Stopping Here

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a Blaze

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You Is

Aside

Who knows, really, what it means to pepper your seclusion with company, and if you’re truer with or without it. And if you don’t like yourself alone, and if that’s what’s true, is the company you seek out a necessary falsehood tailored for your fight with the stubborn beat, the beat to which the guts inside you drive? If yes, then your friends are weapons with which you battle you. Use them to conquer yourself in halting increments, one drink, one text at a time.

When it’s done, maybe it will be like those nights when you wake up and the room is too dark and for two seconds you forget who you are, and you’d be sure you’re dead except you don’t remember who you is.

One phenomenon

in my life: having grown up with both grandpas having gone away—one before I walked through the door and the other too early to remember—I see them in stories. Al Pacino, Robert Duvall, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Walter Matthau. They blend into one man who has stories that could knock you out, who bought your grandmother a new dress and took her dancing every Saturday night.

Lewis & Virgil live for me in Pacino’s tango and Duvall’s tango and Matthau’s grumpy old man. Lemmon’s too, for that matter.

I guess I just like my old men grumpy and dancing.

That Lou.

That Lou.

On Watching “American Beauty” at 11pm on a Sunday Night & Not Wanting to Go to Bed

and hearing that line come back to me, the one that goes something like “The worst thing in the world is to be ordinary.”

Now that I’m older and watching it for what must be the dozenth time, I feel even worse for the woman married to that ex-marine who likes boys and hates himself, and even better about every word that comes out of Kevin Spacey’s mouth. It must be the August heat that throws the comic and the tragic into relief. Either that or it’s like when you don’t realize how thirsty you are until you get to water–in dire need of one or the other, or both, you notice the metallic sweet slickness, the cold of it, the reanimation in yourself.

I should be in bed, but last night I had a nightmare. It was a good one, in that I woke up with tears in my eyes and the urge to grab a pen; it would have made one hell of a short story. I couldn’t remember a thing about it by morning, so now I’ll have to look for it again tonight if I’m going to nail it down. But not yet. I’m still too tired to start looking.

On a not entirely different note: The Daily Post today asks us what the 8th deadly sin should be, and here are my two cents: Not taking the opportunity to watch American Beauty, not staying up too late, not remembering how good it all is.

*Note Spacey’s 4th wall stare a la “House of Cards” at 0:42.

I’ve a Bright, Shiny New Blog!

It’s called The Rejection Pile, and it’s right here. Feel free to go there, or not. No big deal.

I’ll continue posting here with faithful irregularity. Thanks for reading.

Love,
Grace

Bugs in Amber

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“All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.”  – Kurt Vonnegut Jr.