it could have all happened just the way it did except at the end, I kill him instead of myself. and I (she) gets away with it. Nebraska. I of course did not murder him. but I PLAUSIBLY could have.
I just want to put it behind me. but it doesn't seem to want to stay there, a story needing killed as much as told. it's BORING. a story like that is only interesting if you're annabella sciora, which I am not. it'd include only enough detail that everyone I met is in it. like Priest. the impossibility of talking to any of them about what was happening right in front of them - they preferred not to see it and I prefered not to be seen. until the day I couldn't any longer and I killed myself over it to stay Alive. but in the book, I would kill *him*. It would be that day he brought the pistols to the hotel room, showing off.
(real life):
I threw my hair at the wall, exhausted, sick, painfully sick sober
he brought guns into the bedroom "because he thought I'd think they were cool"
he loaded one and said isn't that cool?
a loaded gun was on the bed, we were 2 ft apart, I could have easily just plucked it out of his hand to confirm its "coolness" - in my minds eye theyre literally blue, which can't be accurate but I swear it
just a small slip between real life and fiction. with shaking hands and weighing only 89 pounds (real life). it's his gun, he loaded it, there are only his fingerprints on those bullets (real life). observations that take less than a fraction of a heartbeart. she just slipped. everyone believes her and do all they can (which is A LOT, they are POWERFUL) to help her out of that jam, eager to get rid of that mess outa their work condo. she goes away just exactly like it all happened except there's his blood on the wall wall instead of my hair. that is 100% plausible. it would happen mostly off the page, like power moves when it wants to, swiftly and quietly. like it all happened mostly off the blog all along. a past tense within past tense.
that's how all of the novel works - it could easily be true, it feels true, it just didn't happen
section 1 - she tries to keep "him" - and, increasingly *herself* - alive/sober by fucking, something I totally coulda woulda tried, I just didn't
section 2 - she kills Nebraska. I could have done that, that day that way, I just didn't - a brutally short section, preferably granting him no dialogue at all.
section 3 - the most interesting but messy - all the REASONS, whats KILLING THEM and who they are, all real, it just never happened. I have barely changed their names if at all. that section *contains the present*, wherein their/our past tense(s) emerge in realtime, where blog and novel keep smerging. this month, Union has scheduled a for-all-faculty party to celebrate coming back for the semester at the same location where we had Patti's memorial last year this month as my father lay dying. an inside "joke" that we are left Alive to get. that is actually true, he actually did that, I am going for his sake and will surely blog/write about it, hoping to capture it, like a bug outa midair snatched, the very darkly funny held in my fist. the invitation is all red/green, Xmas In Vegas (real life)
this novel would shock nobody except everyone I know, maybe enough to blow it down
"he" has no alias in the book, the huckleberry chapter does not call him that, you'd have to *know him personally*. everybody else is obviously who they are. by section 3 "he" just haunts her, disappeared like a political prisoner, captive at Blackops Disneyland, attending mandatory meetings and sucking blood globs out of likenesses of himself, renditioned by demons of low cunning so BORING it's triggering to me, that same sinking helpless nauseous feeling like thinking about Nebraska.
I imagine the author picture on the inside flap being only a sideview, sideboob, all tattoos bared and white streak flashing 👁 Cruella d'Youboreme
From here, I can see the shape of the whole Grit novel that way, how all these disconnected pieces connect
Aliving->Murder->Aliving
(Over->Dead->Dying)
Smerging. The funeral welcome back picnic is a perfect example, it hasn't occured it but it's already in it, already part of the Great Absorbing of Being Past Tense - maybe *beyond tense*? our nerves are so shot, maybe we're beyond tense.
all of it is either funny or fucky or both except for the murdering. but even that muder scenery, in real life, it had Sobriety Games in it for ME. I was sober very painfully. I blogged a selfie for him/"him", skirt and boots. I don't have any signal here, like I didn't for Transformative Fucking last year, but these words will save on this fancyass phone I got to save or publish everyfuckingthing. when I am home w nothing better to do, I could find that room in Phoenix, the bed, if I just find that photo, white/black skirt brown leather boots thighs spread. I could have very plausibly shot Nebraska in that room on that bed. but I played a sobriety game w "him" on the blog instead. (that selfie is the only funny/absurd part of that story). maybe I'd spend more storytime on that one-sided hail-mary blog post (the nothing) than on anything that did happen (the muder [that didn't happen])
down the road here (real life) is a house we ("he" and I) once thought of buying, falling down house, 100k acres, $89k, big handpainted signs waving in the periphery - lives not lived are SCENERY for this one, which has not been liveable enough, so I finally hacked it up like Luca Brazzi. (grazzi? you know what I mean)
The closer someone gets to my reality, the more outrageous the novel becomes because they recognize it's entirely false + how much is not. Reader vertigo.
Was this move available on the board? If yes, fiction can take it.
If I could land that, I would have written something fatal to my current identity.
No one I know would ever look at me the same way again. Like disappearing only different.
Here, the urgency the figure to it out at all has seeped away day by day (I'm already gone). If it returns as strongly at home, tiz bc my own life has become so hostile to my coherence as a person that I'll need these notes to remember me by.
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What do I miss in Buffalo? No loon call, literal or otherwise, beckons. On our last full day here, stock taken: this year feels different, not like I've been restored to return
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| found in my yoga shorts I shook my clothes out more carefully after that / shrugged it off |
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