Posted by marko on 1/22/2007, 8:35 am it wasn’t planned. i didn’t think about it. it was an i’ll never know why that box of rug-cutter blades was scene 175 let me know when it starts to sound familiar. i’ll begin
65.167.39.184
scene 173
impulsive reaction to a confusing situation. it’s gone
now. there’s no way of getting it back. i hate wearing
any kind of jewelry anyway. you’ve never seen me wear
another ring or a watch, have you? it no longer meant
anything to me. it obviously meant nothing to you. at
least i’m truthful about it. i don’t think i overacted though.
i think most, put in the same position, under the same
circumstance, would do the same. if i wanted to be
dramatic i would have stepped outside & chucked it as far
as i could. given the chance to do it again, that’s probably
what i would do. it would have felt more definite. punctuated
the whole mess clearly. but make no mistake, i wouldn’t
have done anything else differently.
scene 174
doing on the mantle with all the porcelain knick-knacks.
a strange assortment of things that seemed to fit nevertheless,
but then i’d seen it that way for twenty years, as long as
i had a memory. nothing much changed in those twenty
years. it was the only constant in my life. an eagle’s claw
clutching what looked like half an oyster shell painted
inside with mother-of pearl. too fancy to be used as an
ashtray. i’m still not sure what it was supposed to be.
i don’t remember any ashtrays, though my grandmother
smoked. i don’t remember her smoking. but that’s what
i was told. she died of cancer. it was as close to home
as i ever got. but even then i felt like a visitor, though a
welcome guest. i always kept a certain distance. i knew
my place in the grand scheme. i knew there were lines
not to be crossed. a lineup of usual suspects. the same
keepsakes you’d see in a million other homes. i wailed
all that night. i felt guilty for disturbing the ghosts. the
wounds were superficial. i wanted to, but i lost my nerve.
i’d lost my nerve before, & have since. the ridiculous scars.
the muddled memories. nothing but hash marks counting
off the time. the blades cold as kisses.
with the parts that have been marked in yellow high-
lighter. i’ll leave the plots from old tv shots for last.
i don’t want to give it away too quickly. sure, you might
guess the right answer. & you might even be able to turn
it into some sort of intellectual gain. but you wouldn’t
know how you or it, got there. i think it’s better this way.
pick up information a bit at a time. so that it’s more than
historical rote work. it’s so much more than that. history
might only misdirect you. by the time you realized this,
it would be too late. that’s exactly what i’m trying to avoid.
i know the feeling well. from both sides. i want to provide
you with many more opportunities. the first step is not
knowing where you’re going, not knowing what happens
next.
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