Skip to main content

Featured

Not me, her

In 1987, I found myself trying to write about a high school girlfriend that had been molested by her father when she was a child. I was 19 years old, struggling to find my way through a screenwriting assignment about delivering character. The idea was to describe messy young love between two Sid and Nancy want-to-be's. But that failed, as I could not stomach oversimplifying her complicated past, events that shaped her life as a 16 year old with a mohawk, a smart mouth, a lingering stare. I understood that I had to start at the very beginning.

No one wanted to hear the story. When it was my turn to read in class, it even came to be that some of the other students asked to stand in the hallway before they heard another description of what happened in that lonely little house in the middle of nowhere. I was trying, and failing, and trying again to get things right, to explain how this happened, how it could happen to this girl, how this man found his way to acts of selfishness and d…

the zoo

There is a moment when I wake from each dream in the series, pausing in the dark room and adjusting to the drapes as I fumble for my watch. It is New York in them, autumn. I am on high floors. All of the lights are off. There are feats of strength. There are gunshots, plans, schemes, tiny voices in my head telling me to turn left or right. In one, a truck of giant spaghetti is dumped into a river, and gets cooked in the cold water somehow then draped across a log that spans a waterfall. In another I find an extra room in my apartment, an apartment I never actually lived in.

The sky and the river are cold and flat.
The air is hard and cold but the door to the balcony is left open. We huddle against each other under the comforter, feeling that pressure to bear the cold for a taste of fresh air until the very end, until we become zoo animals under dirty glass.
I curl my feet under hers, and then she curls hers under mine.


Headaches are pressed aside.
Coffee tastes bitter.
The apartment is a cascading mess and a pair of new shoes stand in a doorway, practically talking to me.

I wander the rooms, restless after everyone has gone to sleep.






Comments

liv said…
Oh, that made me laugh. Dreams, they are so hard to understand sometimes and then again, once in a while they tell something you Need to know and you are grateful for the revelation. Usually I just can't remember them and get frustrated with the struggle to untangle the threads.

But that last line was wonderful. "I wander the rooms, restless after everyone has gone to sleep." That's you, Marco. That's just you in a nutshell: so much that you want to do, see, tell. A superhero on a mission. But rest is good, hope you get some.

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs