"They said I have to go to computer class."
My father looks up from his paper. "I think you'll like it."
My mother nods.
I can't imagine what was in a scattered thirteen year old that could predict the obsession, the dedication of education, the insistence on taking courses not offered at her school, the monomania that didn't ease up until the end of her degree. Was it that obvious I'd be seduced by a combination of logic and power, wrapped up in a mystery of codes?
I suppose that's what parents do - see things they don't even understand themselves.
Warhol Days Part Two
Mary-Louise intends to dance across the fluorescent-lit aisles of every Wal-Mart Supercenter in Georgia. It’s a goal that’s brewed longer than truck stop coffee, since that fateful day at age 15 the cameras caught her stealing lipstick at K-Mart. In that instant, she realized that this was a blue light Made for Closed-Caption TV special, and this was her moment to shine.
“Because this is America,” she thought, “and you ain’t worth nothing if you ain’t on TV.”
She curled her lip and began to quiver—carefully starting with chattering teeth then building quickly until her knees were wobbly. She fell to the floor of the stage, her face soaked with tears. Not a dry eye in the place, and even the lemon-bitter manager was moved. She got off with a warning, and a star was born.
Soon, she found herself performing awkward ballet to the Celine Dion tune crooned through tinny speakers, remaining motionless when a sales assistant is paged, or a special is announced. One night, she recited Orsinio’s “If music be the food of love, play on” speech in the pet supplies department. Another night, she sang “Amazing Grace” at full volume, the stunned applause of K-Mart shoppers ringing against dilapidated shelves.
The explosion of Wal-Mart cemented the deal, her impromptu performances moved to shinier stages. It was like playing Rockefeller Center, with those clean floors and cameras everywhere, broadcasting to only God and the District Manager knows whom.
She can’t repress a smile each time she sees the lens on the corner of her vision, because it’s in these moments she knows this is America, and in America, someone’s always watching.
Oh wow, Victor. I think I know her. Masterfully done.
I think that is the best one, ita. Not that I sit around and grade these when I read them...
ION, I am a research machine today. And the woman at the desk at Phoenix Homicide was charmed by my Simon reference...seperated at birth, I'm telling you. Their phones still sound too much like mine, though. :)
Research calls go well when I let my Pembleton out. Not quite like "Please don't be an idiot..." more like "Of course I know what I'm doing...and lucky you, you get to help." So, yeah, going against my first instinct.
Oh wow, Victor. I think I know her. Masterfully done.
Gracias. It's all part of ... something. Don't know what yet.
Deb, insent.
Allyson, what is that from? Did I miss it earlier in the thread?
It's all part of ... something. Don't know what yet.
Say book, say book, say book...
The making of friends and the influencing of people continues in my Gotpoetry.com column:
Only an idiot would want to be a writer
I'll drive people away from a career in writing yet!
