratty liars, story-tellers, playground bullies, sandbox lovers. The days were long and evenings were fluorescent jelly fantasies, storybook glories. Sometimes I miss you, 1998.

Devouring

If you ever have ninety minutes to spare, spend them watching "Etoiles: Dancers of the Paris Opera Ballet, Class, Rehearsals and Snapshots". Nils Tavernier spent three months in 1999 filming the ballet company, and has created one of the most beguiling documentaries I've ever seen. I wasn't expecting to love it, but there was something about these dancer's lives, the disciplined austerity contrasted with the glamour and prestige of their careers that did it for me.

"This too shall pass"

I want to be a person with a story. I want to be warm, glowing, exude the kind of golden heat that some just do - they drip in viscous honey.Throaty happy. No more quiet little tragedies by bedside tables, no more false romanticism, no more pretence, no more clammy hands and pins and needles. Truest true, white blood heat that cuts through your bones. Expectations. Not knowing what one wants at seventeen, they look at you like you're a slacker brat. So one just rambles on, quietly, painfully. I grit my teeth and give myself headaches and worry. Thank you, alexander supertramp, cristopher mccandless - you break my heart. One cannot live off hope and beauty, but I still want Alaska. I want Alaska with you. You called for for the first time in 14 months. To tell me it would be Georgia. You coughed your dry little coughs, I could tell you were nervous. But we were so young, and so giddy. And today, nothing. I didn't feel your fingers drumming my skin, I didn't feel your lips on my collarbone. You provoked nothing. And I wished you the best on your new adventure and you told me about Atlanta. And we laughed and said bye, letting you hang up first. When the phone line clicked I knew I would never speak to you again. And I push forward, long strokes, muscles taught in turquoise water, summer incandescent in my veins.

p.s: superbomba's photostream on flickr is gold