Apr. 7th, 2004

raybear: (Wiley)
At Circuit, there's a vending machine by the door that holds candy bars and gum and cigarettes. Green packs of Kools and gold-trimmed packs of Marlboros caught in the same circular wire that rotates after you've dropped your coins and pushed the buttons and you can watch the coil go around and your Snickers and tobacco drops through the opening. It disturbs me. Cigarettes should be sold in specifically designed vending machines that have knobs you yank viciously as if to manually extract and earn the needed nicotine. They shouldn't be in machines that line highway rest stops or break rooms or hotel hallways around the country. It's all about context.

In a bathroom stall, I feel safe and secure and invisible. Even if someone knows a person is inside, they don't know who the person is and I can sit on the toilet forever until they leave and never worry I'll be bothered or discovered or found out and there's a strange peace and calm that comes about despite it really only being a thin metal rectangle that is suspended mid-air by four screws and doesn't even reach the ground or ceiling and could be kicked in by even the most average non-action hero. I would never build a door to a house or even a bedroom that way. But the bathroom door has context protecting me -- the code of behavior that public bathrooms seem to silently dictate.

I write in the first person and then narcisstically hand those thoughts over to characters to make them think and share with the world as if they are their own, but they are mine. Except for when they're not.

Except for when my thoughts go down a path of "if I was ______, I'd think _____" and so I can just go back and make a character who is those things and thinks those things and then it's not me. They aren't my thoughts. Except for when they are.

Actually it doesn't make much of a difference either way. I can go back and read my own words that I thought and typed from a year ago or a month ago and they read completely foreign, as if written by a stranger, no matter how real they felt as the time.

May 2010

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