Change...

Should I play the story tellers game with you now? Shall I take one, take another, and another, and mix them up like clay, sculpt a heroin, an archetype; my own poor copy of woman/other/life/death that has been with us since our hominid ancestors began? Since the labour pains first pulsed in their newly evolving pre-frontal cortices, their rapidly ballooning limbic systems, pumping hatred, love, lust, jealousy, sadness, melancholy, loneliness, hope, devotion, and so much more through the fragile networking of flesh, to become us. Do I digress? Is this, too dis-jointed, wrong audience, wrong voice? But what is truth, and who am I? Who are you, dear reader?

Here I am writing memoirs, an act of artful narcissism according to many contemporaries; a low art according to the more classical view I suppose. Here I am writing memoirs, and I told you about secrets, didn't I? These are my memoirs, these are my fictions, these are my fictitious memoirs, and there are my memoir fictions. But inside of this silly game I'm playing, I'm telling you... secrets. I am telling you who I am... Or am I? I almost expose myself, hinting, giving some, and taking a little more back. Who am I really showing you? Maybe it's yourself. But... Who are we?

Oh, by the way... you... over there... yeah you, I still remember you. Every time I wander this road, I will think of you, and as I think of you, you will be there with me, along with every one else whom I have ever loved.

 I heard or read some one some where recently... perhaps my father.... talking about men like my Uncle Jimmy... The dirt that has become their faces, the scars, the one eye squinting from holding that roll-your-own between your teeth all those years while wrangling horses... there is a character, there is a story, there are a million stories in that face. But what about my face? Ani Difranco poses with a cigar clenched ferociously between her teeth, one eye squinting, a track of her album plays the line, “more than a pretty girl...” what are the stories behind the faces of the pretty girls? How beautiful are the stories hidden behind some of our most ugly faces?

Can you feel it... really feel it... do you ever really feel? Or are we all Numb? Is this what we spend our lives running from, the numbness, the nothing of death? I am alive, but some how, only sometimes I feel it.