Hung out with fellow writers Nick and Shannon Moore this morning. Nick forgot the name of someone I tried to set him up with. Shannon talked about throwing back a few pops with brilliant poet Staci tonight. I applauded Shannon with a row of smiles when she did her snooty-impersonation of my ex-girlfriend at the Estee-Lauder counter.
"David and I no longer talk as of now." Shannon says, conducting her nose up in the air like a light-switch, miming the thick-lip anglophile uppity condescending lilt my expired-angel sold (sullied) me on for over a year. I laughed. Nick laughed. Thank god for our own art and thank god for the art of other people. The three of us pretty much came to the general consensus that "this" writing activity serves as our own personal storage for hurt. An attic for loss. An unearthed capsule where the soluble self, though tattered by the day to day discourse and stress of modern day living, is somehow salvaged in it's search for pure truth and unfettered feeling. Where do we put all those stale bruises; all those forlorn, empty embraces; all those timeless ambiguities and one-night rashes? Where do we stash all those dreams; where do we hold that one girl for seemingly forever outside of the blurred staccato fleeting calendar square of physical existence?
We pour it all out on the page, that's where, draught after draught, day after day, for the reader to sip and sozzle.
*
My friend Valerie came back from Germany, tantalizing my innate wanderlust with photographs and stories. I gave her an old story (blogg) I wrote about her the day she left yesterday and inquired a couple of hours ago what she thought about it.
"No, I haven't read it yet, it's still in my purse."
"Val!" I said.
"I know," Valerie said, tapping a few smiles over my workstation like feminine glitter. "Have you seen how long it is?"
"Val-or-ree!" I chided, laughing. Story of my life. Write someone special a sonnet and she bitches about the length (always bitches about the "length"). Valerie and I discussed what she called the 180 male.
"It's a male you date and then he starts to act like a dick and completely for the most part ignores you and then, the moment you show just the slightest bit of interest in 'nother guy, he becomes Prince Charming overnight and puts you on a pedestal and makes you feel like the most important viable substance this planet has ever produced."
"Why just not date a guy like me who'll always put you on a pedestal?"
Val looked back at me with a slight cardboard ruffle vexed into her forehead.
"Uhhhh, cause your crazy." She said, lovingly and calculatingly.
'Nough said.
"I've heard it before," I lament to Val. "180, 360, everythings going fine and then the next thing you know; BAM, there's someone from the past who's just in town for the weekend."
"Oh, not 360," Val snapped.
"What,"
"If the guy pulls a three-sixty he's right back where he was before. All he's done is form a circle." She says, in a very look-ma-no-hands-girls-rule-boys-drool paralance.
Val, she's gonna make one a helluva prof. someday.
"Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies,"
-Bob Dylan
5 comments:
yeah. flies. but i'm broke and told they sold out the flight tickets. sulk sulk sulk.
It's alright girl, I've been flying without wings for a long-ass time. What's important is just that you leave the nest. I'll try to call you sometime this weekend. Sunday, maybe?
kool&the gang. looking fw to hear you, brother D. it may be my turn to rant and sulk your ear off.
As long as you don't knee me in the nuts like you did that one time. Ouch! I've been singing you serenades soporano ever since!
eh D, i have no recollection of that. and you recollect my name, so it's a good sign, i guess (-;
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