automatic nonsense

Remember when I was at the Fearlessness workshop? Well, one of the things we had to do was ten minutes of automatic writing. We were given a topic, and then just wrote and wrote until our fingers fell off and we died.* The first topic was "regret" and I ended up writing some serious nonsense about "regret, egret, she-gret, Gretta Garbo, Gretta Garbage." (yeah, it wasn't so great.) The second topic, though, was success, couched in a poem about Icarus, and so the topic was actually "flying." What I wrote, while not genius, was kind of cool, and I was re-reading it the other day, and thought I'd post it here, in all its unedited glory. Make of it what you will.


* we didn't actually die. (duh)


When did I fly? Oh, I flew so much I was practically a stewardess. Every time I ended something, I started something new. On to the next and the next. And then, one day, I ran out of nexts.


"Stand still. Stand here by yourself."


"No." I said. "No, thank you."


"But until you do," I heard, "you'll never really fly. You'll look really good trying, but you have no idea how to really fly."


Shit.


You're right.


I haven't the slightest clue how to really fly.


So I took off the wings, hid in my closet and cried. For about six months.


Really though, I'm ready to fly now. To love, to share myself with you. I'm here to be a part of something. Not to play at it like a child with his jacks. Not to lie about it or make claims. I'm here to do it.


But now I have no idea how.


"Don't worry," the voice returns. "You'll find a way. I'll see to it."


"Um, thanks. Can I get a timeline?"


"Dream on, Surgeon."


Silence.


"Is that my timeline?"


A snicker. Like the god who accidentally struck down the nun in the swearing priest golfing joke.


So, really, now I'm waiting. I'm a blank page, ready for the next adventure.


Here comes one.


Oh, wait, no. No, thanks.


But wait, I'm a stewardess. My standards are different now that I've lost my little clip on wings. (Would you like a blanket? Chicken or fish?)


I'm ready for my next adventure.


Oh, here he comes.


"Hey."


"Hey."


"What's your name?"


"Uh, Fate. But I have to go. I'm expecting someone."


"Me?"


"No, your sister, I think."


My sister? She's already got her adventure. Where's mine? Where's my due? I'm owed here, Mr. Fate, and I was told you'd be delivering. Or did you just stick one of those notices on my door that will force me to go to Canarsie to pick up my destiny?


Fate walks away. I'm left with a sticky feeling on my fingers, a broken pair of pilot's wings and a blanket with what looks like a barf stain on it.


Isn't this supposed to be about my fliying? And yet, here I've stuck myself in a bar with God and Mr. Fate and not a drink in my hand. This seems like an unpropitious opening.


Let's start again.


I'm a stewardess. I'm an actress. I'm so fucking creative I'm goddamn Icarus. But Icarus also flew, and I can too.


I'd like to give the world a set of wings. And a coke. And furnish it with love.


My most recent flight? Just last night, when I told her I was afraid. Afraid I'd lose her, my girl, my love, my mirror. When I told her how I really felt, I tasted my own salt tears, and there she stayed. Never leaving me.


Then I really fucking soared.
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(I never said it was going to make sense.)