Thursday, July 7, 2011
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself.
The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose.
The one who gets her point across but in a more colorful way,
who experiences newness for the sake of transcending the old,
beautiful settings that fall from the sky and say to me
"live here, now", and "live away from there"
I see her sometimes, when she writes herself differently
she's clever and bemused and pitiless.
she's an orphan with a great aunt who is
a millionaire who steals her away from poverty-
but that's someone else, it isn't me.
or is it?
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...