12-23-01 - 8:37 a.m.
patrick bought poinsettas at the flea market, a honey-do for g. he always refers to her as "we." today, "we" are frantic with preparations for a holiday onslaught of family. it's their last christmas in the house he built himself, the house they raised their kids in, now crammed with raggedy anns and ticking clocks and memories. the first time he took me there, i was crushed by the photos and treasures and history. i felt insignificant. now that patrick and i have memories and history of our own, i've gained a weird, almost affectionate perspective toward the place he calls the barn. i like to cruise by at night, when it glows through the eucalyptus trees like a fucking thomas kinkade painting.