A treatise against contrivance
To A Girl, Regarding the Deus Ex Machina
You still think romantic comedies come true. For example,
waiting for the object of your quarter-life affection to lead
your hand to the dance floor, at the cue of the jazz pianist
arriving fifteen minutes too late, having been called to the stage
when the scheduled headlining band couldn’t make it. See,
they traded steel for ivory and now you wish you could dance
to the swing of “The Way You Look Tonight”. It doesn’t work
that way, but then again, does it? Last night I dreamt
I was behind the wheel of a truck parked smack in the middle
of the Hollywood Freeway in protest against the skyrocketing
fuel prices, giving those who hate their day job a reason
to evade. Here I am, not doing a good job of knowing
when to shut the fuck up. Here I am waiting for a go-between,
an angel or demigod suspended by nylon in mid-air
with a penchant for twists. It doesn’t work that way,
but then again, does it? You still believe in fantasy,
which really makes more sense than divine interventions
swooping out of nowhere. I think it’s my job to warn you
about this. After all, we venerate the god suspended
in mid-air, above the pages of a story, reminding us
that we want to be forced to live happily ever after.
July 12, 2008
You still think romantic comedies come true. For example,
waiting for the object of your quarter-life affection to lead
your hand to the dance floor, at the cue of the jazz pianist
arriving fifteen minutes too late, having been called to the stage
when the scheduled headlining band couldn’t make it. See,
they traded steel for ivory and now you wish you could dance
to the swing of “The Way You Look Tonight”. It doesn’t work
that way, but then again, does it? Last night I dreamt
I was behind the wheel of a truck parked smack in the middle
of the Hollywood Freeway in protest against the skyrocketing
fuel prices, giving those who hate their day job a reason
to evade. Here I am, not doing a good job of knowing
when to shut the fuck up. Here I am waiting for a go-between,
an angel or demigod suspended by nylon in mid-air
with a penchant for twists. It doesn’t work that way,
but then again, does it? You still believe in fantasy,
which really makes more sense than divine interventions
swooping out of nowhere. I think it’s my job to warn you
about this. After all, we venerate the god suspended
in mid-air, above the pages of a story, reminding us
that we want to be forced to live happily ever after.
July 12, 2008