> tapioca world tour

…but fortunately, I bought a sweatshirt and longer pants the second we got here. It’s been raining on and off, like a distracted weeping child.

Block Island has been interesting…I naively forgot the myriad subtleties of the groupy band scene, all of which I notoriously loathe: the distribution of too many weed-laced pastries, drunk boys, late nights, a complete lack of itinerary, bleached-haired girls. I also forgot that Ry and I are different variations of the same person, and we get mad in the same inflammatory, annoying way; and we hold silent grudges of defensiveness until the other person apologizes for their inflammatory conduct, and by that time it’s late afternoon and we really haven’t done much with the day.

Ry is upset that his band isn’t hanging out altogether; rather, it’s become “every man for himself,” as he says, so he’s been pouting, justifiably so, as we each go off in groups of ones and twos to get sand in our toes and loiter too long in Java & Juice. We managed to make a day of it, though, and despite the cold air and grey clouds, I ran in the choppy ocean (mostly because I really had to pee and there was no bathroom, save the waves) and we threw a frisbee and picked up rocks and got lost driving and ate free bar food and, I dunno, people now are wandering around somewhere before the second show begins.

They sell salt water taffy here, which reminds me desperately of Philadelphia summers with my grandmother.

I’m reading Lolita, which, in all of its painstaking awfulness, I can’t disgard until I’ve finished.

Block Island, despite its hecatombs of loud blonde children from Somewhere Else, is beautiful. Weaving between the rolling hills and the bluffs, the 50-foot cliffed drop to the sea, I vowed to come back here someday, but not until I can afford to. Presently, I remain all too grateful for the unglamorous but free accomodations (an extra twin bed in Ry’s comped boarding room, no free soap) and for the coffee, which is excellent.

Ta.