Well, hallelujah, I wrote something new! But more importantly, I didn’t eat any dirt on the way to the library this afternoon. Imagine my dismay at the lack of this impulse. On the one hand, I’m glad that I didn’t eat dirt, but on the other, where is life heading when my impulse to eat dirt goes and spends its winters in Mexico.
I was reading over some old essays today, jealous of my past-self for being able to conjure up the images and words that now dance, locked in their Word Document cages, stripping for me like I was a paying customer. Eat dirt, I want to say. But at least they are alive and well, witnessing to pretend masses about the world’s potential for the strange and unlikely.
I was thinking about killing an android. Is there anything like killing an android? Is there anything like being an android? Meaning, consciously, is there anything like being like one?
In a video game, of course. I was never one to kill androids or aliens. But for once, perhaps I should try it.
I have friends who do it.
I have friends who are so depressed that all they want to do is lie in bed and kill androids. Or aliens. Or whatever they make video games out of these days.
In high school, I think I contemplated video games in my head for fun. As if my life was a video game. I never played.
Except Sonic the Hedgehog, who was blue, if I remember correctly.
If I had started taking a serious interest in video games, I may have never continued to pursue poetry.
Does one pursue anything? Like a coat-tail, perhaps it pursues the human-mind, whatever “it” is.
If I let myself tell myself to keep at it, I’ll end up sitting at the computer for hours, trying to create safe spaces for words / this could be a video game attitude. It is likely I would have been very good at killing androids.
Instead, I am pursuing words which, to be honest, is quite difficult. Sometimes, I have to get out my special sweater which my mother wore in the 80’s, just so I can trick myself into thinking that I have magical powers.
When the sweater fails, I tell myself that God has plans for me. I think they call this “notions of grandeur”
And when these notions stop leaving notes on the front doorstep, or in the pine tree on the path to the library, I want to throw myself in the grass like a child. Like I did, once, when I was 5 at McDonald’s, and my mother pretended to leave me there.
She actually just drove through the drive through, to trick me into thinking she left.
Perhaps poetry is in the drive-through.
When this happens, I start believing that I should have taken up biochemistry or video games.
Of course, now that I am reading my old essays, the past-me is laughing hysterically and saying
Shannon, you’re a real idiot sometimes.
But still, I think it might have been fun to kill androids for a living.
Depression aside, the drama alone would be worth it.
And think of the opportunities for online gaming communities.
I imagine it now,
whole identities with scales and other such ammo.
Or, as a biochemist, I could use gaming to de-stress from matching DNA strips. Thinking, secretly, to myself that the murderer must have had fun in the brief-moment of invincibility, wondering how someone could not wonder what the body sounds like while breaking.
As it is, I sit at a desk, most days, trying to make the imagination give me a child or two before I mutilate it into a poem.
Dramatic or depressed? No one knows. The androids, unlike humans, never tell their secrets before they are killed.