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Wednesday, Jun. 12, 2002 ~ 8:16 AM

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I just wanna show you the way that I feel.

My mother came into my room last night laughed at me. And then I started laughing too, so it was all right. Earlier in the evening we'd been talking about how I look exactly as I did as a wee little thing. Same hair, basically, the same expressions, same everything.

Were talked about how excited I used to get over things. Like hamburgers and books as gifts and YellowDog and music. When I was little my mother and father had an extensive record collection, Jazz, Oldies, Classical, R&B. I remember lying on the living room floor staring up at the ceiling and listening with awe. Except, it was more than just listening. It was like a willing of sorts. Like a conjuring of that exact moment that each song was describing into being on the living room ceiling. I would wave my hands to the music. Like conducting. Like colouring in those beautiful pictures.

One day while we were out my father pawned the record collection and the stereo for money to buy alcohol and cigarettes and guilty presents. That is the first hurt that I remember. Coming home and missing friends, and the stories they told.

But last night when she came into my room... my mother saw her wee little girl, rapt attention wrapped up in painting stories on her ceiling. Waving her hands to welcome all of her long lost friends back.

When I get to NYC I am starting my collection of rare Jazz recordings.

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