Letter from Campground Daughter
You didn't come back this year and he's not you.
This one has a lot of strange ideas about the world. He thinks the universe is made of water, and I can kind of see that, but he's not giving me a chance to digest this theory. Listen, he's still talking about it. We and everything are all water. Even the rocks. Especially the rocks. And water has no boundaries, water doesn't separate from anything and that's why we are all connected and that's why we should all be kind to one another.
He's cute in a rugged-yet-squeaky way, and I can't stop staring at his arms. I keep imagining them encircling me and squeezing me into him. Flesh to flesh. Protective. Overpowering. That's mainly why I brought him out here to the beach. And because I knew he had some grass on him.
And this connectivity and kindness we feel, he says, is why we believe in God. It's why we created God, so we would have a name for this feeling. Because deep down on, like, a really deep level, we know this. I mean, this is deep deep down. This shit is cellular.
You nor your family went camping this year, I guess. You're always here during the first weekend of August. Three years straight. Or, four, I think. It might have been four. I didn't notice you until three years ago, is the thing, so that's what I count it by.
You're not in college. Or the army. You're just not here and I can't imagine why and I don't want think too hard about the explanation, because there are too many. Far too many.
Did you think of me while your parents made the decision to skip this year’s vacation? Or when they decided to try a new campground? Did you protest or plead?
I think all the time about the first year we found each other. I was helping my mom fix a water line next to your family's berth and there were these really pretty acoustic guitar instrumentals just kind of wafting out from an open tent. And while I'm not easily impressed by guitars - my dad plays Jimmy Buffett songs on his constantly - I was pretty smitten with the cute young boy that stepped out of the tent. I knew I had to get to know you.
I remember how hard I tried not to look at your parent's faces when I came to your family's campfire that night. They had these big secretive smiles on. Do you remember the excuse they made before they left? "Well...we should make up the beds in the camper. Maybe think about taking some of our clothes to get washed." I remember being really embarrassed but I also remember you just not caring and...I don't know. I really admired that.
I take another drag off of his joint and details finally begin to pop out. The water at night is so ominous. Its purposes are dark and its gravity is monstrous. You can only see it as it laps against the shore, nibbling against the land, trying to reach you over and over. Sometimes I scare myself with how submissive I feel with it. During the daytime it's different. The water makes me feel serene, powerful, in control and completely connected.
I drag him down with me next to our little beach bonfire. But I don't pretend he's you. Not for a moment. I don't want to associate you with what I'm feeling right now.
You were so hesitant that first night. And playful. I think maybe you were trying to avoid kissing me, so we played cards. We talked about our lives. And then, when one awkward pause had extended for just a little bit too long, you grabbed a flashlight and ran into the woods. You almost ruined it, then. My preservation instincts kicked in and I nearly started yelling at you for being irresponsible and don't wander off and check yourself for ticks and blah blah blah. (Sorry, but when you live with it all the time it's hard not to repeat it.)
You took the flashlight and you made the trees and undergrowth into a shadowplay for us. And you spun a story, right then and there, from the insides of your head. And it wasn't about water or God or anything as heavy as that. It was just about life trying to get by.
Then the story ended, you clicked off the light, and you kissed me. I guess you must have known what you were doing after all because it sure was easier for you to kiss me there in the darkness.
We had five days after that. I remember holding hands for most of it. Talking about how scary and how exciting it was going to be next month when we entered high school. Hiking to spots that were off the scenic trails but were just as good (if not better because of the privacy). Chewing on birch twigs. ("It tastes just like the soda!") How quiet you were around my parents when they took us to the mini-golf place at the end of the access road. Your mom was sure impressed when I was able to get you all into the old lighthouse.
His hand is slipping up my shirt and I can't decide whether I like that or not. The flickering light from the bonfire is forming shadows that whip across his face. Every time he opens his eyes they're as completely black and impenetrable as the sea before us.
I should have expected that one day you wouldn't be coming back. And I did that first summer. But then you returned the next year and it was just as easy to get to know you as it was the first time. I didn't expect that and I've still never felt anything like that.
He's hard and I can feel it through our clothes and against my leg. He's become more urgent, more hungry. I reach a hand down and pull him tighter against me, eager to make him boil over.
I remember the first time you and I reached this point, up in my room during a rainy day watching videos and playing cards. You were so scared after it happened and I didn't know what you were scared about. I figured it out later. I think you did, too, though we never did manage to laugh at our naiveté. I wonder if you do now. Or if you even remember.
Have your parents gotten divorced? Is that why you're not here any longer? Are you trying to figure out how to get in touch with me? Shouldn't I be doing the same?
Abruptly, he and I slow down and he slides off to my side, still holding me in his arms, his head resting beside mine. The night is cold, it always is, but the fire is warm and maybe he'll hold me for a little while longer.
I shift to face the fire, to feel its warmth on my face, and suddenly I can't stop crying. The one beside me won't ask why, and I wouldn't tell him even if he did.
But you…you would know instantly.
---
Anyone interested should check out the first part of this story: a song called "Campground Daughter" by School For The Dead. (Off of their "The New You" record.)
