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You ever experience the vertigo of a reversal of perspective?
Like when I'm still shaking and gyrating to dance music (nearly memorized by now)
and those boys from Arizona State slink out the front door,
just on the trailing end of last call,
and leave me, no not me, Angela--they leave Angela behind in the mists
of nightclub fantasy, of dark pleasures,
of things you could only dream about,
of something so unlike his sweet, cheerleader girlfriend.
How awesome it must have felt to be in the presence of an entity
so powerful,
so captivating
a real master of seduction.
Yes.
Yes, please.
To think that he re-enters his reality
and I
no
not I
Angela
Angela remains static in memory, picture perfect, vibrant, sweet-scented electric
FREAK
that's right freak
(to boys of that type, anyway)
Angela likes to bite, to tease, to be in control, to plant a heel in the dead center of a man's chest
and then push him away
laughing...
Feminine. Dangerous.
So strange to share a body with another consciousness, another personality...
The distance between my real self and this work persona ever increases, and
in rejecting the given two-dimensionality of a character
someone without a past, without a future, and hardly a present,
Angela struggles to breath, to take shape and form and fill up the numb dumb gaping gaps left
when intention got torn from action and the reasons
begin to s l i p away from me...
I was struck by thoughts I never thought I'd have tonight.
But were they my thoughts? Or hers?
This is getting confusing.
I'll let you sort it out.
I'm drinking water.
I'm washing off black eyeliner and shimmering powder, the kind with crushed pearls in it.
I am going to bed.
