Boston. As gorgeous as it gets on foggy, rushed nights.
I get to the joint and the same crowd's there. I gotta get the fuck out of this town.
Guy to the left. Night.mare. Ages ago I'd convinced him to move to China when he hit on me while I was chowing down on a club and fries and the ...best..coke I've had since..... - early spring.
Who am I kidding?
I did not drink coke then.
Fucking Boston. Brimming like a poster-girl, spreading her loins like a Nebraskan...landscape. That one is always a favourite with the cowboys. Yee-haww boys and here, take this too.
Disgusting.
I drag my shitty body to the corner where Maria's doing the biggest line since Coleridge wrote KublaKhan.
In Xanadu. Fuck you, KK! K. Fuck off.
This is what it's become. This is what we've become.
----------
Misha - her muscles rhythmic. Ada breathes in the dusk and enjoys a shiver. Morning shivers that travel upwards. Crown of the head emanating thoughts, dripping genius, here and there. Here and. There.
"Here is where I would pause and think to myself, Jocelyn, how to move past this.... hurdle"
He means I've got block.
I haven't.
I enjoy the static because I'm a selfish prick of a writer who can't get past Ada. Cuz I fell for Ada. a bit. Ok, I don't want her to die yet.
Why does she have to?
She has to.
I want to tell him the fucking horse is jumping hurdles. You know, the hurdles in the piece.
He doesn't get it.
I want to laugh.
"Ada is the pause"
He narrows his eyes and the world stands still for a nanosecond.
"WELL!"
I'm thoroughly startled. I need a smoke.
"You might want to incorporate some FID in the pause then dear girl"
I have no idea why I imagine bludgeoning his face in with a heavy hammer but I do.
"I just don't think I can entertain the pause. It would be unjust. The pause is not negative space. I don't want to qualify it with some overarching notion of who Ada is"
I also don't tell him FID would be thoroughly crude here.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know yet"
"You're writing it"
"Because I don't want to know it yet"
"You're writing it"
"Because it's not fair that I should know it yet"
"You're writing it"
He means I'm responsible.
I am.
I am responsible for the pause that has become Ada in my own piece and I can't even defend it because I need more time.
"I need more time"
"Jocelyn, you don't need time. You need to write it out"
"I'm afraid"
"I know"
I regret wanting to bludgeon his face.
I leave his office, light one and walk in zigzags through the commons.
Mama don't get this. Daddy is so busy he can hardly stand still a moment and sit down with me.
I skip a few cracks, light another one.
Twirl and close my eyes while I imagine I'm sailing some pretty blue seas.
I stop by a greasy diner on the way home. It smells like old pie. I buy some fries. I sop vinegar all over them and think of Ada.
I've lost weight. I've become consumed. Fries.
Ada, my piece of sanctuary. Ada, where anything is possible.
I think I need Ada to write. I need her to forget. I need her to remember. Re-member.
How can I be left with Ava for seventeen more chap..
I remember I forgot something.
I run back home, screaming sorry's sorry's sorry's. Maria is livid.
I realize no matter how deep I'll go, I'm carrying around a corpse. No matter how deep I'll dive, how many layers I'll peel off and leave stranded in obscure places, I'm carrying dead weight.
And I've shed. I've shed so much. On my body, there's nothing left to shed. But I'm tied down. I've allowed memories to become ghosts. I haven't honoured my life. I've let it drown me out.
Because I write my life. Right?
Haw haw. Right. It won't write me.
So, yes. I sympathize with Ada.
And I give her the pause.
Let the girl have a pause.
She'll off herself anyways.
In the end.
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