sometimes, i like to simply write stray bits, often as accompaniment to music. (i turn the computer on random and write a separate piece for each track that plays.) here are a few excerpts from that sort of exercise.
I thought I dreamed last night, but I can’t remember anymore. I think I dreamed. Maybe a dream of being out, walking in the cold early spring, sitting with people who hardly know I exist, those people who see me every day. Being satisfied that they might finally know what my voice sounded like, being able to explain why I list ever so slightly to the right when I walk, in case they’d ever noticed, not that they would have had reason to notice.
You weren’t there in the dream.
Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved didn’t love the way that I love her, didn’t lose her as completely as I am losing her. She takes not only herself when she goes, not only her white form, leaving a smooth, temporary imprint on the sagging sofa, not only this goes with her but part of me as well. The part of me that belongs in recent memory. The part of me that she has created. That’s all done for her now, that’s all done and she moves on, an effortless slide on a chessboard only she can see. She takes me with her. I am left without myself.
Then parlour dramas took their toll and I became that other, that one who held you back from all you dream and you, sweet hero of the tale, put hand to breast and showed how much you longed to fly from here, even as I wrapped my arms around you, even as I thought the history of the flesh would crush you into me.
And then there was the jerky dance around, the histrionics that time expects for its patience. Arms thrusting up and down, countered by those waving side to side, the film descends to lurid drama and then unravels entirely.
Grey real of alone, sitting despondent stupid and waiting for your sunshine.
Marianna needs to stop dancing on the damn table is all I’m thinking at this point. She’s wearing these massive, alarming silver boots and a purple dress, a sort of rabbit-hole dress- only fits around the hare. Her platinum locks- or the synthetic mass that’s passing for her hair this week- shakes and weaves in time with whatever eastern crap Derek’s got blaring from his stereo.
See, the thing is, Derek’s guests encourage Marianna to do this sort of thing because it’s funny. But Derek doesn’t find it funny because he paid more than a month’s rent for the table she’s dancing on. I’m the only one who knows that. Two people are snorting lines off a coffee table that costs more than this incredible apartment.