Taos is for artists

http://www.coolhunting.com/archives/2007/03/jonathan_harris.php

afterthought

it isnt important how, or where, or when, just that it happened, and every time i smell bubble gum or talcum powder i see your feet after a bath and the bubbles you popped too loudly in the movie theater. how you bit your nails with that silly expression on your face, your eyebrows in a knot looking as serious as a politician. you bit pens to, leaving tiny teeth marks, little dents that reminded me of the dime-sized ones ladies pumps left in linolium tiled floors. i try not to think of you then, when teen age girls laugh and smell the way you did-your shampoo and too sweet bubble gum. your breaths that would go in and out of being light and heavy. sighing, like you did, when Marlon Brando came on screen, and grabbing my hand with a sweaty palm underneath the velvet seat that was rough with all the other bodies. you were a feeling too strong to hold on to, dream-like, and i'm forgetting you. the places where freckles were, or the long slow line of your colar bone. soon you'll be a cancelled tv show, fuzzy images i'll only remember when reminded by something else. again your laugh. whether fast or slow, loud or soft, it always came from deep inside and you'd open your red mouth big and wide, we'd catch glimpses of your silver capped molar at dinner parties.

inspired by recent events

Every Thursday during lunch we would watch them from the library windows as they went to smoke pot in the trees down by the lake.
Even on the day of the arrest.
Even in the winter, which caused them to develop 3 month long coughs that started from the bottoms of their chests and ripped through their lungs. They would come back just in time for science shaking there unwashed hair (which was the waxy texture of a bar of soap) and stomping the snow off their shoes with hazy looks in their eyes (that were not their eyes).
We sometimes talked to the less intimidating ones in our math classes, gathering details that would latter be pieced together as clues.
The nicer one, Laura, we had all seen her out smoking cigarettes in the morning and during breaks, had dark red hair. We had all read the headlines of the day before, the mystery of her mothers death and how her stoner boyfriend was arrested.it was on one of those Thursdays when they arrested her, took her into custody just after history. The local paper made it clear that no one really knew about anything that was going on. The state bureau of investigation had gotten involved, and clips of their interviews with the neighbors had been leaked, saying that neither Mrs. Roberts or Mr. Sawer had seen the mother for weeks, and the cigarette butts kept gathering on the front lawn. The paper made Laura and her steady boyfriend of five months to be rowdy and disconcerted youth.
Laura never particularly interested us, we just talked to her in a futile attempt to understand why her and her friends were so determined to distract themselves. we knew and had experienced their desperate attempt to escape suburban reality, but the excess of their apathy for one another always made us wonder if we were the same way but didn't know it yet.
we watched them, jaded and emotionally detached, like a television show. our friends were not our friends, and the ups and downs of their reality tv never really affected us. we only realized our lack of empathy after the murder. as the news articles became smaller and moved from the front page slowly to the back, and then disappeared completely, so did our interest in the girl who laughed heavily at Mr. Lawson, the English teachers, bad jokes.