A Dream Too Far

I saw her again this afternoon. Will she keep stopping by? Does she feel she has to out of politeness? I got paranoid she was taking another route to work just to avoid me but really she just needed to run an errand that day.

And still I fret.

Talking through the bars is exquisite torture. I'm insanely happy talking to her but wholly miserable at being cut off from her. When she leaves I sit on the bench and pout every time. The guards sneer at me.

Just how far can anything go with me stuck in here? I love to hear the tales of her life. If only I could get out and join her!

What if she gets a different job and no longer needs to pass by? Would she still make time for me? I'm torn between bonding with her and pulling away. She makes me feel alive. Alive like I haven't felt in years and years. But it also brings pain to places that have long been numb to death - and it slices like a scalpel.

So this is what swirls through my mind day after day. I can find no resolution. Welcome to cell hell.

CODA: I got unexpected early parole. I said nothing to her as I didn't want her to feel pressured or obligated to meet me outside. I wonder what she thought when she stopped to find my cell empty and no word given. Would it have hurt her? Turns out I don't have the nerve to face her in real life.

I watch her from afar taking her daily walk to work. My hands sweat and heart races. I just can't approach her. Would she smile or groan? Before, it was on her terms and she never had to commit to me. But I am committed to her. Is being her friend a dream too far?

******

"Hey, Lonnie, what the hell you doing with all those car body parts on the side of your house?"

"Going to build an exotic car."

"Really! What kind of engine you gonna put in it?"

"No engine. No innards at all."

"Then how the hell you gonna drive it???"

"Ain't. Just going to build a really cool body and everyone will think I have a really cool car."

"They may think it, but it won't be true."

"If they believe it's true it will be true."

"Only in their mind!"

"Yup."

"So what's the point of all this if you don't have a real car?"

"We just went over that..."

"I guess I just don't see the point."

"That's on you, dude."

"Well, I sure ain't building no exotic car shell that don't run and parking it in my driveway."

"And no one will think you have an exotic car. I prefer it the other way."

"OK, let's put this another way then. Why don't you just go get you a real exotic car and put that in your driveway??"

"Because that's a dream too far so I'll just have to make do like I really got something."

******

[John Looking Glass Lennon died in 1969 in a one car crash and his Aunt Mimi who raised him gave her thoughts at his funeral.]

"He was wild like a lot of boys with a very active imagination. But he was a good boy and came to realize he had to grow up. It took a long time to convince him! When he got his mechanic's certification, it was the proudest day of my life. He said, 'You were right, Mimi. Love won't pay the bills.'"

"He still had an irresponsible streak, spending his money on music concerts and fashionable clothes. I emphasized how it important it was that he save his money for the future but he just could not help himself."

"It is tragic that both he and his mother died from auto accidents. [Editor's note: Julia Lennon was hit by a drunk driver] Perhaps if she had lived his life would have turned out differently."

"I'll admit there was a deep, unexplainable sorrow inside him that infected everything he did. It's a mystery to me why a young, handsome boy with a mechanic's certificate could be so unhappy when he had such a promising future. When he passed the mechanic test, curiously all he said to me was, 'Part of me has died. Now I can't even write.'"

"Maybe he never really fully grew up and faced reality. He got kicked out of clubs for berating the band. He fell in love from afar with a Japanese woman, something that had no possibility of working out. I do know some people only choose things they can't have in order to not face themselves."

"I asked him what is writing without food? And he asked what is food without writing? I certainly hope this death is not the answer to that, that his life was a dream too far."

Goupil Memior: Parking Lot Girl

Lightswitch - as is his name - always like me (far as I know). Dieu merci!

We hitmen (or is hitpeople now?) are miserable lot. After all, who can love hitman? So one day long ago, in America suburb parking lot, was warm Spring day, no cloud in sky, girls in summer dress and long bare legs stick out driving men to ancient grave. I lean against my car watching this, waiting for my target to finish shopping business. Then it like world cave in on me and I losing it. I get in front seat of car, pull down pants and hump hand looking to sky. I could not stop, I feel the heat. It is hard life.

