A False Start An Unlikely Stop /I'm Not Convinced Of Anything I Say
It may be just me but Trivia Night seems like a dangerous occupation, me beating the tiny wings of my brain against the plate glass window of the world's knowledge. I get all tense, all wound up in the big bass boom of the announcer's voice rattling out the questions, I grip the pen and wish like hell that good penmanship meant smarts about all these cryptic dates and places. I start to shush people repeatedly and make mock scowls that aren't really mock. I prickle with irritation at interrupters.
What is it with me and my head? What's it got in there? What's it not letting me see?
Alison and I are both at our computers. Jed just waved his hand at us as he went off up to bed. Good night, guys. We echo back in unison, good night. Suddenly I get the feeling I'm in one of those quick montages of a life poorly spent, or an advertisement for fresh air. Just repeated shots of me and her, in different outfits, typing away sporadically at our keyboards as Jed nods and waves and heads up stairs. Night after night, barely stopping to look up at him. Maybe we'd age over the course of the shots, or our hair would grow longer and change colors, or we'd shutter in a sudden time-lapse photography segment and grow taller with quick twitches like in a nature video, like fresh green shoots sprouting soft and then blossoming only to dessicate and fall over in the next five frames.
I woke up last night scared about something, but I can't remember what. It kept me up for a few minutes, my layers of blankets too much and me just desperately wishing I hadn't have taken the sacrifical room on the lower floor. Whatever it was made sense at the time, awful terrible real sense, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you this morning what it was.
What is it with me and my head? What's it got in there? What's it not letting me see?
Alison and I are both at our computers. Jed just waved his hand at us as he went off up to bed. Good night, guys. We echo back in unison, good night. Suddenly I get the feeling I'm in one of those quick montages of a life poorly spent, or an advertisement for fresh air. Just repeated shots of me and her, in different outfits, typing away sporadically at our keyboards as Jed nods and waves and heads up stairs. Night after night, barely stopping to look up at him. Maybe we'd age over the course of the shots, or our hair would grow longer and change colors, or we'd shutter in a sudden time-lapse photography segment and grow taller with quick twitches like in a nature video, like fresh green shoots sprouting soft and then blossoming only to dessicate and fall over in the next five frames.
I woke up last night scared about something, but I can't remember what. It kept me up for a few minutes, my layers of blankets too much and me just desperately wishing I hadn't have taken the sacrifical room on the lower floor. Whatever it was made sense at the time, awful terrible real sense, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you this morning what it was.