I have erected a series of one way mirrors and by some bursting miracle I am standing on both sides.
There is a problem with this blog. There is a problem with this ridiculous necessary daily ritual. I have conducted a series of rigorous and scientific tests whilst staring at the kettle watching steam catch on the window.
The problem lies squarely with any blog post concerning Superman. They are flat and empty and what is missing is myself. Here is the problem (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about it?) Superman is a new friend and I am uneasy. He has slotted happily into my adventures and traipsings across this city. He has slotted easily into the places that I normally go alone. He is a welcome companion and I do not desire his early absence, as I do with so many, after a mission is done. He does not cause me to step cautiously or dress appropriately, he does not pour obstacles into the sanctuary of The Peach but there is an end to this easiness (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about this?).
Superman is a new friend and is not used to the mad scrawling slate of my mind so that when I sit and type it comes out flat. It comes out as though there wasn't a thought in my head, as though I don't walk around singing words and flicking at the edges of the universe. I feel that the record of whatever adventure he was included in must necessarily, in part, belong to him (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about this?) and that I can not write it as my own.
I type over people, I type over them and watch as they fall with exclamation eyes and question mark lips, this didn't used to be a lie. In twelve ways this has nothing to do with Superman and everything to do with me. I am not deliberately censoring myself, its not a question of thinking then unthinking.
Spencer might be on to something. Spencer reckons I panic and run from people, from all people and he might be right or he could just be walking around writing songs in his head with his long stride and fingers that reach all they way to the bottom of the pringles jar but then again that might be selling him short.
I'm not used to making new friends. I'm not used to people listening to what I say, I'm not used to being accountable for the ridiculous torrent of words I call conversation. I'm not used to being made to think.
I'm a soliloquy, I'm the aside to audience, I'm the one in rags rattling a single coin in a paper cup.
Now I'm thinking that my problem is simple one. I'm frightened that my friends are there out of habit. I'm frightened I am both boring and the most unusual thought you ever had. I'm frightened that I'm the thing that awaits when you go over the top with your gun and your helmet. One day everyone will look up then walk away. I'm nesting for their revolution.
Now I'm alarmed because this chain of reasoning has less to do with logic than the drawer full of unsharpened unused pencils I move from house to house year after year. I used to be the one in crazy feathers dragging opal chains in the dust clattering rattletrap into the blue that is bluer because of the lamps. I have wearied myself with this need to be homespun and absent with a tray of clean tea cups.
I'm not making sense. Did I tell you that I don't want to talk about this?
There is a problem with this blog. There is a problem with this ridiculous necessary daily ritual. I have conducted a series of rigorous and scientific tests whilst staring at the kettle watching steam catch on the window.
The problem lies squarely with any blog post concerning Superman. They are flat and empty and what is missing is myself. Here is the problem (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about it?) Superman is a new friend and I am uneasy. He has slotted happily into my adventures and traipsings across this city. He has slotted easily into the places that I normally go alone. He is a welcome companion and I do not desire his early absence, as I do with so many, after a mission is done. He does not cause me to step cautiously or dress appropriately, he does not pour obstacles into the sanctuary of The Peach but there is an end to this easiness (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about this?).
Superman is a new friend and is not used to the mad scrawling slate of my mind so that when I sit and type it comes out flat. It comes out as though there wasn't a thought in my head, as though I don't walk around singing words and flicking at the edges of the universe. I feel that the record of whatever adventure he was included in must necessarily, in part, belong to him (can I remind you that I don't want to talk about this?) and that I can not write it as my own.
I type over people, I type over them and watch as they fall with exclamation eyes and question mark lips, this didn't used to be a lie. In twelve ways this has nothing to do with Superman and everything to do with me. I am not deliberately censoring myself, its not a question of thinking then unthinking.
Spencer might be on to something. Spencer reckons I panic and run from people, from all people and he might be right or he could just be walking around writing songs in his head with his long stride and fingers that reach all they way to the bottom of the pringles jar but then again that might be selling him short.
I'm not used to making new friends. I'm not used to people listening to what I say, I'm not used to being accountable for the ridiculous torrent of words I call conversation. I'm not used to being made to think.
I'm a soliloquy, I'm the aside to audience, I'm the one in rags rattling a single coin in a paper cup.
Now I'm thinking that my problem is simple one. I'm frightened that my friends are there out of habit. I'm frightened I am both boring and the most unusual thought you ever had. I'm frightened that I'm the thing that awaits when you go over the top with your gun and your helmet. One day everyone will look up then walk away. I'm nesting for their revolution.
Now I'm alarmed because this chain of reasoning has less to do with logic than the drawer full of unsharpened unused pencils I move from house to house year after year. I used to be the one in crazy feathers dragging opal chains in the dust clattering rattletrap into the blue that is bluer because of the lamps. I have wearied myself with this need to be homespun and absent with a tray of clean tea cups.
I'm not making sense. Did I tell you that I don't want to talk about this?
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