Followers

I can't keep up with this parade comprised of smoke and mirrors. Filters as a euphemism for concealment to hide their imperfections. But frankly, I don't care the way you wear your hair one day to the next. And the music that you're listening to, that you want to show, tell me, does it sound better when they see it?

The things you use to catch some eyes. The bait you have to reel them in. I don't mind. You're not the same in real life, and you don't want to change. So go ahead, and drink your drinks. Broadcast your discontents. It makes for the identity you wish to show. An apocalyptic fairytale. A tragic romance. They only care to see you fail, regardless of what the numbers show.

But here it is, a curtain call for all the weak souls. Come, now. Take a bow. The lighting on my stage will show you all for who you really are. I'm sorry, but it's the truth.

The Letter Series: Installation #1

I looked down at the deed that I done. Hunched over like ya hadn't slept for weeks.

You were smiling. Ya, that's right. There was that same goddamn grin ya always had. That grin showed ya had no idea 'bout the awful things goin' on in the world. That grin that showed ya had no idea what we was on the run from. Let me tell ya something. What we was running from was somethin' bigger than the both of us. I just got tired, Lennie. I couldn't keep runnin' from it.

You know what your problem was? You didn't know what was what. You could never tell when enough was enough. Goddamn there was many times when I shoulda pointed ya south, then tell ya I'll come back for ya. Let you go chase 'em rabbits. And I tried, Lennie. But you always came back to me. Why's it that the people we want to leave, stay? And the people we want to stay, go runnin'?

But I didn't leave. Ya, I didn't have the damn guts, Lennie. And that's why I pulled the trigger. Because I didn't have the damn guts. Shootin' a man don't take no guts. Trust me. I ain't no pansy, Lennie, but there ain't no shame in a man sayin' he has no guts. But there is shame in having no heart. And I had one. I know this because I felt pains in it when I looked in your eyes.

You said you wanted to live off the fatta the land, Lennie. But you couldn't live off no land. The lands of this world weren't made for you. I knew you wouldn't understand, so I pulled the trigger. I knew nobody would come lookin.

I'm foldin' this up and puttin' it in your pocket. When you get to where you are goin', read it. If ya don't understand a word, ask God for help.

I did this for you, Lennie. I did this so you could finally find those rabbits. And do things only because they feel good. I wish more people could do that.

Truly, George Milton

I'm sifting through haystack after haystack, looking for a thumbtack.

Handsome and Gorgeous.

You were the best and the worst.

New Project

I found some inspiration today. While looking through a thrifted JFK book of mine, I noticed a small, folded piece of paper stuck between the pages. Upon unfolding it, I discovered an anonymous fictional letter written by JFK post partem. This got me thinking. I want to lend voices to fictional characters beyond their graves, or texts. What if Gatsby wrote a letter to Daisy after the car crash? What if George wrote Lenny a letter explaining his choice to put a bullet into his skull? I'm going to start writing a series of such letters. I will share a few of them via Pretty Girls; however, maybe this could finally be something I stick to in terms of getting published. We shall see where this goes. The sparks are going.

Let the Wrong One In.

I said, "I'm tired of this city and the people inside it" as I fell to the ground and he was trying to hide it. Shaking and crying and embarrassing myself, wishing there was something that could help me in these shelves.
Moved to the big city, the 416. Everyone was pretty, and the boys were hip. Found a firecracker and lit him in my hand, exploded in my face but I don't give a damn. Locked him up and swallowed the key, he's happier now, forgeting about me.
Found some faces, from different places. Sent them less than three's and slept in their spaces.
GO tickets and texts, hoping for something better next. Man, I haven't meant those three words yet. But they don't seem to mind all that much.
Let the wrong one in, then board up the doors. I don't drink much but wonder if I should pour more. Buying wine to pass the time, letting the wrong ones get inside. Yeah, you're inside.
Expensive taste, contacts to erase. I swear there is something in the water here.
I died a little bit, and left you a little hint. Yeah, you know what I'm looking for. More, more, more, more.

Character Sketch

Below is an excerpt of the last paragraph from a character sketch I did after reading Andrea Levy's novel, Small Island. I chose to write about the secondary character, Bernard Bligh. I recommend this novel to any reader.


What makes Bernard such a prolific character is that he is an embodiment of a post-colonial Britain, still reeling from the brutalization of bombing and deprivation. Just as England does not live up to its image of a mother land due to its loss of colonial power, Bernard does not live up to the conventions of what a man is supposed to be. There is an overwhelming sense of disillusionment in the novel, that the demoralized Bernard experiences. Just as he feels no attachment with himself, he no longer feels an attachment to his country or his family, which have transformed by the time of his return. To conclude, Levy does a fantastic job in showing this theme of disillusionment through every character, but with Bernard it is so engrained in his character that it even pertains to the writing style of his passages. Bernard’s chapters are not only exceptionally short, but they also come off as very mechanical with the use of short, stacattoed sentences. These passages demonstrate the lack of a human quality and reflect the fragments of what is left of Bernard. Bernard proves that all human beings are affected by the trauma they have experienced—some just have a more convincing façade than others.