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Thinking Out Loud
I wear the pink faux crocs from Target ($9.99) into the airport and somebody stops me at security and says, "You must be flying to Hollywood," and I say, No, you fall into Hollywood. Like a star. "Say Hello to Paris," says Security, and on utoob later that night I watch a spoof of Paris going to jail and Sandie Black laughs while she holds onto Jake who is getting too old for the stairs. The editing system blinks invitingly, and I am struck suddenly by wanting to do something about jealousy. Again. Where is the video of Ananda getting her butt massaged in Florida, and what do I want to say about it? I've already written the words: And for the record, I am quite sure my eros star has faded from your sky, and I accept this as much as I lament it, so I am encouraging you to do what you need to however you need to because you are perhaps the principal personality of my life, certainly the most erotic element of it, and I wish you pleasure and knowledge the same way I would hope you wish it for me. If I have a secret agenda in pushing you to be you it's simply so I can hang rapturously on the details, to live vicariously through you and re-visit the mysteries and hopes our short fusion inspired. So I can say my advice to you is pure in the sense that I do not wish to benefit directly from it. But I know you, too, and I know what it means to long for relevance and knowledge . . . for fantasy, even, if that's the proper term to use for reality we are reluctant to admit or explore. See? Already written. But not properly used, and time is running out. In the picture, Ashley is startled by my claim that I am slowing down time by doing different things. What? What is this guy talking about? Listen, Ashley, watch Paris sing and ask yourself if you can do this, and if you can't sing like her, and what she does isn't difficult but it's still brilliant, then ask yourself, Why aren't you doing it?
I am pushing you to be you so I can hang onto the rapturous details. Tell me about your skin and its vigorous touch. What are the words to the song I write while I listen to Paris sing? If I were to leave you, there'd be nothing left behind, so I'll stay where I am, and ask you not to leave me. This little stanza is fueled by jealousy and Paris, no question. Because it was in Paris that we made love in the street, in the doorway of a bookstore, and the passersby looked at Ananda's face in a scene straight out of the movies, and smiled. Go go go.
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