Ballad to 327 Market Street #1

Summer 07 and the landscape is changing so rapidly, is smearing with my dearest ones spreading out and trunking off to new lands.

My comrade at the end of the hall, my bloggingbuddy and my dearest roomate is leaving. We sealed 327 Market, singing its praises and dedicating our blogs to its abode. The Legend of the 327 Market! we can only witness and even perhaps chuckle at the hoopdy and enlivening ways our house feeds us and brightens with parts added, or the random ways that our house metamorphosizes.

Ode to the chronic gabs of guests feed our spirits with Pop! like Pez Candy Dispensers. I might be the guiltiest with my many high-spirited friends coming-up, coming-down: my homies, sisters, mommies, grandmammie, daddy-man, Agents, oldroomates and their vegan boyfriends, littlebrothers/taller-brothers, bestfriends, and Lovelies! This has been the likes of my entourage!

But don't forget the ballads of Weird Mikes and little little sister and Cambodians and men from Berkeley and Bald Men. And don't forget the sounds and ruckus of didgeridoos and hipsters with Cornrows. the sounds of womens.

And isn't it the Study/The Guestroom that gets the most attention and is the best place to be. How many little DanceParties and crammed nights and let's-gather-round-the-computer-fire-light evenings have we spent and entertained ourselves with. How many type-type-typeity-Blogging mornings have we woke up to where we negotiated no-music, or non-emo music.

Who can sing to Me and Carmeena sitting in a tree waiting for years for no man to climb, like in our little willow tree like in the front year (friendly enough gosh darn it!) Finally one made it up for her, one made it up for us. We watch closely to see if they can hangout in our little . They hang off our branches, watching them strain their limbs and hang in unobvious ways. Them hanging. Our little trees happy to have a friend and hoping they stay and can sit in the tree.

Don't forget the boys that barely tried, that saw the likes of 327 market, the boys on the couch, the motorcycle boys at the door, or the boys in my room.

Don't forget mornings and seeing Carmen in her boxers, seeing Molly in her underwear. Our little roundish bodies and tanktops and huggies in the evening and sleepy eyes.

Don't forget polaroid pictures and tromping around our little neighborhood.