After I recover and resume my post I notice young dark hair Asian girl drive off. I think nothing of it but wonder why internal alarm go off. When I can, I set up own surveillance camera of any site I spend period of time. I lose target during fever time in car. I go home and watch footage. That Asian girl outside watching me at back of my car! She rise up camera when I release and take picture. She smile big when doing this. But she not know I have license number.

For online fee, I find out who and where she is. I ring her doorbell later same day, explain I see her everything. She say she not know what I talk about. I tell her I do it for her anytime she want, just say when! This make her beyond angry. I not even remember words, just look of killer on face. She slam door screaming threat like she die. I walk away defeated again. See? There is no pleasing them. It all anger and hysteria.

Meeting other broken men is not picnic. Lightswitch scare me minute I meet him. He have nickname from people saying he "turn off light" on target. But I call him that for different reason. Lightswitch either totally like you or totally against you. And sometimes he flip that - just like switch. One day all praise, next all hate, talking of same person. And this guy Lightswitch, no one not sure he not kill for personal, not just professional. I give him wide berth, trying not show fear, like when facing barking dog.

Lightswitch like to tell story of his kills. Like fisher man who catch big fish and is proud. He tell only of one-on-one kill, confronting victim. He come alive when he talk of look in their eye, fear filled, dawning loss of hope, yelling help no point. Lightswitch say he want to stay in moment forever. He even say long range impersonal kill he "only do those for the money."

Dangerous. Out of control. But one thing worse: this is man who remind me of...me. I too live at bottom of well in fear, no hope, no point crying out to earless world. Just like this monster man. Hearing his story, getting wrapped in it, maybe seduced by it, disturb me to this writing.

***

That was horrible terrible black sunny day in that parking lot. Back at night in my room, I think of that girl with her smile I can see in mind even now. For one cherish moment I am non-hated. But I think of Lightswitch that night too, wondering what come of him - and if I any different. It all mix up in one giant ball of mess. Please say this not life intent for me.

Hollow-gram Me (Out Of Sync)

I told you, but you still wouldn't know. And - were you able to have understood - the shameful is deep and devastating. frankly, It's something I myself barely understand when I do but don't, seen only out of the corner of my minds. See, I am out of time with sync.

(I told you you wouldn't understand, you.)

You're not getting the real me, even as I type this. You're only getting me of the past. It's only a few seconds gap but anything greater than zero is an issue, size of the gap only determines the amount of agony (and danger). So what's created is what I call a hollow-graphic image of myself to interact with the world. On the inside, I'm constantly biting my nails hoping people buy the bullshit they see.

If all this sounds like a major pain in the ass, it is. I'm consuming enormous amounts of energy and holding together the two me's between this rip in time is painful in the extreme. I say something funny and everyone laughs. But I'm holding on by my fingernails, the real me screaming, "Kill me now!"

I don't know how to get synced back up. I've spent years and years and years wrestling with this. My theory is this is not something actually done, but rather to let happen.

You may be wondering how this happened to begin with. It happened when I pulled the plug on reality, so to speak, things just weren't working for me. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but frustration boiled over into irrational thinking. It was a way for people to un-see me. Only now, I can't get back.

During this typing itself is much hard as my mind sync out sync and present mind me race ahead and out-of-sync past mind me forget what it's supposed to type, who I really am, sometimes for better sometimes for worse, cheating my love.

Praise is a difficult thing in this state. What are they really praising? Not me! Just the hollow-gram. It does make me realize that if I were able to sync back, I could have some genuine praise coming my way. Of course, that would make any criticism just as genuine too.

The unspoken fear is there's no way back. But I don't believe that. I do highly suspect, though, there's a high price to getting back. The universe doesn't suffer fools who refuse its gifts.

Fractured misspeak danger. Speaking what sells me, not me speaking. Confusion overload breakdown, not hearing what not saying, lost in untethered translation. I see you yelling, words dying on my lips.

There, so now I've told you - but have I? Only hollow-gram me interacts with the world. And, like always, seekers of the truth are rare anyway.

I do have real love? I feed the hollow-gram so everyone can know. But they know the hollow-gram isn't real (the entirety of my life depends on the kindness of others' suspension of disbelief) and thus no one knows. 'Tis a very scary place, not knowing. I live in fear. (Then she left me for someone who does not)