(no subject)
"dylan! yes, definitely bob dylan!" moira yelled back to her TA. "really? i wouldn't think you'd be the type to go for an old midwestern cowboy," replied the TA, who had asked the students who they'd want to marry, in one of her usual attempts to engage the class in unimportant, superficial dialogue to take their minds off the boring lecture ahead. moira blushed when she noticed awkward stares from her classmates. but inside she wasn't embarrassed in the slightest. "well, back in 1964, of course," she muttered in defense.
moira was a girl most people never get the privilege to meet. she was a direct descendant of flower children. her parents had met at an SDS meeting at the university of michigan. most people made fun of that kind of stuff, but make no mistake, moira took it seriously. she wished she had something to fight for like her parents did when they were her age. once she wanted to go to the west bank and chain herself to an israeli bulldozer so they couldn't destroy any more palestinian homes. she hated oppression. and apathy. she had a tattoo on her left arm that said "imagine." yes sir, she was hip from head to toe.
moira was a writer. at least it was one thing she desperately wanted to be. instead of going out on the town like most girls her age, every night she'd walk over to her closet, get on her tip toes, grab the typewriter from the top shelf and press those old metal keys until the sunrise like nothing else mattered. for her, writing was usually a way of recreating herself, except that her creations were always better than moira ever thought she could be herself. well, not always. other times, writing was her way, her only way, of explaining herself to the world. if only it listened. sometimes while walking to class she'd glance at a stranger walking past. their eyes would meet and for an instant, moira would feel that this person, this unknown somebody, would truly value her. her lips would rise in a smile, in acknowledgement of that supposed connection. but then it was back to normal. but honestly, how often could you really understand a brilliant mind like hers?
brilliant, yes, but perfect, well she was far from it. it seems as though all the great ones are always troubled. messed up. no, fucked up is the right term. for them, life is the most painful experience imaginable. sometimes moira would lay on her bed all day with her head facing the wall and wish she never existed. on days like that she really wanted to end it all. but there was one thing stopping her. you see, her father was a therapist. as she was growing up, moira was fascinated by stories of her father's work. when it was known that someone was threatening suicide in her town, it was her father that people called. he'd get on the phone with the person or race over to them and somehow he would get them to put down the gun or the knife. her father appreciated life more than she ever could, and he was her hero because of it. if moira killed herself, she felt that it would absolutely kill her hero, for he wouldn't even be able to save his own daughter. now she was mostly over those feelings. though she was still numb at times.
moira's favorite thing was to travel. she lived for it. it was like a treasure hunt of epic proportions. she would hop from city to city, taking roll after roll of photos and sit down on a park bench at rush hour and watch everyone go from here to there, always writing descriptions in her journal. among her favorites were boulder, chicago and san francisco. at this very instant she was visiting her long lost cousin in austin. tonight, as the clouds make their invasion over the landscape, moira dreamed she was in boston. she was riding high at the top of a ferris wheel, smoking a djarum, hovering over a perfectly silent amusement park at the break of dawn. even the plastic fortune telling sorcerers in their little booths were sleeping, it seemed. she could see as far as anyone had ever seen in history, making out the rolling hills past the city limits, the whitecaps on the atlantic ocean, and even a quaint little residential lane that briefly reminded her of morton street in ann arbor. what was more puzzling than the fact that she had never been to boston (let alone massachusetts, for that matter), and never set foot in an amusement park (did boston even have one?), was that she was smoking a djarum, of all things. this couldn't possibly be true; moira only smoked camels.
she awoke immediately after this dream sequence and decided that boston was the most magical place she could ever imagine. that afternoon she packed up a suitcase, drove to the airport and bought a plane ticket to boston, massachusetts. as the big metal bird made its way down the runway, moira wondered if it would be like the boston from her dream. predicting the pressure change during takeoff, she reached into her purse to get a stick of gum. she paused for a moment, and looked down, as her hand grasped an unfamiliar object. nestled between her writing pad and her 1976 olympus camera, was a pack of djarums.
moira was a girl most people never get the privilege to meet. she was a direct descendant of flower children. her parents had met at an SDS meeting at the university of michigan. most people made fun of that kind of stuff, but make no mistake, moira took it seriously. she wished she had something to fight for like her parents did when they were her age. once she wanted to go to the west bank and chain herself to an israeli bulldozer so they couldn't destroy any more palestinian homes. she hated oppression. and apathy. she had a tattoo on her left arm that said "imagine." yes sir, she was hip from head to toe.
moira was a writer. at least it was one thing she desperately wanted to be. instead of going out on the town like most girls her age, every night she'd walk over to her closet, get on her tip toes, grab the typewriter from the top shelf and press those old metal keys until the sunrise like nothing else mattered. for her, writing was usually a way of recreating herself, except that her creations were always better than moira ever thought she could be herself. well, not always. other times, writing was her way, her only way, of explaining herself to the world. if only it listened. sometimes while walking to class she'd glance at a stranger walking past. their eyes would meet and for an instant, moira would feel that this person, this unknown somebody, would truly value her. her lips would rise in a smile, in acknowledgement of that supposed connection. but then it was back to normal. but honestly, how often could you really understand a brilliant mind like hers?
brilliant, yes, but perfect, well she was far from it. it seems as though all the great ones are always troubled. messed up. no, fucked up is the right term. for them, life is the most painful experience imaginable. sometimes moira would lay on her bed all day with her head facing the wall and wish she never existed. on days like that she really wanted to end it all. but there was one thing stopping her. you see, her father was a therapist. as she was growing up, moira was fascinated by stories of her father's work. when it was known that someone was threatening suicide in her town, it was her father that people called. he'd get on the phone with the person or race over to them and somehow he would get them to put down the gun or the knife. her father appreciated life more than she ever could, and he was her hero because of it. if moira killed herself, she felt that it would absolutely kill her hero, for he wouldn't even be able to save his own daughter. now she was mostly over those feelings. though she was still numb at times.
moira's favorite thing was to travel. she lived for it. it was like a treasure hunt of epic proportions. she would hop from city to city, taking roll after roll of photos and sit down on a park bench at rush hour and watch everyone go from here to there, always writing descriptions in her journal. among her favorites were boulder, chicago and san francisco. at this very instant she was visiting her long lost cousin in austin. tonight, as the clouds make their invasion over the landscape, moira dreamed she was in boston. she was riding high at the top of a ferris wheel, smoking a djarum, hovering over a perfectly silent amusement park at the break of dawn. even the plastic fortune telling sorcerers in their little booths were sleeping, it seemed. she could see as far as anyone had ever seen in history, making out the rolling hills past the city limits, the whitecaps on the atlantic ocean, and even a quaint little residential lane that briefly reminded her of morton street in ann arbor. what was more puzzling than the fact that she had never been to boston (let alone massachusetts, for that matter), and never set foot in an amusement park (did boston even have one?), was that she was smoking a djarum, of all things. this couldn't possibly be true; moira only smoked camels.
she awoke immediately after this dream sequence and decided that boston was the most magical place she could ever imagine. that afternoon she packed up a suitcase, drove to the airport and bought a plane ticket to boston, massachusetts. as the big metal bird made its way down the runway, moira wondered if it would be like the boston from her dream. predicting the pressure change during takeoff, she reached into her purse to get a stick of gum. she paused for a moment, and looked down, as her hand grasped an unfamiliar object. nestled between her writing pad and her 1976 olympus camera, was a pack of djarums.