Blanche in Dim Light
There are many different kinds (does that word mean families?) of people in the world, all kinds of people, and as I reach the apex of my quarterlife, sad realizations spur me to recognize which kind I might be. I think I am a dreamer; an imaginer; it explains my love of reading and TV and movies — different kinds of dreams. I think the hard real scares me — where a grown man (I don’t feel much like a man, that’s the rub isn’t, this kidlike nervousness) gets off being scared is another question — and eventuallsy I will have to look myself in the mirror and tell myself to cowboy up, geronimo, but there it is — my natural state, or my vulnerable state, or this state — doesn’t like reality, is overwhelmed by it, would prefer to drape such realness in red lampshades like Blanche Dubois reliving her youth.
The hard look. The true gaze. The theory of mind. What are you thinking? I can’t help you — the sad real. The melancholy sadness. The Apollonian fences we build around ourselves, and I realize my Dionysian Revels are mere construction, one more dodge, step to the left and out of the way of the the baby grand piano that’s crashing down from the skyscraper above, oh, yeah, move out of the way, son — dim light, here’s the reality, listen to a song and wait for the next note that’s sort of expected and sort of not, surprise yourself and surprise others, here we go here we go, pedal steel gutiar moving fast typing faster than him here I go – paint the picture with words tell me what you see I see a black computer dell, a magazine open, pile of CDs, cousin and her boyfriend standing in the other room, old 1960s-style house in a part of town that isn’t mine bought my parents from an old woman and her dying lawyer husband — to my right is what they call the sun room the great big and large sun room with a big window that looks out over the back yard and a beautiful creek that is always flowing — it is peaceful here — quiet — a man could rest here — one more dodge? more dim light? maybe.