this is some radom stuff i was writing (fiction, poetry, whatever) during Christmas break
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Sandra. She was an old friend, someone I had been very close to, but hadn’t talked to in a long time. Her complexion was healthy light with light brown hair, blonde tips. An eastern European face- pointy nose and small chin, with very light bluish gray eyes.
“I sometimes think Dillon is too perfect. ...do I dwell too much on my imperfections?”
I looked at her in silence. It had begun to get dark outside, the computer screen was excessively bright...She glared at her screen, which had already gone into screen saver mode and was black. It was as if she stared off into something else...deep in thought about her situation.
“You know, maybe not everyone has to think of their life in these grand terms—redemption, pride, sin, healing. Maybe we are just making things into much more than they really are, and everyone else is normal.”



mixed in the glossy plastic glow if America
chopped up time, served with little seasoning and a lot of fat
added
additives
addictive
sedative
making you fall asleep into your age old mythical American dream
American myth
American pie
Ignorant and lazy
belligerent and shady
cant stop
wont stop
playing the game
of shopping in marble floored departments,
fake fake fake facade mirage
of every fanciful place and dream and building and era and culture
so that it can be spun in cellophane and placed on the display shelf with a price tag,
but only for a limited time

America was the name of a European man
America was the name of a ‘new’ land stumbled upon my men with frenzied libidos, a lust for riches, and a disdain for history.
America was the name of a constitution, a state, a political unit conceived in vanity, making its childish pouting proud pompous declaration of legitimacy on its own terms for its own reasons in its own way—and claiming that they were Universal
America was the name of a brand, a symbol, a banner—conveyed across the earth by war ships, war planes and soldier’s blood.
America is bombs, money and tourists
America is hard work, rationality and church
America is skin color, planned obsolescence and fast food
America is punching the timecard, hoping for something better and comic books and video games
America is agriculture, aggression and popular music


What does it feel like to transfer my mind onto a page or a computer screen? Is there a sensation, an epiphany? Why is this so far from the actions that define my everyday life? I brush my teeth, I run my fingers through my hair when it gets greasy, I drive to a friend’s house, I close doors, sit in chairs, teach children, listen to music while staring at the ceiling.
Yet here I am writing. Maybe i have given you an impression of what my life is like. But it is just that. I want to make you feel like you have seen a surrealist painting when you read my writing. I want to make you feel like you just stepped out of the experience of reading something, and into a world that is real on the other side of your eyes, on this page.