Sunday, April 29, 2012

the hallucinogenic properties of Myristica fragrans

I had lunch with a friend
and between respective bites of salmon tacos and ono burritos
she asked what I was going to do about all of this,
referring to you as “the matter at hand”
(which I found too unwieldy
to be a very practical nickname,
although I added to my list of album titles).

But I told her about an idea I have for a novel:

It’s about a guy who moves into a house
with a roommate he doesn’t know,
and the roommate is being set up with a friend’s sister,
a picture of whom our protagonist falls in love with.

Then the new roommate gets hit by a bus
(it could be some a police car or a dump truck, too,
just some sort of motor vehicle)
and dies.

So our protagonist decides to pretend to be the roommate
in order to meet The Girl of His Dreams.

They falli n love, etc. etc. etc.,
and at some point,
as they always do,
she finds out who he really is

but I’m not quite sure what happens after that.

Maybe that’s the ending, actually.
Yeah, that’d be cool and postmodern and get attention
for bucking narrative convention and subverting blah blah blah,
but I won’t really know how
or when
the story ends until I start to write it.

But art imitates life imitates art ad infinitum,
and I don’t want to jinx it,
or somehow curse myself into
getting hit by a bus
(or any motor vehicle)
before I get to learn first-hand
the color of your eyes.

1 comment:

Jenny said...

You're like a young Nicholas Sparks.