Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I just want to talk to everyone. I want to know when their parents were married, and what her dress looked like, and why there were only seven people there. I want to know why my grandfather has clocks hidden all over his house, and I want to suggest on an afternoon that I should have bathed but didn't that perhaps he is afraid of time. I want to ask the bus driver how long she has been silent like that, and find out why my landlord won't look me in the eye. I want to tell the woman in front of me who shrugs away the two handles of vodka on the conveyor belt by saying, times are hard if you know what I mean, that I know what she means. Do you know what I mean?
I just want to talk to everyone, and tell them that I think spilled milk is funny, that I think everything is either funny or hopelessly tragic and that there is no in-between, that I believe in change and catastrophe but that chipped paint bothers me in a way that it shouldn't. I want to tell them that Hemingway is the worst and Tolstoy is the best, that nobody likes philosophy or bourbon or a run-on sentence even though I write that way.
I just want to talk to everyone because I write that way.