Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Hagar from Song of Solomon 
Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby 
Orual from Till We Have Faces 
Anne from Anne of Green Gables 
Pierre from Pierre et Jean 

the narrator of any book that has to do with someone fanciful. 
i'm too rational. 
yet not steady enough. 
sometimes i dream. 
my mind flits. 
easily jealous. 
the imperfect recipe for unfinished disaster. 

i'm supposed to say it came like a cold blast of air. or icy water splashing through my veins. rather it was more a flush. a hot uncomfortable blush if you will. all those years thinking i was the heroine of my story, the times i thought i was the star of my adventures; such myths were dispelled. rather, i'm the secondary character to someone else's novel. the diana barry to your anne. the one who ends up with good enough and figure it's the best she could do. and stays happy. or should be. except somehow, my mind isn't so simple nor satisfied with good ole fred wright and his fat babies. so i'm stuck. knowledge isn't power. ignorance isn't bliss. we're all stuck somewhere in between. hit. or miss. 

i like the idea of being caught up. i relate with revenge. i understand single passions. i understand how lying is simply another kind of means. that's how hagar and i came to know each other. that's where anne's temper came to be my own. that's how i understand gatsby's quiet brooding and eternal desperation as he lies in wait. i like justice too much. i want things to be fair. and right. for the world to work. so pierre's anger makes sense. and orual. i understand what it is like to never make first when it matters, to be second because you deserve it, and feel unwarranted enmity anyway.

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