(no subject)
Fiction. I'd like to tell you that my life is an act of fiction. The tears I'm trying not to cry are figments of a shadowed authors imagination. I'd like to say I drove into the valley (there are no valleys here). I drove for hours and I placed a tape recorder on my dashboard and talked for all those long hours. I changed tapes at gas stations and rest stops. Peeling back plastic rap from stale vending machine candy and tearing into bean burrito's from tiny Mexican cantina's where I took out my notebook and let the children scrambling around in dirty clothes with ice cream rings around their mouths and dirty finger nails draw pictures on the empty pages and beneath my words with markers and colored pencils. How I picked wild flowers from the fields and left sunflowers on the bars with fortune cookies and loose change.
I'd like to write about my envelope of money I'd been saving for something important. How I'd called a cab one morning and told the lovely Indian driver to take me to the airport. I'd tell you how I flew to see a boy who didn't know I was coming. He wouldn't know my face, he would barely remember. I'd talk about the way I slept on his floor and lied on his bed and closed my eyes and listened to him talk. How I'd smile and imagine how different it was then phone wires or typed scripts we'd often correspond through. Maybe I'd tell you about how we laid on his car and watched the sky and the stars and how different it looked there with him then it had back home. Or I could go on about how my heart was bursting and I wanted to hold his hand and never get on a plane again without his body safely next to mine. I could tell you how we couldn't talk and the hug we shared was stiff. I could talk about the plane ride home and how I'd imagined my life was being documented and camera's were watching. Lifting with me back into the sky and I'd point out the pictures in the passing clouds to my silent shaky handed companion as the tears slid down my cheeks and silently splashed onto the rim of the window and the stewardess button on my arm rest.
I can imagine I'm high up in an apartment overlooking downtown. Big open windows with floating opaque drapes that piled onto the floor. How I'd smoke cigarettes laying back against the backboard of my bed turning pages in one of the hundreds of books that lined the built in bookshelves in my living room/ kitchen. I can see myself cooking green pasta and mixing herbs and sauces for the group of people I had over, taking pictures with my collection of camera's and kissing in corners. Maybe I'd have someone too who'd sit on the counter while I cooked taking polaroids while I made funny faces and waving them away so I could concentrate.
But my life isn't fiction and I'm not brave enough to live out my dreams. I can't drive, I live in a tiny house with a chemically imbalanced mother and I constantly insist that I'm okay and I'm coping so well. I can't find a boy and I don't even know how to begin to try. It's all a lot of lies and maybe some of you are lying too. I wouldn't want to deprive this stage of it's players, to deny us of our own alternate realities. After all we are all in the cast. Even me. Even you.
Fiction. It's a beautiful and dangerous thing. And I love and embrace it with all I have inside of me.
I'd like to write about my envelope of money I'd been saving for something important. How I'd called a cab one morning and told the lovely Indian driver to take me to the airport. I'd tell you how I flew to see a boy who didn't know I was coming. He wouldn't know my face, he would barely remember. I'd talk about the way I slept on his floor and lied on his bed and closed my eyes and listened to him talk. How I'd smile and imagine how different it was then phone wires or typed scripts we'd often correspond through. Maybe I'd tell you about how we laid on his car and watched the sky and the stars and how different it looked there with him then it had back home. Or I could go on about how my heart was bursting and I wanted to hold his hand and never get on a plane again without his body safely next to mine. I could tell you how we couldn't talk and the hug we shared was stiff. I could talk about the plane ride home and how I'd imagined my life was being documented and camera's were watching. Lifting with me back into the sky and I'd point out the pictures in the passing clouds to my silent shaky handed companion as the tears slid down my cheeks and silently splashed onto the rim of the window and the stewardess button on my arm rest.
I can imagine I'm high up in an apartment overlooking downtown. Big open windows with floating opaque drapes that piled onto the floor. How I'd smoke cigarettes laying back against the backboard of my bed turning pages in one of the hundreds of books that lined the built in bookshelves in my living room/ kitchen. I can see myself cooking green pasta and mixing herbs and sauces for the group of people I had over, taking pictures with my collection of camera's and kissing in corners. Maybe I'd have someone too who'd sit on the counter while I cooked taking polaroids while I made funny faces and waving them away so I could concentrate.
But my life isn't fiction and I'm not brave enough to live out my dreams. I can't drive, I live in a tiny house with a chemically imbalanced mother and I constantly insist that I'm okay and I'm coping so well. I can't find a boy and I don't even know how to begin to try. It's all a lot of lies and maybe some of you are lying too. I wouldn't want to deprive this stage of it's players, to deny us of our own alternate realities. After all we are all in the cast. Even me. Even you.
Fiction. It's a beautiful and dangerous thing. And I love and embrace it with all I have inside of me.