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One of my early stabs at creativity.Prose.. |
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November 30, 2003InsightI am in a sour mood when I notice the girl giving me the mending stare of recognition.?I do not know who she is.?She does not expect me to.We took a picture together once.?We won a race and for a burning instant we stood?shoulder to shoulder in a frozen shutter frame of time.?But that was so many years ago.??
"I was just a fly on the wall then," she says.?Now she is saving my night.Alicia??Yes, but I knew so many.?I am embarrassed as always.?She insists it is okay like this so I leave her with an apology.?I'm sorry Alicia, but in this reality I am still here.?She understands but it does not frighten her as it does me.... the clarity, the way in which I can see over treetops into a carefully dug hole in the ground.These encounters are like drugs.?Black and white tiled floors roll beneath my feet, conveying me into this familiar world of well-stocked shelves and pretty girls working registers.?I know that one, blue eyes with black hair and a trace of acne but still very beautiful.?An unmistakable face, so I dare not look her way.?I do not wish to be back here.?I gather my things from their designated spots and search for a different line.?This one will do.?I do not know this girl.?She will not make me answer questions.I await my turn like those that stand before me.?We are all the same here.?I cast a stray glance at the vegetables, piled carefully like?the pyramids in Mexico; beaded with dew, alive somehow.?They are brown roots, yellow bulbs.?Alive somehow.This line seemed very long at first but is moving quite rapidly now.?An older woman taps my shoulder.?She is olive-skinned with coarse hair pulled into a single long braid done with great care; no loose strands.?She is another feature of this place, a police officer for the youth.?I remember when she confiscated my chains in high school and told me people with great potential shouldn't weigh themselves down.??
The woman asks how I am doing while I conjure an explanation for the beer in my hands.?It seems necessary.?I want it to be.?It would have been at one time.?They are for my father.?There, that seems appropriate.?The woman does not seem to care either way.?Her indifference bothers me.?I am still here and the line is moving very slowly again.?To some degree, these beers really are for my father.?Standing outside myself,?I spot?a dark-haired fool in a laughably small town, waiting in a line that leads to nowhere.I pay for my things and leave quickly.?Someone might have called my name in the parking lot but I've had enough of this for one night.?When I am alone I can drink beer and pretend like the rest.??
The streets of this place are wider this year.?I drive over them just the same as always, back and forth, here and there.?Truck stop number six has opened but still no cinemas or bookstores.?I guess all we need is fuel to keep on going.?And a warm place to sleep at night.?Yet, I long for more than dreams and gasoline.?For this reason there is a busy highway at the edge of town for those of us who see far too clearly.?I am not ready for it at this moment, but I've finally found my knife and the cords are being cut.?I tell myself it is simply a matter of patience at this point.?When the leaves are withered, the air crisp, I will go.?Or, God help me, I will try. |
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