Thursday, March 02, 2006

This is what we talk about when we talk about robots

I've been thinking about memory lately. I'm always thinking about memory, actually.

I've been frustrated with a story that I'm working on.
I think I need to start over.



















Ana Castillo wrote that (the words up there in the pictture) in her book, "Watercolor Woman Opaque Man."


Have you ever wanted to be more than someone else, but someTHING else? I find myself writing about that a lot. Years of this, of writing about people (and me) who want to take a break from human.


*Maybe this is a bit o' something that I wrote a while back*

When I die I want to be a red leaf.
I want to lie in the green grass of fall. Be raked into a pile by a man with cold, gray hands
-by a child wearing headphones and gardener’s gloves to protect soft skin from the splinters of the rake handle. I want to be the landing mat for backyard gymnasts in sweatpants and sweatshirts with hoods. I want to be the confetti when they land on both feet. I want to be put between the pages of a novel or a diary or a cookbook. Wednesday morning I want an old woman with tissue paper hands to find me on the floor of the kitchen. With trembling deliberation she fixes me to a wreath with a pink glue gun and I am covered in shellac.
Sold at a craft fair
in the middle of a run-down shopping mall for 6 dollars and hung on the front door.
I am
the world’s greatest symbol of autumn until the day after Thanksgiving when the boy scouts knock on the door carrying green circles of winter. And I am put in an attic, in a box marked “Fall” soon to be thrown in a dumpster when the roof leaked and ruined my small shelter. I want to be
rescued
by a small girl wearing a purple jacket with pink mittens clipped to the sleeves. Napping in a tree house I dangle from a curled branch.
Just like before.
When I die I want to be a red leaf.


*Oh, then we transition into a paragraph from a recently completed story*

Because if you really want to do me something. Here it is: make me lonesome, make me a little bit low. Make me haunt, make me echo, make me rise and fall and roll like a western wave, I don’t mind the crash. Make me mourn, make me cry. Make me sad enough to be sublime. Make me sink, make me hurt, make me cut and pale. Make me black and white, faded and sweet. Pretty, make me round and soft. Lord, I wanna be pretty. I want to echo through time and all of it. A nickel in a jukebox set me free. Just one favor, Lord. One request. When I die, make me blue. Make me swing and sway. Make me the voice of Patsy Cline. I just wanna be sad with a smile. My rouge, my red lips laughing. Make me ordinary. Natural. Make me sigh, make me shine.
I’m the voice of Patsy Cline.


*and then we hop over to a paragraph from a rough little essay*

Erase this all from my memory until memory is nothing but a rumor we heard once and who can remember the punchline? Forget every moment, every hour, every single second. Break them down and take the fragments. Take all the pieces back and let me start again. I want a new beginning. I want to be born. A spiral notebook. I want to be born an orange flower. I want to be born the blue edge of a very hot flame.


  • This band/dude is called "The Robot Ate Me"
  • I like them/him
  • And, seriously, what a band name.

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