First Paragraph
the dairy queen i pass everyday going in to town is boarded up for the season
and already tagged. the kerry/edwards campaign sticker and the AAA reflective
sticker on the bumper of a subaru is blurred beneath dust from up north. a man
jumping at no line at the coffee shop orders a peach ginger tea, tapping his
wallet on the counter, then rushes back to his slumped over stance before a
glowing laptop screen. a paranoid math or science student darts his eyes from
book to notebook, book to notebook. the khaki wearing, indoor scarf wearing
english major distracts herself by picking at her fingernails. worn loafers
and athletic fleece, plaid boxers shorts nondescript backpack. fitted hoodie
and adidas stripes, hood up underneath expensive-looking headphones. sloppy
blonde whitebread boy courting the coach and prada princess. the history of
art versus angsty novel with a shared fruit cup defining the battlefield; two
forks laid practically around a sweet chocolate dessert. little white ipod earbuds,
tennis bracelet and congratulations-on-your-high-school-graduation golden linked
watch showcasing blonde-blonde hair - the helen of troy between the races.
[the idea of working on the same piece of writing every day, reliving the same experience that only exists in your head every day, is daunting. poetry exists as the shortest story ever told. big ideas and bigger emotions crammed in as few words and lines as possible. the more one can convey this way the less one risks of being revealed.]
orgasms before 11 am on plenty of rest from the fall daylight savings gift of an extra hour. coffee and sex before breakfast. leftover breakfast casserole and biscuits from a parents house warmed in the microwave and served with real plates and metal silverware. the nesting coffee tables pulled close to the edge of the couch and home improvement shows on tv. furious dishwasher emptying and hotel finding internet excursions turning up an empty kitchen sink, clean countertops and two cities with no vacancy. wanting a shared shower but being told to wait till the tv show was over. shock and hysterical laughing at such ridiculousness. but still waiting the eight minutes until the end of the show to shower. shaved legs fresh from a cloud of steam. a failed hairdo, two different pairs of pants tried on, and trouser socks and red pumps revealing a desire for comfort.
[if this was serious work I would stop now, scroll up and, and start testing which tense is better. but i've decided not to care that much for this piece of writing cause the likelihood of this propelling me into literature stardom is nil. I am however banking on this piece to be different and unique, daring even. the writing and it's messy process revealed in brackets. i don't know how this will evolve - it's just an idea. ideas are meant to fail as the mind is only as powerful as its means.]
these are images of the town i live in. naively liberal, subtly exclusive and privileged. as white as the biblical baby jesus' ass. socially gay-friendly. the academic forefront of affirmative action. coffee shops play bob dylan and modern day punk instead of norah jones and traditional jazz. the activist spirit is alive and unharnessed here, stuck in the hippie revolution. spinning their wheels in granola. choking on wheat grass and vegetarian politics, birkenstock prints on the backs of blacks and latinos. eco-friendly compost heaps outside the side door of a 1930's bungalow they're remodeling to increase their equity.
that house on a hill is calling like a beacon with the light of a thousand suns. what else is there to strive for except for what our parents failed or succeeded at? happiness is a destination, not a vacation.
this is a room of cliche characters who are all working toward the same thing. when does it really stop becoming about the destination? when you put a piece of folk art you bought from pottery barn on the off-white wall of your family room that says "the journey is the destination?" life becomes lived with no regrets because pain can't possibly teach you anything. but a life with no regrets is a life with no thought or feeling.
university alumni gather here for coffee and vegan muffins to catch up on life after college. who got what job. who married what lawyer, doctor, or accountant. who's pregnant. who's fucking whose financial manager. who moved back in with mom and dad. who gave up and started working retail. this is the first round of a boxing match. intellectual violence. play the part and defend your way of life. or succumb to perpetual victimhood.
[these are the people i fear knowing and fear being. but these are the people that require constant interaction. we drive down the same freeways and complain about the same traffic. we go to the same bank. we push grocery carts and lift laundry baskets. we wrestle with a clean living space. we leave burned out lightbulbs in the socket for months. we fill gas tanks . we sit and write about our lives in the same coffee shops.]
a Halloween town, not just a neighborhood. a town with a functioning public transit system oft bragged about. used by the workers and civil servants who keep this place operational, not but the residents. fare is cheap. the existence of a taxi force is proof cabbies make money.
[ i just spellchecked for the first time. i have chosen to misspell whitebread and lightbulbs (twice now); both should be hyphenated but my way is more aesthetically pleasing. grammar checks as a way to avoid choosing a tense. i learned a lot about tense in the writing classes I took in college. apparently good writer's know about tense. so this is me pretending not to care to be a good writer.]
the morning promises heavy traffic on main street. residents zipping out of town to their weekday jobs, and workers zipping in to town to count numbers, clean toilets, and sell bullshit. the bus service will operate for higher numbers - more buses and drivers on the road. school bells will ring all across the county. newspapers will be bought alongside four dollar coffees. the faithful will depart for their morning jogs in earmuffs and running tights. the mighty clash of pedestrian and commuter will flare up from the weekend lull.
deals will be made, hearts will be broken. sales will be processed. a job will be lost. lives saved. parking tickets issued. the week will proceed as all weeks proceed. individual trauma will be put on hold so the world can go about its business.
a queer and supposedly feminist bookstore will open promptly at 11 a.m. deposits will get made, followed by study of the weekend sales reports. books will be reordered. some will be celebrated for their retirement from the shelves. an impromptu lunch will be hurried in between customers and nosy and bored owners. hours will float on time's lazy river staring at a computer screen flashing monday's top news stories, current weather radar and live traffic reports. quitting time will roll around not soon enough. the bus station is a tired ten minute walk through town. exposed and dependent. a just-after-rush-hour ride out past the proper city limits to a warm apartment with affordable rent. the last few hours of daylight caught from the open curtains. sweatpants and sweatshirt, no bra, feet up and remote in hand. dinner choice the only hard decision of the night. place of rest already decided by last nights bed. a half-life lived out of a backpack and a bothered sense of having to prepare for tomorrow.
[some have said that writing autobiographically is harder than writing fiction but I don't know how to make shit up and have it convey realism. i have no credibility as a fiction writer. the characters i have to work with are the people in my life. but who am i to write their truth and who's to say they'll agree with my truth about them anyway? an argument can now be made about writing the truth into fiction, but realism comes from experience. to match words to an experience in a new way is the aim of any writer.]
Started October 29, 2006