they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
It bothers people. They say: you are so Cold.. + January 30. 2002 = 1:09 a.m.
one a.m. phonecall and I try to explain. It's not that I don't trust anyone. It is only that : I can't help but think of the stories behind stories. Everyone has the facts and fictions of their history buried in random places. Minefields. You never know what you are walking into. You never know what song or word or movie title will trigger a response. ( Blue & gold fire department sticker on Ben's dashboard and I ask : where did you get that from? A long story which involves girl in Brooklyn. DancerArtistEtcEtc. Visited two weeks ago. But I do not remember him ever making a mention. ) Look, It is impossible to regard the present tense as a fixable point with the knowledge that those minefields lie await in the darkness somewhere. Vain to believe that because you are here + now your story = a sum greater thatn the parts of stories that came before. You never know what direction another story (past or future) may pull a person towards. Thus & thusly so. So, no, I would not be surprised. Or maybe, maybe all this really is : i always want(ed) the song/ the reference/ the poem to be about me, but it never is(was)
prev/next
class
notes, file of pom-pom
ghosts!
