November 20, 2002 | 1:13 PM

I often get more out of the past than I do out of the present, something which irritates me to no end.

When it�s winter and the sky and the land are dreary and gray, I�ll long for July and the fun I had freckling in the mid-morning sun, snacking on ham sandwiches and cherry coke at Cranes Beach, doubled over laughing at my goofy brother. Listening to Pet Sounds on the portable stereo and gazing at the beauty boys and girls ambling towards the ocean.

And then when it�s August, and I�m sweltering in the sludgy New England heat, sweating like a prize pig in the middle of Harvard square, the sun melting passerby�s into gooey piles of flesh on the coal hot pavement, I pine wistfully for those days in December when snow blanketed the yard and the air was crisp and cool and I could see my own breath spin out its design up up up into the atmosphere.

When I�m alone I want to be curled up beneath the covers with a beautiful boy, sliding my hands up and down his naked back.

When I�m in bed with a boy absentmindedly rubbing his tummy, I wish I were off in a cabin by myself, plowing through every work of Faulkner and drinking hot tea.

It�s rare and few moments when everything is just right. When the boy and the book and the weather and my mood all fit�randomly and by chance, without the aid of my own design.

Those are the moments I live for.

And this, this is not one of those.