Deadly Ivy     |   home year in review (2001)   |   year in review (2002) year in review (2002) School ended about a week ago. There was no Keil and no Aaron to nostalgically talk with me. There was no car: it was sold for a few-hundred dollars to some jerk-off who repainted it and who will never appreciate it the way I did, and could never know how goddam happy I felt, for once in my life, riding on the back of it. I didn't go to graduation; I didn't streak through the streets of Iola. I road the bus home and I didn't do anything. I've been decent, though; honestly. I've been decent and fine and okay and mediocre, which is the most you can really expect from the world, they tell me. I've just watched lots of movies and read lots of books, and I've written some garbage and made some corny jokes. And I've been decent and my resolve is iron. I remember how odd it sounded - that's what really struck me: the noise of our naked feet pounding against the road late at night. That's what struck me and strikes me and makes the whole year look pretty fucking stupid in comparison. I don't think once in 365 days did I feel so infinitely blissful as I did then, when we were whiling away summer evenings under the stars or floating down the stream like Huck and Jim or keeping Jean DiDomenica awake with our laughter. I don't know how I can read through whatever I was trying to write last year without feeling a little remorse. I don't know how I can keep reading through Swann's Way without wondering if Proust, no matter how exquisite he may be, could ever manage to achieve the kind of supreme beauty that I'd managed to on an armored trampoline so long ago. Ah, hell. It doesn't matter anymore. Bafongu, to you, too. I'm sorry, old sport.