Tuesday, January 13, 2009

fragile grasp

" i wasn't quite sure who the character in the story is waiting for...i think its her mom...but then again i don't know if i want to know. i felt a very 'waiting for godot' type feeling."

"i think it was her mom, but i'm not sure if she was an abusive alcoholic or one of those women who just doesn't want to grow up and is irresponsible."

"i got mood, but not story."

"i liked this story, a lot."

"i think it's about womanhood."

"it's about waking but then we need to step outside of herself."

"i can't help but notice, that both of the characters in both of your stories have a very fragile grasp of reality. they are trying to understand their past but have been damaged by their past...which gives you a wealth of stuff to mine."

a fragile grasp of reality catches me.
the eye contact, the stuffy room, the piercing eye contact, the soft but authoritative british accent, and i am wondering who were are talking about in this moment.
i will not cry for you, because this is all fiction. and these characters are made up. and the story is a lie, at best.
but why do i sweat?
i walk through the ghost town that is penn station at 10:30 on a Monday night.
people talk to themselves, look for sleep, look for warmth, look for anything.
these are the forgotten people weaving in and out of our paths,
just on the peripheral of God's vision
i find it hard to ask myself if i have a fragile grasp on reality in this place
if i am a person who is trying to understand my past but been damaged by it
comparatively, i am a superhero in this place
on second thought...maybe the guy throwing air punches thinks he is
"i write to understand things."
i tell him this as i get lost in the station looking for food, not really interested in anything
i lose my appetite around every corner
i settle on beef jerky
the perfect food for a superhero and work on a story entitled "Vikings" on the ride home.

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