lost boys in our clubhouse.

so, summertime hit like a hurricane. well, not at first. it was subtle. the piles of dust and refuse piled thoughout the house began to grow and give off a bitter odor, not from apathay, no, but through the owner's preoccupation with enjoyment of life. the dishes piled high and were eventually utilized as an apartment complex for a swarm of gnats that would come out in force everytime the kitchen sink was turned on, evoking memories of watching the l.a. riots on television. the hot water was shut off at the beginning of that month, no one seemed to noticed. everyone just showered less or waited for the sun to strike them in an exceedingly hot manner. It was a dream for us then. We were all lost boys in our clubhouse. hours from the parental supervision that had micromanaged our childhood we felt the freedom of the open wind pulling on our hair. there were no restrictions on how to live, just the stipulations of working enough to post rent, beer, cigarette, and maybe even food money. it was a fair trade, and eventually our rumbling stomechs couldn't even get the best of us. we were poor but happy. we painted all the walls blue and made attempts at sophistication. they all fell far too short, but we were young and thought that the world wasn't going to notice when we were slipshod, because we were the world, and none of us would have ever said a word. in the day we roamed free, stealing bikes or just staying home, nothing could hold us captive, just the moment. when the sun started to set we lit candles and watched them dance through our ever intoxicating vision. the smell of incense burned heavy in those days, masking the stale cigarette smoke and making everything we owned smell like sandalwood. we played with all of the girls, making promises and holding hands, but always secretly hoping that at the end of the night there would just be three of us still quietly locked into conversation long after the last partygoer had stalked off into the night. we talked of all the things we were going to buy when we grew up and had the money, we talked of all the things we would do when the time was right. we were pacing through the ends of childhood, night after night, as the smoke discolored the ceiling and the candal wax spilled onto the coffee table, covering the glossy magazines completely. we never saw it coming, just one day it was there. the glances around the room started to take on a grittier lens, and the dream was dead. our oasis of childhood had become a dollhouse of the past. what had once been the representation of freedom began to be what was holding each of us from being what we all could be. just as giants can not inhabit the houses of men, men can not inhabit the homes of dolls, and we realized it all too slowly. eventually we all abandoned that house, slowly at first, just spending fewer and fewer hours inside its walls, and then fewer and fewer nights. they all picked excile long before i could walk away. for days and nights at a time i would be the only permenant resident inside its walls, carefully pacing the rooms in a more bitter candle light then before. there were the nights where i just longed for it to be the way it was, and then there were the other moments where i just wanted to burn it down. wash my hands of what was holding me back. instead i fled, following the paths of the others at first, but still i fled. eventually i knew it would take the same path as last time. a northern safe haven, but this time as a resting ground before the long journey through the night to the waking shades of the pacific coastline instead of a destination. soon, eight short months, and it will all be mine, a new landscape to carve out the things i have been dreaming of all along. the city and the sea will sleep in the west as the mountains to the east project the sunlight through the valley to start each day. i know where i am, i know where i am going, and i know where i want to be.





listening to -
ray lamontange - empty (till the sun turns black)
ray lamontange - write you a letter (Raycharles Montange)
james taylor - your smiling face (greatest hits vol. 2)
death cab for cutie - you can do better than me (but i can't do better than you) (narrow stairs)
funeral for a friend - bend your arms to look like wings (casually dressed and deep in conversation)
funeral for a friend - waking up (casually dressed and deep in conversation)