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Helpher811 · 05-10-2006, 08:19 PM

I can hear the pound of the surf, even above the girls clamoring that the last bag was forgotten at the gas station. While a few missing lipsticks and brushes wouldn't ruin the trip, it will give them something to yank about for a while. The largest of the bags is ready for me as I try to fish out the borrowed keychain. The stony path is as malicious to the new rolling mechanisms as I imagined at the store. Broken and battered, expended to it's last, that's the way this holiday will be. I don't want anything to be saved, hung onto, captured or otherwise not-fully-consumed for the precious few moments of two weeks I have. The uneasy banter of a long drive wimpers to a quiet awe as the front door opens. Still creaky, as when I was a kid, the wood panels around the door frame welcome me in. Sun burns, hangovers, unnecessary words, and maidens of the sea with too much bleach in their hair fill my vision. Unscheduled and always ready, the house is pouring in the sun, and the smell of unkept laundry and spoiled wine waft through. Straining a few forearm muscles, relishing the uneven roll of the luggage, I plot a course for the back living room, closest to the beach. I hope I'm making enough space for the additional bags that should be close behind, but looking over my shoulder, I find I'm standing alone.
Too quickly the girls want to savour the space and comforts of an old vacation home on the beach, with scars of spilled liquors, broken sofas, and waterlogged cushions. The house's own nostalgia for parties and long binges are slowly released, like a recovering addict finding a quiet, unseen moment to remember.
The blondes want the second story room, with more girlish decor and crumbling pink wallpaper. It's less of a decision than a badge of approval to be shown off to all. The brunette with curls doesn't really care where, as long as the back living room always allows the sun in. The redhead is lost on the third floor, between two rooms and a staircase where too many stolen kisses and forgotten books dwell.
Unkept, laid so plainly, that other world of Holiday arrives.

05-10-2006, 08:19 PM	#4349 (permalink)
Helpher811 Junkie Location: Someplace crazier	I can hear the pound of the surf, even above the girls clamoring that the last bag was forgotten at the gas station. While a few missing lipsticks and brushes wouldn't ruin the trip, it will give them something to yank about for a while. The largest of the bags is ready for me as I try to fish out the borrowed keychain. The stony path is as malicious to the new rolling mechanisms as I imagined at the store. Broken and battered, expended to it's last, that's the way this holiday will be. I don't want anything to be saved, hung onto, captured or otherwise not-fully-consumed for the precious few moments of two weeks I have. The uneasy banter of a long drive wimpers to a quiet awe as the front door opens. Still creaky, as when I was a kid, the wood panels around the door frame welcome me in. Sun burns, hangovers, unnecessary words, and maidens of the sea with too much bleach in their hair fill my vision. Unscheduled and always ready, the house is pouring in the sun, and the smell of unkept laundry and spoiled wine waft through. Straining a few forearm muscles, relishing the uneven roll of the luggage, I plot a course for the back living room, closest to the beach. I hope I'm making enough space for the additional bags that should be close behind, but looking over my shoulder, I find I'm standing alone. Too quickly the girls want to savour the space and comforts of an old vacation home on the beach, with scars of spilled liquors, broken sofas, and waterlogged cushions. The house's own nostalgia for parties and long binges are slowly released, like a recovering addict finding a quiet, unseen moment to remember. The blondes want the second story room, with more girlish decor and crumbling pink wallpaper. It's less of a decision than a badge of approval to be shown off to all. The brunette with curls doesn't really care where, as long as the back living room always allows the sun in. The redhead is lost on the third floor, between two rooms and a staircase where too many stolen kisses and forgotten books dwell. Unkept, laid so plainly, that other world of Holiday arrives.