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Travel Story Cont. (Part III)
May. 15th, 2005 06:54 pmMy ch'i is all in a damp, rashy bunch and I don't even know what that is. I flopped around on the couch, pitching a fit because it's getting hot here. I said I was in the mood for a violent movie, but then read an article about a woman in a small town outside of Chico who had been attacked by a stranger in her home. Stabbed repeatedly in the face and neck, raped, stomped on with heavy work boots.
And survived.
***
I tried honesty once. It led to a major nervous breakdown--an earthquake of the soul, the rug of my life jerked violently out from under my feet. I could just come right out and tell you the truth. But it's offensive. Jesus Christ, it's offensive as hell. I might as well stab you, rape you and stomp on your face with steel-toed boots.
***
Confession:
I wanted to hold hands with him in the cornstarch. I wanted to tell him I had known him from when he was the Elephant Man and I was his nurse, from when he had been Atom and I had been Eve. I wanted to collapse back into his ribs and weep in gratitude of our miraculous recognition.
***
I pulled off the interstate in Bakersfield, filled up at a seedy gas station and used the payphone to call my friend Dee in Fresno, to let her know I was almost there.
My best friend Dee had managed to escape from Indiana a few years earlier by marrying Fafaz, an Iranian man she had met at the university. We called him Akbar, The Interstate Nomad because he could pass semis at 80 mph while steering with his knees, rolling a joint and laughing like a deranged terrorist just to scare little spurts of urine out of us. I eventually started wearing panty-liners whenever I got in a car with him.
Dee was a blond bubbling brook of bright-eyed wonder and arm-pit hair. A spontaneous free-spirit with a penchant for believing in every conspiracy theory that came her way, a kind, light-filled soul who brakes for butterflies, both real and imagined and never stops wondering if she is being followed by an undercover DEA agent....
And survived.
***
I tried honesty once. It led to a major nervous breakdown--an earthquake of the soul, the rug of my life jerked violently out from under my feet. I could just come right out and tell you the truth. But it's offensive. Jesus Christ, it's offensive as hell. I might as well stab you, rape you and stomp on your face with steel-toed boots.
***
Confession:
I wanted to hold hands with him in the cornstarch. I wanted to tell him I had known him from when he was the Elephant Man and I was his nurse, from when he had been Atom and I had been Eve. I wanted to collapse back into his ribs and weep in gratitude of our miraculous recognition.
***
I pulled off the interstate in Bakersfield, filled up at a seedy gas station and used the payphone to call my friend Dee in Fresno, to let her know I was almost there.
My best friend Dee had managed to escape from Indiana a few years earlier by marrying Fafaz, an Iranian man she had met at the university. We called him Akbar, The Interstate Nomad because he could pass semis at 80 mph while steering with his knees, rolling a joint and laughing like a deranged terrorist just to scare little spurts of urine out of us. I eventually started wearing panty-liners whenever I got in a car with him.
Dee was a blond bubbling brook of bright-eyed wonder and arm-pit hair. A spontaneous free-spirit with a penchant for believing in every conspiracy theory that came her way, a kind, light-filled soul who brakes for butterflies, both real and imagined and never stops wondering if she is being followed by an undercover DEA agent....
