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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  
 

Poor Jerry Hall


May 16, 1999




Dear Diary: I’m on Dave’s laptop, wearing his clothes and lying in his bed. This morning he called from New Orleans and said he’s coming home from tour early, and I foolishly jumped in my car and made the one-hour trip to Boston even though it’s going to take him at least twelve hours to drive here. I let myself in with the spare key and now I’m all alone in his apartment. I feel like Mata Hari or just a plain old stalker. These waiting moments are long and lovely and smooth. I’m wired with electricity but my limbs are in a sort of torpor. My thighs rub together very, very slowly under the blankets.


    

I wonder what Jerry Hall is doing right now. Surely she loved Mick this much, and look what he did to her — flaunting himself on the pages of People magazine with all those bozo-floozies, embarrassing Jerry. And now she’s left with five kids all on her own. If Mick Jagger tried to take me on a date, I’d whip him in the face! Then I’d go find Jerry and, when the kids were at school, I’d chase her around the house and make her feel young again. When I caught her I’d go down on her and not ask for anything in return. I don’t care that she’s stupid and has a deplorable accent. Sometimes you just gotta be nice, you gotta right the wrong.


    

I’ve forgotten, in the three weeks he’s been gone, what Dave looks like. I have photographs, but it’s like looking at photos of yourself — you can’t figure out the meaning of your own features on a piece of paper. You try to read your looks instead in other people’s reactions to you. I remember his eyes, because they’re like the eyes of the statue of the Madonna at the church I pass every morning. Actually, they look like Madonna Ciccone’s too. I’ve been bringing different features to life in the twilight — a waggishly arched eyebrow here, a suede-smooth stomach there (hey, foot, get out of here — I didn’t ask for you!). I can’t get them all together into a body. I have the strangest sensation of not being able to remember myself, either. I am only disembodied parts now too, and only his body on top of mine can bring them all together again.









©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com