I woke up jealous this morning. Wishing I could be as clever, as biting and as insightful as what I saw last night.
Called a project - the projects, I saw a family bare itself in a way that the paid hicks on Jerry Springer can only dream of doing. Maury wishes he had a story as real as the one slammed last night. The classical writer of our other time wished they could develop metaphors like they did. Gently threading black fibers across the white, yellow, red, and brown cloth of their existence they were brilliant.
I wish I had that shotgun of a voice.
Or a smile so wide it needs extra space on that face.
I'm trapped inside the flatness of my voice on a screen. Punctuation and grammar are my mean little siblings robbing me of that sweet baritone falsetto I like to pretend I have. Robbing me of the stance I could have and the explosion I want to make.
I wish I could see from within.
We're a little similar but we're very different. I see the stars as women. One of them saw that as well. The difference? He noticed that the stars are beautiful and brilliant but they also die along and no one gives a damn because they're so fucking far away.
And one of them seemed indifferent. Cooly confident that her voice would carry the subtle and penetrating qualities of the phrases she had for so long worked on.
They sang lyrics without music.
Red light, white light, black out. A tear robbed from the audience as they open up to a crow of strangers and I'm wondering not how but why they do it. What compels them to crack open the book that is their mind and read out loud their deepest darkest thoughts and fears and pains and happy stories.
Thank you.
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