30 pages of solid gold

My friend Jacob, a good Jew, once wished to write a song entitled, "The Meanest Gay Guy I Ever Met," about a dude named Hansa we both worked with. Hansa once told me that, in order to get into an mfa program for creative writing, i needed 30 pages of solid gold. it really doesn't seem like much. 2 or 3 short stories. people have written millions of them. okay, maybe not millions, but maybe hundreds and hundreds of thousands of them. well, considering crappy one pagers, i guess it could be in the millions. yes, millions.

all i need is 30 pages of solid gold and my life will once again make sense, have meaning. i dream about how easy it must be. there's this guy and he's starting a new job. it's his first day and he's shaking up a big water bottle, but it's filled with a red-orange liquid. gatorade mix, maybe. or kool-aid. there's a story somewhere in there. there's also my roommate, sitting across the room from me, staring at his computer, looking up god-knows-what. last time it was antiquated german avaiation. he tried to explain his fascination with it as i filled up my klean kanteen. i nodded and probably said, "cool."

two people just walked in, a mother and father, perhaps, and they ask cecilia, "is your name cecilia?" they ask something else, but it's in spanish, so i didn't catch it. i guess i couldn't write a story about that.

the 30 pages of solid gold are within me, or at least within my grasp. they circulate my head, a bizarre halo, and then new ones join the mix everyday. i pick at them, try to swat them down to hold them for a moment, but they are much too quick. it's something simple, like stopping your car in the middle of the freeway just to touch the pavement, to make sure it really exists, but something stops you from doing it. it's just not sane. it just doesn't make sense. and every idea, every thought i ever had, becomes a jumbled mess like my journal, like this blog, and the 30 pages of solid gold degenerate into two or three paragraphs that sit in a folder on my desktop entitled, "stories." the ones that come to life by means of a printer end up in a box entitled, "recycling." hansa really was the meanest gay guy i ever met.

1 comment:

sprouterly said...

hung out with him last night. after graduating from syracuse with a masters in arts&journalism, he now works at a headhunting agency, wearing a suit every day.