I figure its time to start telling a story about something other than pot-pies and pointlessness. Someone said that we all have stories in us, but I figure that guy was a storyteller to start with, so it was no big deal for him to say something, that when you think about it seems rather pointless, stupid even. I figure that storytellers take this sort of stuff pretty much for granted, and others, me for example, don’t have the luxury of taking much of anything for granted, not even anything worth taking for granted, cause in the end it’s all pretty much pointless shit, and isn’t worth a hell of a lot, not really.
Her name is Martha. The lady on the bus with the carryall, I think. I’m not much for names, never have been, but I can tell you all about someone’s face or the shoes they’re wearing. I like to keep things pretty much simple, that ways there isn’t much room for mistaking one thing for another, another thing for another, that sort of mistaking. I guess it comes with age and worsening hearing, cause if you don’t pay attention the first time you’re fucked, then you can’t remember a thing, nothing, nil. Mind you, I could forget the guy reading the National Geographic with the dagger tattoo, but that’s unlikely, really. Once he’s in my mind’s eye, my brain, he’s pretty much there for life, maybe longer. My grandmamma told me that I have what’s called a photographic memory, as in once I see something its there for life. Some people dream in colours, me, I don’t have dreams at all, maybe little ones but that’s it, nothing worth talking about. Anyhow dreams are overrated, mostly nightmares and shit, so why bother. As you might have figured out, by now anyhow, I don’t have a mother or a dad, both of ‘em died when I was a baby, or at least real little. My grandmamma said they died in a house fire, got all burned up and black. Of course I don’t remember, and even if I did it’d be horrible stuff, like burned bodies and black faces and frizzy hair, so I guess I’m better off not remembering, at least that.
Her name is Martha. The lady on the bus with the carryall, I think. I’m not much for names, never have been, but I can tell you all about someone’s face or the shoes they’re wearing. I like to keep things pretty much simple, that ways there isn’t much room for mistaking one thing for another, another thing for another, that sort of mistaking. I guess it comes with age and worsening hearing, cause if you don’t pay attention the first time you’re fucked, then you can’t remember a thing, nothing, nil. Mind you, I could forget the guy reading the National Geographic with the dagger tattoo, but that’s unlikely, really. Once he’s in my mind’s eye, my brain, he’s pretty much there for life, maybe longer. My grandmamma told me that I have what’s called a photographic memory, as in once I see something its there for life. Some people dream in colours, me, I don’t have dreams at all, maybe little ones but that’s it, nothing worth talking about. Anyhow dreams are overrated, mostly nightmares and shit, so why bother. As you might have figured out, by now anyhow, I don’t have a mother or a dad, both of ‘em died when I was a baby, or at least real little. My grandmamma said they died in a house fire, got all burned up and black. Of course I don’t remember, and even if I did it’d be horrible stuff, like burned bodies and black faces and frizzy hair, so I guess I’m better off not remembering, at least that.
3 comments:
What a distinct voice. Body language shuffling comes in.
Thanks, Pearl; one of the advantages of being a writer is that you can split your Ego without being called pathological, odd, yes, but not pathological.
lol. true 'nuff, clowns, actors, and writers can schism off to stay whole.
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