Everything Feels Write
I fought off sleep because I was afraid I might miss something. Like the lady at the coffee shop I overheard say she had an audition for a modeling job. She was oddly shaped, sort of eggish on top and very small on bottom, drenched in make-up and fake eyebrows, smoking at every chance she got and talking to herself in between. When she sat at the table next to mine and began her talking I started to smell something and wrote to the editor that it was gross. Like a carnival. But not the oooo popcorn/cotton candy smell–it was the bad carnival smell. It could have had nothing to do with her, but it reminded me of that. If I go to sleep too early I might miss looking at the pile of change on the ladder and saying to myself that I should always put it in my pocket before I go out just in case I need to feed a meter or even out and amount or feed a bum outside the Temple. If, in the morning, I get up too late, your fame may have exceeded me and pushed me in a corner as you bask and wallow and star in your own movie. You will have walked on, beyond what I could possibly provide, in search of more of what came your way. Basking and wallowing and starring. Who is she? Handy? Unmotivated? Enviable? All of those things make her worth keeping around, whether it’s in the eyes, ears, nose, flesh or mouth. She wants nothing but the carnival where the eggish lady auditions and holds spare change (just in case) for her own movie.
