The point is that, someone killed me in the deceptive lure of the week. I was busy twiddling with dominoes and elementary-school-old crayons when an airplane crashed in the neighborhood – no, not AJ Perez, I heard a boy calling my name. and take note of that amusing irony, busying oneself with twiddling. Haha. Language betrays us in several ways, and we are hardly focused enough to capture its adroit passing.
But I remember his voice and his name, and knowing that creates that afflicting crease inside my paper heart. Oh yes, All-American Rejects. Which hardly wins against the lethargic pasyons of the season.
I am refusing to give to you his name. I’d rather let you know about him through his eerie mannerism – how he looks on top when he hems and haws and test the depth of his word’s cistern, how he scratches his nose in a gallant manner when he spots trouble, how he dabbles with children when he encounters them – and his raw general behavior, discreet machismo and flare for snorting included. And his name will not matter anyway, you can’t see him in facebook, he thrives in a galaxy only I am aware of.
Oh, this reverie gets boring when there is no TV and torrent and a real, even quasi-boyfriend. I am casting great doubt in everyone who shows me even the slightest hint of attention. Even though I easily fall in love with them, just like Joel Barish does.* But in the embiterred recognition of a 70-year old couple, amidst the sea of thoughtless fanatics of malls, I thought I might fall prey to impudent flirtation.
Thankfully, I am yet to me to meet someone who writes as seductively as D.H. Lawrence, and sounds as cynical as Matthew Arnold.
*Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, see it.