🥚 je vous remercie beaucoup ! merci beaucoup!

apparently the place “to go” around here is the State Line. Literally. The state line. The exact spot where two US states meet. There’s a gas station. That’s the place. 

The ‘go to’ place. so it’s the frozen stare as in The Last Picture Show—where.am.I…. when am I…. and I don’t think it’s Kansas either Toto 

 

a small foot note

What’s My Age Again? 

 

subway pages

 I think I have read far too many Brontë novels. Or, no—I think I have ….too often paused over their words. Spent hours of time so lost within their minds. Sometimes it is I become a character within their world. I say this because ….well, it was not long ago I read Charlotte’s tale of Villette which I think is my favorite of hers, even more than Jane Eyre. I think that is who I have morphed into; that character but oddly squashed into the uniform of our millennium. It is no wonder. But then ….think of Charles Dickens as he too is as much to blame for ….my Oliver twist that.be.me.

but 

….don’t I live only among words ? it is an odd thing about me. if you don’t follow the Easter eggs you won’t get it and I know some of you do get it 

I start to understand now more what this is about. Yes I know how important it was to Charlotte to be in print 

It’s a different world now and it’s a Matrix and I think the power I have is —words— like my dear Mr. Page once told me when I was his teacher’s pet at age 12. He was the first one who saw me. But he died. Soon after I knew him of aids and…. though this be a tangent of thoughts in streams —it was meant to arrive at the fact the father of me as a writer was a gay man who adored me. And he is always with me because I did not exist until he noticed me when he read my words to the class, then looked at me in front of everyone and said, “you are a writer.”

dyslexic girl of twelve; puff, born! in his eyes. He was the first person ever to tell me I was pretty. He looked like Freddie Mercury during the mustache phase(and had the same arrogance and flamboyance); so—do the math dear readers and wonder how mixed up I am in my ideas of love and adoration (a complicated Victor Victoria version, like the Julie Andrew’s movie) ….anything the opposite of that man my mother was married to 

these asides are literary markers (I always write all over books in the margins my remarks to the author as if they are there) (‘why’d you say that there?’ ‘You ruined that scene you know!’) and often fix their mistakes.

I realize I am intended to be this odd creature that I am so, I hardly care about selling my soul as an artist 

I never could ….this is me. Who I am. I take it wherever I go. That friend of mine who thought she was me and tried to take Electra from me —it shows how extreme ….those that encounter me 

well, take it to the streets I think 

a man (a young and total stranger)held a door open for me and said ‘you’re welcome’ —amazed 

my psychic visions have been so intensely strong the last several weeks. It comes without prompting; I see and hear into places and people …. why have the gods shown me what I’ve not asked to see 

I want to go home so bad. I wish I knew where that was