Straight No Chaser

Golden Faucets, Chocolate Champagne

honestly, i don't know how well it would work out, in the porte-cochere. i'm picturing greenery and onlookers, neither of which bother me. but, you know. anyway, upstairs, though, that's different. entirely different, and probably better.

contrary to popular belief, girls do not have it easier, not in that or any significant way.

i could scream right now. i'm fighting every type of frustration, the room is not clean, transcendentalism paper has surprisingly not written itself, the hopeless couplet is languishing on my notepad. mostly i want to exorcise my frustrations aggressively on a punching bag, and then be kissed and cornered just as aggressively (though NOT in a ford escort). i want an apology; i want to call that guy who stands on the street holding a "will write for food" sign and offer him fruit snacks for a five-page evaluative summary; i want my gush of euphony to well, voluminously--i want it to spring forth as the most musical poetry that has ever graced any notepad, ever. poetry is music, music is math, math is the only thing i really fully understand, as it has always been.

entirely my fault, most of it. i shouldn't have thought about the day with the skirt.

mostly i have nothing to write about, right now. i am notorious for my refusal to write what i know, because i don't know very much, but lately i've tried to curb that. but again, i don't know very much, so not much comes out. the odd rhythmic bit of dialogue, yes, but not much else, and definitely nothing usable. i am still completely selfish with my characters; i'd never be able to set one on fire. their only accidents are minor and serendipitous, invariably catapult toward a brilliant romantic climax. i need to mature past that.

in the dream, which took place entirely in third-person, marcus was taking her back to shreveport to watch his friends (who had a band in high school) perform at a party after their class reunion. she was pregnant, she was self-conscious--thinking, probably, that his community would judge her; they hadn't been married long, she wasn't a southerner, et cetera. she wanted his attention, his reassurance that whatever his classmates said, even if it was "you could have done better," that he'd stand by her in the short-term, through this raucous concert...he eventually got onstage as a guest accompanist, grabbed the guitar she'd given him and opened with the chord progression to "stay or leave" (his inexplicable favorite) while she stood down in the audience, vulnerable and exposed, waiting for the shoutout she knew was coming. it came, he pointed her out, a garish spotlight flew in her direction and everyone stared. unbearable. and then he finished, he came back down, the music started up again, he touched her tummy and reported that the baby was "dancing."

she was me, of course. he told me that story once.

charlie and the chocolate factory comes out tomorrow. someone remind me, i need to get a new remote before i come home.

it ends where it began. i could scream.