I suppose I ought to be flattered that some people think of me as a dapper, controlled, smooth, strong, reliable, orderly man. This new fellow is off-the-rack neat enough; volatile, rough edged, reliable, organized, but loose with not dapper diction, but a plain Midwestern flat homely tongue. Both men have twinkles in their eyes, but the new guy smiles big and easily, and looks for the jokes. Some people will be happy to see me this way. Will they too think that I was born this way? Or will it be apparent that both men are creations out of me?
This is a time of changes for me.
I’m demonstrative, not docile. I will be relieved to show this looseness to many at one time. Maybe professionals will see, at last. Maybe they’ll put two and two together and get one, me, who can act anyone. Maybe they won’t. I know. That has to be enough.
A thunderstorm came slathering through about any hour ago. It licked at these high windows, clattered and soughed. I kept thinking that the building was shaking, or should be. It was so insistent. The sensation was erotic. So I took off my clothes and typed. I am pornographic, but safe.
Three hotel signs atop three tall buildings are very orange. I wonder if they’ve seen washed vivid. I’ll bet. Other signs on many rooftops and thousands of windows seem glittery. Cleaned up. I’ll clean myself up soon. Before getting naked, I went to the gym one floor up and sweated. Now I’m cool, dry, free, and worldly. It’s a kick.
Tomorrow I’ll play scenes. I’ll think the thoughts: What am I hear for; what do I mean to say; say it, and move on. I’ll have the words in my head, but I’ll speak the thoughts and be believable and interesting. Better be. Someone else does that. I’m always relieved he knows how. I don’t worry about it. I expect him to do it. It’s so pleasing. It’s complicated and simple at once. It’s nothing and much. It’s entertaining and edifying. It’s a thoughtful thing. It’s all feeling, mostly intuition, actually. It’s a microworld I control. The writer has encircled it. I operate in it. It’s complete. Perfect. Satisfying. I like it. It’s like a glass snowball—a scene in a bubble, hard and clear—in weather that starts suddenly and clears fast. The scene is always there. Exact. Safe. Perfect? It can be repeated, moved about, shipped, returned, stored, duplicated. Forgotten and resurrected. Fantasy. But real as real can be.
Last night I dreamed of a white empty hospital. Everything was white—so glaring that I could hardly see the doors and the corners of the rooms. Some rooms were small, too small to be closets. People were looking for me, but they never showed up. Still, I kept running. No way out. White. White. Nothing.
I’m still here.
This concrete and glass tall box will not let me open a window. The wind once tore open the ceiling of this room during a rain storm. The housekeeper told me. The air conditioning keeps the apartment cool, but it assaults my sinuses. I must remember to close the windows.
At least, I can come and go.