he awoke with the lights on again, but sleep had been good. right foot, left foot on the floor, he looked into the mirror resting against the wall, next to his bed- sexy but tired. shuffling to the restroom, only steps away, stupid jukebox mind played the song of the day. effing fergie, goddamn blackeyed peas. he obediently hummed along.
the shower was warm and forgiving. he thought of all the things he needed to do, hadn’t done, would, might, maybe could do. he had a conversation in his mind with his friend about accountability and representation. these endeavors needed to be taken seriously. but mostly it was a conversation with himself. he thought of his conversation with old friend turned executive director of local city-run arts facility.
coming clean, he stepped out of the wet and steamy. the computer screen flashed on. he opened the book to face. someone quoted pulp fiction. oh-the children. someone else had mentioned last night’s stink bomb of a madonna tribute episode of glee. he had so been lookin forward to it. ..same shit, different day. people communicating so efficiently, no one can hear the other, let alone themselves. scrolling, skimming he thought, “if you can’t beat ‘em” and “when in rome..”
there was a bird chirp, a memory of his old street in brooklyn, and the thought of all the things he would never have again, passing all too quickly. he searched the screen again, almost begging for another distraction. they were more and more lame as of late. but there it was again, the idea IN the very thing he spoke of despising. all this “to bring us together,” to make us feel so damn smug, or smart, or somwhow better about ourselves. he thought about how awful some people feel most of the time. -goddamn precious movie. he thought about the message as the medium. this book of face could be his bitch. he stopped himself short of thinking of reactions and the dissapointing after-effect of putting yourself out there. producing. he decided not to worry about it and sat down again. slowly at first, letter, by letter, punching it out, then faster, typos and all, and a little psychotically furious now, he began to write it down.
