2:06 a.m. - 2002-06-05
exactly
i might have hoped, when i was younger, for a myriad of stories to tell. i'd be able to mix and match memories, always having an appropriate antectdote for any strained social scenario. something that would put all eyes on me.
that's what i wanted in childhood. attention. acceptance. and on a basic level, these youthful needs were transferred to my adulthood, although in slightly more sophisticated packaging. attention morphs smoothly into desire; acceptance turns the page, and reads more like respect and (more importantly) understanding.
so where are my grand tales? where is the story about how joaquin phoenix and i once played blackjack until four AM in some dingy, oil lamp-illuminated back room of a venetian bar? he took me like a champ, but bought me an orange canolli from an all night tourist street vendor afterwards to make up for it. what about the time i skipped naked in a straight line for a mile and a half through the badlands until the soles of my feet were stinging rather unbearably with blisters and dust? later i sang nina simone songs under my breath, with my feet propped up on the smoothed edge of a small rock until sleep overtook me. once i was in sri lanka; i watched the sun setting on a dead man slumped in the underbrush. his head was peeling open in the right corner of his forehead; a gunshot wound had left clumps of reddish black goo that had once pressed insistently outwards, but now gave the impression and texture of cooling tar. his eyes were open. flies crowded his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, dissatisfied. another time i went to a amnesty benefit in DC, it was a black and white ball, a four hundred dollar a plate affair. i sat next to one of the environmental attaches from japan and spoke at length with him about the best soil to birth exemplary roses in; i wore my grandmother's pearl choker with the diamond clasp, my hair was swept upwards, my eyes glistened and i was beautiful.
why do i dream of these things? shouldn't i be interested in vesting my flowery prose in a cause i believe in, rather than indulging in fictional reminiscences? why i am not on a plane to rangoon, or indonesia, or some other place where they need a good pair of hands more than fanciful tales of idealized 'american' experiences?
all eyes on me, now. i am going to tell you a story.
once, there was a girl. she dreamed of becoming a writer, but moreso, she dreamed of writing something important. she realized that her dream wasn't anything special; many people shared the same hope. she knew she was a cliche, so she didn't really know where to begin, or if she should even bother. instead, she spent much of her time sitting in comfortable surroundings feeling uncomfortable.
she knew someday, she would garner a masters, and go on to tending house in some remote suburbian corner of the american dream if she wasn't careful. maybe she should join the peace corps. maybe she should travel the world and concentrate on the journey, not the destination. maybe she should shut the fuck up and focus on marrying a lawyer and raising two-point-five exotically named children.
but in the end, she knew it would work itself out. in america, we (the affluent middle class) are all pretty much presented with the opportunity for a happy ending.
i might have wanted my life to mean more than the paragraphs above, when i was younger. but as i get older, i realize: i will make it mean more than that. i will give a proper burial to the man slumped in the underbrush, i will host the amnesty benefit, i will skip naked through the wilderness and videotape the whole thing. i will write things that move people. they will understand me, if only through an errant paragraph here and there. they will say, yes, that's it. exactly.