This one has a lot of strange ideas about the world. He thinks the universe is made of water, and I can kind of see that, but he's not giving me a chance to digest this theory. Listen, he's still talking about it. We and everything are all water. Even the rocks. Especially the rocks. And water has no boundaries, water doesn't separate from anything and that's why we are all connected and that's why we should all be kind to one another.
He's cute in a rugged-yet-squeaky way, and I can't stop staring at his arms. I keep imagining them encircling me and squeezing me into him. Flesh to flesh. Protective. Overpowering. That's mainly why I brought him out here to the beach. And because I knew he had some grass on him.
And this connectivity and kindness we feel, he says, is why we believe in God. It's why we created God, so we would have a name for this feeling. Because deep down on, like, a really deep level, we know this. I mean, this is deep deep down. This shit is cellular.
You nor your family went camping this year, I guess. You're always here during the first weekend of August. Three years straight. Or, four, I think. It might have been four. I didn't notice you until three years ago, is the thing, so that's what I count it by.
You're not in college. Or the army. You're just not here and I can't imagine why and I don't want think too hard about the explanation, because there are too many. Far too many.
Did you think of me while your parents made the decision to skip this year’s vacation? Or when they decided to try a new campground? Did you protest or plead?
I think all the time about the first year we found each other. I was helping my mom fix a water line next to your family's berth and there were these really pretty acoustic guitar instrumentals just kind of wafting out from an open tent. And while I'm not easily impressed by guitars - my dad plays Jimmy Buffett songs on his constantly - I was pretty smitten with the cute young boy that stepped out of the tent. I knew I had to get to know you.
I remember how hard I tried not to look at your parent's faces when I came to your family's campfire that night. They had these big secretive smiles on. Do you remember the excuse they made before they left? "Well...we should make up the beds in the camper. Maybe think about taking some of our clothes to get washed." I remember being really embarrassed but I also remember you just not caring and...I don't know. I really admired that.
I take another drag off of his joint and details finally begin to pop out. The water at night is so ominous. Its purposes are dark and its gravity is monstrous. You can only see it as it laps against the shore, nibbling against the land, trying to reach you over and over. Sometimes I scare myself with how submissive I feel with it. During the daytime it's different. The water makes me feel serene, powerful, in control and completely connected.
I drag him down with me next to our little beach bonfire. But I don't pretend he's you. Not for a moment. I don't want to associate you with what I'm feeling right now.
You were so hesitant that first night. And playful. I think maybe you were trying to avoid kissing me, so we played cards. We talked about our lives. And then, when one awkward pause had extended for just a little bit too long, you grabbed a flashlight and ran into the woods. You almost ruined it, then. My preservation instincts kicked in and I nearly started yelling at you for being irresponsible and don't wander off and check yourself for ticks and blah blah blah. (Sorry, but when you live with it all the time it's hard not to repeat it.)
You took the flashlight and you made the trees and undergrowth into a shadowplay for us. And you spun a story, right then and there, from the insides of your head. And it wasn't about water or God or anything as heavy as that. It was just about life trying to get by.
Then the story ended, you clicked off the light, and you kissed me. I guess you must have known what you were doing after all because it sure was easier for you to kiss me there in the darkness.
We had five days after that. I remember holding hands for most of it. Talking about how scary and how exciting it was going to be next month when we entered high school. Hiking to spots that were off the scenic trails but were just as good (if not better because of the privacy). Chewing on birch twigs. ("It tastes just like the soda!") How quiet you were around my parents when they took us to the mini-golf place at the end of the access road. Your mom was sure impressed when I was able to get you all into the old lighthouse.
His hand is slipping up my shirt and I can't decide whether I like that or not. The flickering light from the bonfire is forming shadows that whip across his face. Every time he opens his eyes they're as completely black and impenetrable as the sea before us.
I should have expected that one day you wouldn't be coming back. And I did that first summer. But then you returned the next year and it was just as easy to get to know you as it was the first time. I didn't expect that and I've still never felt anything like that.
He's hard and I can feel it through our clothes and against my leg. He's become more urgent, more hungry. I reach a hand down and pull him tighter against me, eager to make him boil over.
I remember the first time you and I reached this point, up in my room during a rainy day watching videos and playing cards. You were so scared after it happened and I didn't know what you were scared about. I figured it out later. I think you did, too, though we never did manage to laugh at our naiveté. I wonder if you do now. Or if you even remember.
Have your parents gotten divorced? Is that why you're not here any longer? Are you trying to figure out how to get in touch with me? Shouldn't I be doing the same?
Abruptly, he and I slow down and he slides off to my side, still holding me in his arms, his head resting beside mine. The night is cold, it always is, but the fire is warm and maybe he'll hold me for a little while longer.
I shift to face the fire, to feel its warmth on my face, and suddenly I can't stop crying. The one beside me won't ask why, and I wouldn't tell him even if he did.
But you…you would know instantly.
---
Anyone interested should check out the first part of this story: a song called "Campground Daughter" by School For The Dead. (Off of their "The New You" record.)
posted by greenland at 7:15 PM
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