HAPPY BIRTHDAY, A.

A fire at the Point is a very satisfying way to celebrate someone's birth.

We had cheese & wine, French bread, and s'mores. T. even brought his iPod, and played what he described as the French equivalent to Frank Sinatra, and then Frank himself. You can see the city in the near distance, tall and glowing.

T. called me a hippie. Maybe because I was too close to the fire. Or because I was wearing a boy sweater. I don't know what "hippie" means anymore, but I ditch the political 1960's activism and closely relate it with "earthy". Which is a term I don't mind being associated with--it reminds me of camping, and why I feel the way I do about the people I feel that way about.

(Walking that morning for hours, to the green line stop at Bronzeville. Being afraid of the vacuum cleaner when I was 3. Vanilla soft-serve from the Cone Zone. Dog searches. Summer thunderstorms, and running through all the puddles in an oversized T-shirt. Babysitting my neighbor's children and reading Siddhartha on the couch at night. The night in Amsterdam when it rained so hard and I almost bought brown corduroys. That day it was hot and we went to the creek and swam and it was perfect. When I lost the library's copy of "On the Road", and how happy I was to find it again. The smell of my room the summer after 9th grade, when it was redone, empty, lavender, and I had early morning driver's training. My sister's wedding, being alone that night, and the phone call I got. Those sandals that I loved, from that crap store in the Upper Peninsula.)

I should write more. It's what I want to do.

I should also drink a lot of water before the AM. Wine is the happiest drunk, is it not?

I can't believe it's 11:20pm. It feels like 3 in the morning..