Forty-Something Years in Ninaland




I am faceless standing here in my metaphorical mask, waiting for a bus on the corner of two streets, I don’t remember their names.

Then a man says to me, “I’m a Mormon, but I don’t want more than one wife.” He literally said that to me. Why would I care, but I do care.

“Excuse me?” I say. The man has a face. And he can see me.

“My sister married an alcoholic…” I could have been one, an alcoholic. There was a year or two I came close to the borders of self destruction. But I chose not to drink my life away.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the blonde man on a skateboard who is riding, he rides while I am sinking in my own pool.

“She could have done better but now she’s got two kids,” he says nonchalantly as we wait for the bus on a sunny morning in Virginia, on our way to Washington D.C.

“That’s too bad,” I mistakenly sound interested. I hide under a black leather jacket that’s too tight. I want to draw his face. I want to make sense of the drama in his blue eyes.

He goes on and on about how he might not believe in god. God, I think might not believe in me. I want to tell him I’m mysterious, that’s why I wear this mask of a smile. You don’t know what’s underneath this smile. My ghosts: my heart is a planet, an entire planet, it’s so big, it’s spinning, but there is no sun. No way to make my heart shine.

I want to stand on his skateboard and ride away. I’ve never used a skateboard before. I would probably fall off and make a fool of myself. A fool I am, I feel like I have a broken guitar tuning me. I can’t sing.

We get on the bus and the man starts talking to the person next to him, I’m not special, I was a fool to think he liked my face.

Does he know I hate my body? Do they all know? Do I wear that knowledge like skin? Under these folds of skin, I hide. Like an ostrich I hide my head in the sand, thinking no one can see me if I can’t see them.

I can barely see anyone who is facing north. Anyone who is looking up. Anyone is everyone. I barely know my own name but I remember the color of his hat, the man with the skateboard was wearing a red hat. No one will know that but me.




Randomness…it’s us in a swirling planet with all these people everywhere. They all shit, everyone’s shitting. On the same earth, there are those that shit quietly and others that make noise. But we are all victims of our own bodies.

I can’t be in this body much longer if I want to really smile. I don’t really smile; I fake my existence. I fake my dreams. I’m a liar in my own dreams. I can’t have anything real, even a real conversation is blurred with my inane thoughts. The inane vs. the insane.

We are wearing clothes, that are made out of threads…small threads. This body is just a vessel that holds me, holds my intelligence. There is an intelligence in every cell. My cells know me. They know my name.

I want play tennis sitting down, with a racket made of threads and a ball of dough. How weird am I? It cannot be mentioned, the weirdness in my mind. It cannot be understood. If I understood it maybe you could.

We are, we are, we are one. You are me, I am you. There is no difference between us. There is no boundary except our skin, and our skin is wrinkling. We might as well be made of plastic, sitting on sidewalks, breathing our own breath. Telling each other lies.

We are toys, like Barbies with no figure. I’m a deformed Barbie doll. I am not perfect nor am I flawed. I lie between the two. I’m perfectly flawed. I’m beautiful but boring. No I’m not pretty enough, enough for this universal pretty contest we call life.

I’m not a contestant. I won’t sing your song for you. You must tell your own story. You, stop looking at me, look in the mirror and see yourself.

You are the only real thing in the room.

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 November 4th, 2015  
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