In the morning he found my tabs all open, and I was still tangled in the quilt. It seemed unfair, he said. I said: I know it is. He asked why I did this, what I needed to say without my own face attached to it, and I mentioned(more) a book I had read about pseudonyms. I wanted a pseudonym, but I didn't have the ability to rename myself, so I just applied a slight label, a piece of tape that blacks out my own letters. This is the same, I told him, as wearing a sticker that says, "Hi! My Name Is:" with the space below left blank.
He was not angry: there were no revelations, but he found me peculiar, this woman he found so much like himself, so overfull and reaching toward others, but somehow still hiding. He understood the idea of usernames, of avatars that do not represent the human face, but he was surprised that in my writing I had not addressed him, that I had not assumed he was my reader. In all else, I addressed him.
He knows more about his own face and reputation, and he wields it, and it does not make him scared to imagine his mother reading about the things he has done and the thoughts he has had. He does not pause mid-stride to feel the imbalance before his heel strikes. He will admit things softly to me, but when he addresses the press, he has already won the argument.
In the book about pseudonyms, I discovered how many people we all are, that the sense of teeming within is not my own.
I tell him: I am not different than my name, and yet my name is an epithet, an accusation against the woman in the mirror.
It's a little bit weird walking on the beach during the middle of summer and not a soul around.
No screaming kids firing stingy sand in your direction as they hurry toward the building waves only to turn tail and run when the curling foam crashed near their tiny(more) toes.
No boardwalk sounds, the carousel calliope music mixed with blaring old school classic rock from the roller coaster a constant hum underneath bursts of frantic vacation family fun and seagulls screeching.
The seagulls still screech, other than that, it's quiet. Especially since the Kid took off.
Never thought I'd miss the noise.
I generally like the quiet.
Made the end-of-the-world-as-we-knew-it that much easier to deal with.
I don't regret leaving the city and making my way to the Atlantic Ocean, the old Fire Tower museum set right off the beach was a perfect fortress.
The bed in the room at the top wasn't that bad either, I could literally see for miles when I was lying on that bed at night. Sometimes I had to fight with my damn cat for the better view but Mal always has my back, we've worked out a deal.
The walk to town isn't bad at all, a mile or so and I had my own bookstore at my fingertips, that's my favorite part,
I couldn't dream of a better place than the Victorian town of Cape May if I had to survive.
And I have to survive.
The old-fashioned mall, nothing but blocks and blocks of all sorts of shops, it was was a survivalists gold mine.
I guess I'm a survivalist now.(less)
Let me tell you something about us, my dear
Something your superiors failed to let you know.
Admittedly, we are clueless
Not all of us, to be fair
But the vast majority, yes.
Lost, without a map
(more) And we will never find our way
To where you want us to be
Without a bit of direction.
You and I, we're quite different
But yet, so much the same
And let us know what you need
Because I'll tell you right now:
It takes two to tango
And we aren't going to get it right by ourselves(less)
You could say she was quite different from the rest. In the sunlight she looked more tired than anything, but in the darkened neon she looked amazing. We talked for awhile, nothing too heavy just idle conversation. I made fun of the poorly dressed slobs and the self centered(more) ego maniacs surrounding us. She must have found me funny or maybe it was nerves because she laughed almost nonstop. Her whole body shook when she laughed like her sense of humor was built on a fault line
I asked her for her name and she said let's not complicate things. Who says romance is dead? We watched the color run from the night and got burned beneath the street lights. The evening just oozed desperation. We made it to her apartment. The last thing I remember was that bottle of whiskey and the peculiar patterns the sun made on her wall in the morning. (less)