the past cometh again

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_mia in dream form

i remember one of the first chicks i like in college was this japanese women that was a bit little sport spice with a little nature kick. and so her memory is reignited tonight when i went to see the lead singer from red house painters play at the great american music hall. i wasn’t my intention to call my first girlfriend in colllege to go to the show with me but she left a message last week so it just happened after a few other rejections. we had dinner proably 15 months ago at firecracker and i remember how much has change since my college days. although i still find her adorable as hell, i know it wasn’t meant to be. she was already becoming who she would eventually become and so was I. still, one of my simple pleasures was my ablility to make her laugh and i was quite succesful tonight.


and so we’re both listening to mark kozeleck and i am remembering back in the days how much i was into the band and her at the same time. the music brought back so much memory but at the same times the music is so different now than before. i couldn’t tell if it was me just revolting against the nostiglia of the old days or that it didn’t do so much for me now. either way, tonight it was about the opening singer before mark. i was a bit mesmerized by her presenced. she had this accent that reminded me to much of my last lady friend and i am hurting right away. ironically, i find out that she grew up in LA and it’s just some funky ass accent that she may have picked when she was in japan. either way, i don’t know why i felt like we made some connect but then agian, i am sure it’s just my silly fanasty that she is actually making eye contact with me. not just once but a couple of times and then i get embrassed and i stop looking. what’s the point, i keep telling myself i can’t be in a relationship anymore. that’s probably why i hate going out. it’s like freaking torture seeing all these goregeous woman but knowing that i am not incapable of anything because of my own weak ass excuses.

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