dear ellis,
please write. this is for me and you. we can start a story. share poems and songs. letters and prose.
i'll begin...
in a red room, in a white house, they sat awkwardly posed about on chairs, mattresses, lawn furniture, and inflatable balls. while creating fantasies and never-have-i-ever games, they grew smaller and invisible. in my gold-seaquined camisole and blue slip-on shoes, i left the party, in the rain, in a rush to jump off the plank. i had dressed well for the occasion. charlie had mistaken me for a mermaid, but i told him not to worry, not to assume i was a maid at all. in fact, i said, the only service i can provide, is that of leaving and walking in the rain. "it's pat!" he replied, but not so innocently, he had revealed his secret knowledge of the gender-dysphoric.
ellis:
standing like a pair of smokers under the overhang of the white house, two non-smokers absently watched the after-drip of the rain from the roof and the leaves of the surrounding trees. the younger looked at the coke-bottle eyeglasses of the elder and thought the rythmic pounding of the storm-gutter-after-drip matched up with oversized eye-blinking in a way that was both remarkable and unsettling.
- he married a beautiful girl six days after he finished his time for draft-dodging. they had known each other about a week before he went in for six months. she really was wonderful. and he had these piercing blue eyes...
the younger was giddy with the way the elder spoke - such taste flow music, yet his thoughts couldnt help wandering toward the smell of hot flowers that had suddenly been cooled by the rain. the scent mingled in the air with the elders words while sounds of the party came whizzing from the above window, hitting his ear like flying knives. - this must be loneliness, he thought.
lauren:
and after just six days, she went on to believing that her sneezes could turn hot in bitter empathy. that someone could make her sick, infect her to take away the sounds of regret. regret, she thought, was the burning effigy of a wedding. that white house still echoed in her like a cold sore and his gonorehea blue eyes made her sweat with angst.
after only six days she had lost her life...it had seemed to have been swept under a rip-toe current swelling from the drain in the bathtub. losing her life wasn't half the worry, and next time she would be prepared; not letting the drain suck all her long brown hair, not letting the tub over-fill with oil-spotted water, not letting the mirrors fog up too fast. she liked that most: looking at herself in the mirror, naked and slippery, wrung out flat against the cold tiles. she liked to watch the water pour over her with the curtain open because there was no one around to complain about the pool on the bathroom floor. standing like a smoker with her shoulders pressed back and her hips pivoted forward...
(ahh...im tired now...but i havent finished and its no good)
