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Jul. 7th, 2005 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyStill waiting to hear anything from him.
People have been asking me who Tom is, and I guess I should talk about him more. I forget, I suppose, that people don't know who he is because Tom's always been known. He's one of those rare people that have absolutely no sense of social heirarchy in his head - by which I don't mean that he's in any way disrespectful to people, just that he treats everyone as if they're of equal importance. I don't know, maybe I was biased because he liked me.
He had a pink double mohawk and a tweed coat in creative writing club and I read out a story that said something about someone drowning in the pool of light from a lamppost and that's what he told me about the first time he saw me.
We were in mutual awe, I think. For a while, at least. And then I kissed him, and then we went out once, and then we were friends, in name. And then another friends moved across the common room to sit with new friends, and I sat by the window on my own, because I can't change the status quo. And Tom came over with his crazy hair and safety pins and asked me to go and sit with them.
He kept his pink hair in a plastic bag, when he cut it off, and he went around for weeks wearing a tail, once.
I pick up eccentrics. Not what they do - who they are.
Surrealism more popular than Dadaism, Tom said, due to lack of gimmicky mustache.
He's the only person I trust enough to shout at, the only person I know will shout back, the only person I know will still love me after.
He made me a t-shirt, with a stencil angel. 'There is a good fight', it says. And he gave me a book, once. English Language Teaching, green and hardbacked, from the sixties or seventies. And I looked at him, confused, and he grinned at me, that crooked toothed grin that he's always had and will probably always have, one day I'll see it in an unfamiliar wrinkled face, and he probably pinched my cheek and called me buddy, because he does that. And I opened the book and instead of pages there was a block of wood painted white, and instead of text there was a little picture of a comic of a little man giving a snake a big smacking kiss.
We can talk for hours about music. He likes the B-52s. I don't. My argument of aesthetics over content doesn't go down so well with him, in music or in art.
He found me a Weakerthans album in a garage bargain bin, for my birthday, and went around at christmas with a plastic bag full of christmas cars. Mine was yellow and sporty, and he carved a B in a heart on the top.
One time, he didn't get into the course he wanted. Photography, or something art related. And he wouldn't come out of the common room, wouldn't come outside where the sun was shining, so I unscrewed the top of my water bottle and threatened him with it. And he didn't believe me. And I emptied it all over his head. It took a while. He came out, after that. And then, one day, I was lying on my back on the floor, and he put the top of his water bottle between my teeth. And I lay there, and watched him unscrew it, and didn't really connect it with the fact that I was gonna get drenched. Payback.
He was the first person I told I was bi.
I'm gonna marry him, when I'm 80.
People have been asking me who Tom is, and I guess I should talk about him more. I forget, I suppose, that people don't know who he is because Tom's always been known. He's one of those rare people that have absolutely no sense of social heirarchy in his head - by which I don't mean that he's in any way disrespectful to people, just that he treats everyone as if they're of equal importance. I don't know, maybe I was biased because he liked me.
He had a pink double mohawk and a tweed coat in creative writing club and I read out a story that said something about someone drowning in the pool of light from a lamppost and that's what he told me about the first time he saw me.
We were in mutual awe, I think. For a while, at least. And then I kissed him, and then we went out once, and then we were friends, in name. And then another friends moved across the common room to sit with new friends, and I sat by the window on my own, because I can't change the status quo. And Tom came over with his crazy hair and safety pins and asked me to go and sit with them.
He kept his pink hair in a plastic bag, when he cut it off, and he went around for weeks wearing a tail, once.
I pick up eccentrics. Not what they do - who they are.
Surrealism more popular than Dadaism, Tom said, due to lack of gimmicky mustache.
He's the only person I trust enough to shout at, the only person I know will shout back, the only person I know will still love me after.
He made me a t-shirt, with a stencil angel. 'There is a good fight', it says. And he gave me a book, once. English Language Teaching, green and hardbacked, from the sixties or seventies. And I looked at him, confused, and he grinned at me, that crooked toothed grin that he's always had and will probably always have, one day I'll see it in an unfamiliar wrinkled face, and he probably pinched my cheek and called me buddy, because he does that. And I opened the book and instead of pages there was a block of wood painted white, and instead of text there was a little picture of a comic of a little man giving a snake a big smacking kiss.
We can talk for hours about music. He likes the B-52s. I don't. My argument of aesthetics over content doesn't go down so well with him, in music or in art.
He found me a Weakerthans album in a garage bargain bin, for my birthday, and went around at christmas with a plastic bag full of christmas cars. Mine was yellow and sporty, and he carved a B in a heart on the top.
One time, he didn't get into the course he wanted. Photography, or something art related. And he wouldn't come out of the common room, wouldn't come outside where the sun was shining, so I unscrewed the top of my water bottle and threatened him with it. And he didn't believe me. And I emptied it all over his head. It took a while. He came out, after that. And then, one day, I was lying on my back on the floor, and he put the top of his water bottle between my teeth. And I lay there, and watched him unscrew it, and didn't really connect it with the fact that I was gonna get drenched. Payback.
He was the first person I told I was bi.
I'm gonna marry him, when I'm 80.
