Clearwater
Thurs Aug 22
Camp Clearwater here in Angeles National Forest where I am now with my class has been fun for the kids, swimming, hiking, arts and crafts. I've been too consumed with writing about the episode in Mammoth with my brother to record much of what we've been doing the last few days. I've been getting a lot of reading done here. I have my own room and the kids are with the counselors most of the day. I read Chandler's Lady in the Lake which I thoroughly enjoyed, compounding my loss of The High Window in the taxi when I got out of jail. I'm almost finished with Camus' American Journals which are fascinating if only because they are so dull I cannot glean the slightest inkling of his celebrity. There is mostly, I think, melancholy in his inability to describe adequetely the physical world around him and draw connections to his inner self. He had or recorded many more conversations than I do, less other content.
There's a counselor here, Nancy, with one of those sandy girl voices who likes to sing camp songs as loud as she can. Mark, is a big bearded bear of a fellow, the director of the camp. In fact, everyone calls him "Bear." He has a low, resonant voice to match his nickname and is ideal for his position. Krissy has nice tits, Zoila a beautiful round freckled indian face and thick raven hair. Thoughts of sex are even more unavoidable up here than down below, as it is possible and impossible to consummate. Last night the two junior counselors, high school girls, one of whom is named Norma and who, like myself, brought up the rear of our hike and is attractive in plain kind of way that my mind keeps returning to; she and the other came to visit me in my room and giggle for about twenty minutes or so. They called my guapo. The desire was thick in the air between us. I asked how old she was. She said 17. I said, when's your birthday? searching for how close to 18 and legality she might be. Last Monday, she said. Then Judy, one of the directors seemed to catch on to what was up and directed the girls to bring a walkie talkie to one of the counselors. They were back in a few minutes, shrieking, ostensibly at the shadows, so I escorted them across camp. Then I said good night and returned to my room. Sigh. I called Shell. She wasn't there. I left a message saying to call me when she was through with Shaq. She met the 120-million-a-year-earning, seven foot tall basketball superstar on the set of a movie, and he's been calling the house leaving messages asking her to go out with him. I told her she should dump me. Whatever. I sort of want to call Kristen. I sort of want to ask Karen at alcohol school for a date. Whatever. I have to do at least one day of community service this weekend. I wonder if shithead will pay me the $120 bills he owes me.
Camp Clearwater here in Angeles National Forest where I am now with my class has been fun for the kids, swimming, hiking, arts and crafts. I've been too consumed with writing about the episode in Mammoth with my brother to record much of what we've been doing the last few days. I've been getting a lot of reading done here. I have my own room and the kids are with the counselors most of the day. I read Chandler's Lady in the Lake which I thoroughly enjoyed, compounding my loss of The High Window in the taxi when I got out of jail. I'm almost finished with Camus' American Journals which are fascinating if only because they are so dull I cannot glean the slightest inkling of his celebrity. There is mostly, I think, melancholy in his inability to describe adequetely the physical world around him and draw connections to his inner self. He had or recorded many more conversations than I do, less other content.
There's a counselor here, Nancy, with one of those sandy girl voices who likes to sing camp songs as loud as she can. Mark, is a big bearded bear of a fellow, the director of the camp. In fact, everyone calls him "Bear." He has a low, resonant voice to match his nickname and is ideal for his position. Krissy has nice tits, Zoila a beautiful round freckled indian face and thick raven hair. Thoughts of sex are even more unavoidable up here than down below, as it is possible and impossible to consummate. Last night the two junior counselors, high school girls, one of whom is named Norma and who, like myself, brought up the rear of our hike and is attractive in plain kind of way that my mind keeps returning to; she and the other came to visit me in my room and giggle for about twenty minutes or so. They called my guapo. The desire was thick in the air between us. I asked how old she was. She said 17. I said, when's your birthday? searching for how close to 18 and legality she might be. Last Monday, she said. Then Judy, one of the directors seemed to catch on to what was up and directed the girls to bring a walkie talkie to one of the counselors. They were back in a few minutes, shrieking, ostensibly at the shadows, so I escorted them across camp. Then I said good night and returned to my room. Sigh. I called Shell. She wasn't there. I left a message saying to call me when she was through with Shaq. She met the 120-million-a-year-earning, seven foot tall basketball superstar on the set of a movie, and he's been calling the house leaving messages asking her to go out with him. I told her she should dump me. Whatever. I sort of want to call Kristen. I sort of want to ask Karen at alcohol school for a date. Whatever. I have to do at least one day of community service this weekend. I wonder if shithead will pay me the $120 bills he owes me.
posted by johnz at 7:32 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home