(no subject)
okay, so this is terrifying.
wish you were here
493 // pg
frank/bob
for nov. 7th, haha.
this is actually the first thing i've ever posted wtf am i doing omg and self-betaed, so concrit would be lovely. or so i keep telling myself.
It wasn’t that he had a terrible memory. There was just so much to remember. It was never about slowing down, it was being able to keep things from blurring together. He tried to compensate by collecting fragments from everywhere. There were grocery lists attached to phone numbers on coin wrappers, parts of directions to Iowa with sketches in the margins. A children’s menu colored solely in green crayon and a foot long paper clip chain. Some days he would go through it all, sort out edges and reframe certain parts. But today at the bottom he found a post card and Frank would have sworn it wasn’t his if it weren’t for the slightly smeared add-ons: a smiley face for the sun, ‘Chicago’ printed over every sign and a naked woman labeled Ray! He blinks, shifting his past carefully; looking between packs of cigarettes, around gaggles of kids, over tiny pots of eye shadow colored like decay. Maybe last June? But no, earlier perhaps; oh, wait, here -
Mikey was supposedly singing along to “Ace of Spades” but it sounded disturbingly like “Let U Go” and Frank needed to leave, now, please, dear god when he was being propelled through the bus door towards a convenience store. It’s hard to find distractions within three aisles, but the back of the last was fishing line, post cards and cleaning supplies and different angles of too-sunny beaches would work just fine.
Frank didn’t want to leave the 4x6 ideas of perfection when those hands started pushing him gently back towards the bus; saying so only got him a laugh and five extra seconds to pick out the one he wanted most. He went with the second one he found (it was from Malibu, though that was nowhere near where they actually were). He felt vaguely sorry for it, this post card that reminded people of a place it had never been. Bob laughed again. Why don’t you get one from Jersey? It would mean just as much.
But it did mean something. It was displacement in top form, it was knowing you belong somewhere but losing what tied you there in the first place. It was the beginning of the slow slide into constant unfocus despite furiously grabbing on to anything along the way.
So he bought it and led Bob back to the bus, ignoring amused insults for stealing Gerard’s markers and presenting Bob with both a Sharpie and a seat at the table. And for the next hour they worked to create an afternoon that maybe wouldn’t be lost to his chaos -
Frank carefully replaced the post card. There was something missing, he was sure there was, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The collection was practically back to its normal place when he suddenly reached for the post card and flipped it over.
It’s okay, it quietly read, I’ll remember. Frank exhaled, and re-cemented this the best he could.
wish you were here
493 // pg
frank/bob
for nov. 7th, haha.
this is actually the first thing i've ever posted wtf am i doing omg and self-betaed, so concrit would be lovely. or so i keep telling myself.
It wasn’t that he had a terrible memory. There was just so much to remember. It was never about slowing down, it was being able to keep things from blurring together. He tried to compensate by collecting fragments from everywhere. There were grocery lists attached to phone numbers on coin wrappers, parts of directions to Iowa with sketches in the margins. A children’s menu colored solely in green crayon and a foot long paper clip chain. Some days he would go through it all, sort out edges and reframe certain parts. But today at the bottom he found a post card and Frank would have sworn it wasn’t his if it weren’t for the slightly smeared add-ons: a smiley face for the sun, ‘Chicago’ printed over every sign and a naked woman labeled Ray! He blinks, shifting his past carefully; looking between packs of cigarettes, around gaggles of kids, over tiny pots of eye shadow colored like decay. Maybe last June? But no, earlier perhaps; oh, wait, here -
Mikey was supposedly singing along to “Ace of Spades” but it sounded disturbingly like “Let U Go” and Frank needed to leave, now, please, dear god when he was being propelled through the bus door towards a convenience store. It’s hard to find distractions within three aisles, but the back of the last was fishing line, post cards and cleaning supplies and different angles of too-sunny beaches would work just fine.
Frank didn’t want to leave the 4x6 ideas of perfection when those hands started pushing him gently back towards the bus; saying so only got him a laugh and five extra seconds to pick out the one he wanted most. He went with the second one he found (it was from Malibu, though that was nowhere near where they actually were). He felt vaguely sorry for it, this post card that reminded people of a place it had never been. Bob laughed again. Why don’t you get one from Jersey? It would mean just as much.
But it did mean something. It was displacement in top form, it was knowing you belong somewhere but losing what tied you there in the first place. It was the beginning of the slow slide into constant unfocus despite furiously grabbing on to anything along the way.
So he bought it and led Bob back to the bus, ignoring amused insults for stealing Gerard’s markers and presenting Bob with both a Sharpie and a seat at the table. And for the next hour they worked to create an afternoon that maybe wouldn’t be lost to his chaos -
Frank carefully replaced the post card. There was something missing, he was sure there was, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The collection was practically back to its normal place when he suddenly reached for the post card and flipped it over.
It’s okay, it quietly read, I’ll remember. Frank exhaled, and re-cemented this the best he could.