I'm having a freakin' blasty-freak-nasty in Boise (Boyz-Ee or Boisse-Ee...I interchange them.) Everyone is fantastic, as mentioned before, and I've had so many amazing conversations with random people I've met on the street/in restaurants/in coffee shops--I think...I think I'd like to be here for a while. Check me on that in a few months...but for now, that's where I'm at.
Did some writing today, and here's a small sample of what it became:
WOMAN. You were saying. Your life.
MAN. Yeah.
WOMAN. I’m listening.
The man sighs, sits down, stands and begins.
MAN. It’s hard to describe it the right way. It’s a life. It’s a--a whole thing. And really, what does that mean? What is all that? The things I’ve seen. The events I’ve been…hm…privy to. In elementary school, I saw a dog burn to death. I smelled it before I saw it. Hair. Not the burning dead thing smell that you usually get--but just…all that hair.
WOMAN. Jesus.
MAN. My father beat me with an extension cord once for dropping a plate. I gave a homeless woman some leftovers from a restaurant and she wept. I wanted her to stop because it was embarrassing me. I once froze time for a few hours.
WOMAN. Wait…what?
MAN. I kept it midnight for hours. For a girl. A woman.
WOMAN. Ah.
MAN. I feel that bears explanation.
WOMAN. You feel correct, sir.
MAN. Time is relative, right?
WOMAN. Yes, established fact. Factoid.
MAN. Factoid. It’s elastic. It’s malleable, it’s silly putty.
WOMAN. Yes, you can press time against a newspaper and the words appear backwards.
Pause
MAN. That wasn’t a metaphor, was it?
WOMAN. No, go on.
MAN. I guess I shouldn’t say I stopped time. What I did was…elongate it. Seconds, minutes fly by without us noticing. Right? Or--we can notice a minute for so long, that it seems to take weeks. This is factoid. I’ve lived in an instant for two hours.
WOMAN. Sounds romantic.
MAN. It wasn’t.
WOMAN. You said you did it for a woman. What did you do, embrace in the rain? The woman stands up and leans against a countertop.
MAN. No, she threw a snow globe at my head.
WOMAN. Fucking Jesus.
MAN. Yeah.
WOMAN. I’m listening.
The man sighs, sits down, stands and begins.
MAN. It’s hard to describe it the right way. It’s a life. It’s a--a whole thing. And really, what does that mean? What is all that? The things I’ve seen. The events I’ve been…hm…privy to. In elementary school, I saw a dog burn to death. I smelled it before I saw it. Hair. Not the burning dead thing smell that you usually get--but just…all that hair.
WOMAN. Jesus.
MAN. My father beat me with an extension cord once for dropping a plate. I gave a homeless woman some leftovers from a restaurant and she wept. I wanted her to stop because it was embarrassing me. I once froze time for a few hours.
WOMAN. Wait…what?
MAN. I kept it midnight for hours. For a girl. A woman.
WOMAN. Ah.
MAN. I feel that bears explanation.
WOMAN. You feel correct, sir.
MAN. Time is relative, right?
WOMAN. Yes, established fact. Factoid.
MAN. Factoid. It’s elastic. It’s malleable, it’s silly putty.
WOMAN. Yes, you can press time against a newspaper and the words appear backwards.
Pause
MAN. That wasn’t a metaphor, was it?
WOMAN. No, go on.
MAN. I guess I shouldn’t say I stopped time. What I did was…elongate it. Seconds, minutes fly by without us noticing. Right? Or--we can notice a minute for so long, that it seems to take weeks. This is factoid. I’ve lived in an instant for two hours.
WOMAN. Sounds romantic.
MAN. It wasn’t.
WOMAN. You said you did it for a woman. What did you do, embrace in the rain? The woman stands up and leans against a countertop.
MAN. No, she threw a snow globe at my head.
WOMAN. Fucking Jesus.
See, watching 'At Home At The Zoo' sparked my interest in writing again. In addition, it made me realize that I have a tendency to censor my writing, trying to make everything very deliberate and clever, instead of just flowing. I wrote for about an hour, just typing whatever came into my head. It was a nice exercise to get the wheels turning again.
ALSO--I'm feeling a whole MESS of loving energy going around right now. February fever of some sort? I haven't had booster shots since fourth grade. Circle circle, dot dot.
Not much to say, it's hard to speak when you're smiling so hard.
Love love love,
Dakotah
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