Thursday, September 09, 2004

Given enough monkeys and typewriters

In recent days, at random interludes through out the day I start imagining myself as some other person watching me from across the street. Maybe it's just the beginnings of an organic degenerative brain disorder which leads to paranoia and soon I'll be conversing with the other gunman on the grassy knoll inside my head. But maybe it's all hormonal.
One last kick in the crotch from puberty before I enter my 20's.

Either way, my visions are a happy ones. Now I'm standing on a street corner watching the people walk by. You know how some people stand out for a minute before fading back into the crush of people walking down a busy sidewalk? Maybe the color of their shirt was appealing or maybe they had the most beautiful eyebrows you've ever seen. Well, I see two girls walking in the graying light of the early evening. They chat and laugh comfortably. One has short red hair covered with a baseball cap, the word "Cal" embroidered on it. The other has dark brown hair messily piled up and clipped in place for some semblance of a hair style. They cross Haste and disappear in the crowd.

Often they are followed by a retro-vision. The mental image of me at 13 years old racked with angst and insomnia. Up until 2 a.m. with a mechanical pencil and micron ink pen. Drawing lots of cross-hatched shadows and thick dark lines. Wearing my older brother's t-shirts which fit like tents on my gawky thin frame, hiding even the idea of cleavage. Listening on head phones to late night talk shows but never actually watching the inanity.

So, Graham has a fan. The poor kid wonders if it's fiction or elaboration on truth but I have to say, I hardly see a point to the distinction.
Either way, it makes me want to stop being clever. Graham has begun putting out veritably literary short stories and my roommate continues to chronicle her life. I find myself niche-less.

Weak attempts at clever organization of the english language hardly seem worth posting.

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