It’s time that I start making questionable choices. I say “questionable” and not “bad” or “poor” or “irresponsible” choices because many questions preceded their arrival. I will take every question seriously; I will accept the clearest answer; even as the choice itself is already made. Let me give you an example: when writing this to you, I asked whether there was a more delicate way to word it and if I should use that wording. I answered that there was and that I should, then I went on with my task.—xoxo
I put a lot of thought I put into this. That is the beauty of the questionable choice. I committed every spare moment I had away from you and away from my other obligations to living a life of questionable choices. My thinking concluded that it was not the BEST time take them up, but neither was it the WORST. I have a precious window (?) in which making questionable choices is life-affirming and charming. If I delay a moment longer it turns self-destructive and alarming. I guess I’m a late-bloomer. My first real questionable choice is not to think too hard about the ones that follow. There are choices that I wish (long?) to make. Want to meet a stoic stranger w/ tattoos.—xoxo
I went out on foot into the desert as the sky was dark orange. I was still out when it turned purple. Then it turned black. I lost my way. I only had a lighter. I tripped over something: a wooden headstone w/ only “D. 1902.” I think there were others. A man with a shovel who made no eye contact pointed out where I needed to go.—xoxo
Met a stranger w/ tats!! “Bertha.” Weathered face—weary/wary greens eyes. I wanted to walk the visual map of her emotional wounds right away. Asked her about her relationship with her mom. I’m sitting on a bench by a payphone where “Bertha” is talking and looking away.—xoxo
Some days go on for several days because the adventure doesn’t know how to end. Some days last only minutes, when I am an antenna getting distress pings of “I love you … I love you … I love you …”—xoxo
I’m paying my own way. I man gas stations and rest stops. I sell trinkets at tourist traps. I see tourists differently now. Like ghosts—trapped in brutal itineraries of their own making.
Now I’m at a diner doing dishes. Every night there is one patron but somehow a mountain of dishes to be done. The patron is this old man who comes in every night, smokes, drinks coffee, eats, reads the same yellowing newspaper before going home. His home is a blue-painted shack in the field in back of the diner. When my shift is over I go out and see his shack glowing red from within and feel comforted that the world is in good order—nothing like me.—xoxo
Before I got on “Bertha’s” bike, she let me knock over the other bikes. We took off laughing, ended up at an old, empty outlet mall. Did you know that there are people who can have a picnic w/o food? A dance party w/o music?—xoxo
I always felt superior to all our friends. My longing was my superpower. When I went to satisfy my longings I was worried that it would humiliate me, proving me equal to them. Now it doesn’t make a difference. When I think of our friends I don’t see them as you probably still do. I see plastic yearbook photo smiles, not like people I am superior to, but people I’m totally beyond. Say Hi to them for me if you want though.—xoxo
Laid in bed in motel. There is a mold stain on the ceiling in the shape of Argentina. I figure if I stare at it long enough and inhale at an angle, it will do my dreaming for me. Then I went out and found the straightest stretch of highway I could find. Sat for hours by a cactus til all the truckers, family station wagons, and pissed off bikers cleared. I stood dead center of the road and shot one bullet aligned pretty much perfectly with the faded yellow divider, just as “Bertha” showed me before she left.—xoxo
I’m writing from my motel balcony where I can see a fire raging in the desert on the other side of the highway. Not just raging, but roaming, striding over the rocks, dirt, and cacti, like a stalking animal. It evades all human intervention. Retreating into a spire; attacking like a wall. Everyone is out on their balconies watching with me. We form a community of spectators—believers. I feel sad at your incapacity for belief.—xoxo
At a bus stop when the wind blew hard. So hard it made sounds. Sounds like my name—sounds like your voice. I shot at the wind. An old woman on the bench over jumped. I’m not writing this from a bus stop or on a bus.—xoxo
Don’t be bitter. Don’t take your hurt feelings out on the next available person. Don’t eat the same meal of candy bars three times a day every day because that’s how anger feels to you. Don’t make questionable choices of your own. I value our synchronicity.
My skin has a desert quality—ready for travelers. I’ll probably get a tattoo of a huge mountain. Mount “Bertha.” If you saw me right now you wouldn’t know it was me.—xoxo