I found this way, way back in my archives and I never published it, and I don't remember it even so maybe I never wrote it. I'm a mystery pretty much all the time is my point. It resembles real writing so I'm reluctant to post it, because what if I win a major award with it and then millions of people stream here to see me, and then they read all my cock-and-booby based entries and they get all racist against me? I guess that's a chance I have to take...for America. It was early last winter when I wrote this:
We sit on the couch like dignitaries without countries, trying to make sense of the pale newsman who is telling us that the drive in will be perilous. Sleep is still a hooked and barbed thing sticking to us. We stare at him without comprehension. We sit and wait. For wakefulness. For purpose. For motivation.
None is forthcoming.
The pale man tells us about a house fire. The address is familiar... the way a person might be if you had just recently dreamed them and then forgotten. The house is slumped and sorry and blackened from the gutting. It looks defeated.
Outside the car tires hiss off the pavement and the snow pellets tick a million clock beats against the black window glass. It's like God is tapping his foot. Waiting for our day to start. Waiting for us to know that it has already.
Boy: Can we eat?
Boy: I want Pop Tarts
Another set of moments amble by before I am motivated enough to rise off the couch. I trudge into the kitchen, open the freezer and then I am blank and thinking about the dream I had where the snow was deep and the sky was electric. There was a girl. I was saying I would know just what to write in the morning. But I was wrong and she told me what to write instead.
Me: Oh! Sorry!
I get breakfast and we wake. Slowly and together. The laughter filters in between the grumbles like the coffee that is cheerily bubbling. The sun bruises the sky and the impatient snow stops for a moment. The house is warm. We bundle up and then we are gone.