To Zion.
"I believe that love cannot be bought, except with love" Steinbeck
This quiet drive with dialogue, a 7 hour play. These things that are apart of the cinema: trees that hang over the road, the bend, I have no map, you don't like chocolate and sand, the two rocks you divide from the rest and give me, now in my pocket (the one with the red stripe), you buy me food as though we are on a date, your hand on my waist in the deli as though I was your girlfriend, I tell you you remind me of my brother, although I don't know why, you don't ask, trails of dead lady bugs and finches in the sand, my skirt blows between my legs, you spot the batting cage and know I'd love it, and we tell those kinds of stories about traveling people tell one another when they just meet. I sing softly on the way home, you asleep and twitch only slightly, beautiful when you grasp my skirt and won't let go. I don't know what to do as we coast into the city and I stall, but don't stop the car, I propel forward and say stupid things, as always, including :do your other girls like having sex with you as much as I do. You say: some more, some less. And then pause. I hate myself for making such a joke, for insisting that all I care for is fucking you, but I cannot bear to care anymore than that since I am not going to be perfectly formulaic for you to love. I will not get outraged, I am passive aggressive; I will allow you everything and nothing; I won't make you out to be exotic, you are like family to me - that's why there is everything and nothing. I am fine being used, I am fine if you can only imagine me beneath you, I am fine with that, but I don't think its true. I think you will be lonely. You will always be in love with could bes and therefore, will never know love in the now.
I had convulsed before leaving the house, certain that it would hurt. But it didn't. I just didn't want you to get out. Not because I had anything to tell you or anything to do, I just don't know, and I need knowing. I wanted to find out about feelings that seem serene madness.
We are, it is now silenced. And was not very loud to begin with. A quiet thank-you and a you are welcome.
Your window down the street, still.
This quiet drive with dialogue, a 7 hour play. These things that are apart of the cinema: trees that hang over the road, the bend, I have no map, you don't like chocolate and sand, the two rocks you divide from the rest and give me, now in my pocket (the one with the red stripe), you buy me food as though we are on a date, your hand on my waist in the deli as though I was your girlfriend, I tell you you remind me of my brother, although I don't know why, you don't ask, trails of dead lady bugs and finches in the sand, my skirt blows between my legs, you spot the batting cage and know I'd love it, and we tell those kinds of stories about traveling people tell one another when they just meet. I sing softly on the way home, you asleep and twitch only slightly, beautiful when you grasp my skirt and won't let go. I don't know what to do as we coast into the city and I stall, but don't stop the car, I propel forward and say stupid things, as always, including :do your other girls like having sex with you as much as I do. You say: some more, some less. And then pause. I hate myself for making such a joke, for insisting that all I care for is fucking you, but I cannot bear to care anymore than that since I am not going to be perfectly formulaic for you to love. I will not get outraged, I am passive aggressive; I will allow you everything and nothing; I won't make you out to be exotic, you are like family to me - that's why there is everything and nothing. I am fine being used, I am fine if you can only imagine me beneath you, I am fine with that, but I don't think its true. I think you will be lonely. You will always be in love with could bes and therefore, will never know love in the now.
I had convulsed before leaving the house, certain that it would hurt. But it didn't. I just didn't want you to get out. Not because I had anything to tell you or anything to do, I just don't know, and I need knowing. I wanted to find out about feelings that seem serene madness.
We are, it is now silenced. And was not very loud to begin with. A quiet thank-you and a you are welcome.
Your window down the street, still.
posted by Francine at 10:11 p.m.
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