Big fluffy snowflakes fall to the ground, I look out the window and all I see is this big blanket that covers the yard. Molly runs in and out of the garage shaking snow off her furry coat. The cat whose name I have forgotten tries to catch the snow, and plays with it as if it were a ball of yarn. The red barn in the distance looks like something from a country Christmas card. The rooster weather vane on top and the wooden fence holding in the horses that are covered with their winter fur do not look like the stealth creatures they are. The trees bows weigh heavily with snow. What a site to see. I watch all this from the warmth of the living room with its picture window that frames the scene so well. Inside the fire crackles as you put another log on the fire, its better that way. We don’t want a repeat of the last time I tried to make a fire. I’m bundled up in cozy clothes with my cup of hot chocolate, as we sit in front of the fireplace. God, I hate the snow. It was not until the other day that I realized why exactly I hate it so much. Somebody reminded me of this long lost day that I’d tucked away so well, and that was it, there you were. I can still see you like it was yesterday, your silver tab levis, your baseball cap underneath your toque to keep your ears from falling off, your blue quicksilver snowboarding coat and your ski gloves. Shoveling snow from the driveway. Tinkering with the snowmobile that sits at eye level from inside the house because the snow is piled so high. Then I hear you as a good ‘nor easter’ blows you into the house. You take off you heavy clothes and rush to me for warmth. Your rosy cheeks and cold red nose nestle in my neck, as your hands make their way up my shirt in search of heat. The fire crackles as we settle in for the night. God, I hate the now. I don’t want to think of you anymore. It hurts too much. The way you held me in your arms…it’s all gone now. Why did you have to leave that night? The snow was like a curtain coming down from the sky, you could barely see two feet in front of you, we live in the country, sure no one dares drive out here, but no one also plows out here either. They told me that you must have hit some black ice before you went off the road. How long was it until we found you? How long had you sat there in the quiet of the snow? I hate the snow; it took you away from me. That postcard isn’t the serene place I once thought it was. I prefer the desert now, not a sign of you for miles. God, I hate the snow.
10/27/05 – Monologues
- I am a packrat! I’m just going to admit it. Yup! I’m a packrat! There I said it, it’s out there. I feel better now. Phewph! Ok, wait, now I’m not a packrat in the “pack rat” sense of the word. It’s more like a metaphorical packrat. You can’t see my storehouses of junk. If you came to my home you would see everything neat & organized and in its place. There’s so much stuff. I called it junk, but really its not. It’s my memories, good & bad. All compartmentalized. If I could walk the annals of my mind, I wonder if I could remember it all, because I don’t really remember the good. I mostly remember the bad. But the good thin is I don’t dwell it, it’s just put away. I imagine the inside of my head is designed my Classy Closets, or better yet, is filled with cute plastic drawers you get from the Container Store. Each one is clearly labeled, wouldn’t want problems oozing over to the other ones. I’ve read self-help books before, and they all to come back to a place of faith, something for you to believe in something to preoccupy your mind. I just thought you know, I’m kinda like an elephant, I never forget, so watch your step.
- I remember the day you walked in. I was in Crawford lobby between classes –it was fall and you were rushing through shaking the rain off you blue ski jacket. My problem, there was somebody else in my life at the time.
- I hear the rain outside, as it patters on the roof. Drops glide down the windowpane as it slowly fogs up.
- I never thought of myself as a cultured type person, who would actually buy an annual pass to a museum. But there I was trying to step lightly on the wooden floor as to not disturb the other art freaks. I call them freaks, because that is what they are. Have you ever listened to other people as they look at art? It’s hilarious at times. When I’m at an exhibit, I just walk around sometimes and listen and try to find the most outrageous comments. Then I follow those people around throughout the exhibit.
- My eyes are closed. I listen. My fingers are poised on the keys. Come-on MOVE, TYPE, why aren’t you inspired. I can only imagine the life of a writer.
The memories are still fresh, as if it was just yesterday. Why won’t you just go away?
I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a drizzly fall morning; he walked into the lobby, wow. Tall, dark and handsome, not normally my type, but this was different.
I sit here, eyes closed, slow calm breaths. Mouth open, slight smile as my teacher used to say. Feel the breath. It’s such a calm and quiet place just listening to the sounds.
My eyes are closed. I listen. My fingers are poised on the keyboard. Come on, move, type. Why aren’t you inspired, I can only imagine the life of a writer.
This is hurting my head now, and my arm is getting a cramp. WTF. I am not a writer, I am an actor. I can perform on demand, not write. A monologue is a rant. A rave. It has a beginning, middle and end. All I can think of though are feelings.
I watch movies not for inspiration, but all I can think of is what did it take to get to that point, how the fuck do they do that.
Actors, wow, what a group. I sit back and dearly hope I am not them. Not a familiar face in the bunch. I sit back and listen the their chatter. Having regular people type conversations, not a mention of a premier or a red carpet event. Am I in the right place? Oh, wait, yes I am. The lady two rows ahead reads her copy of backstage, another the reporter.
It was the weirdest feeling
I hate coming to these things.
Where are you?
Let’s see, It’s amazing the things you will do as a teenager, and what comes back to haunt you.
Porn Star. There I said it. I wish I were a porn star. And I think I would have fewer problems if I were. Now you’re thinking…Ok is she for real? Yes, yes I am. What’s wrong with that? I already have a low self-esteem; can it really get any worst? What I really want is the cash. People who put up their own website and let people watch for a membership fee, are rarely in the red. Just below six figures in your first year, that’s a doable thing, over six the next that’s the best.
- I’m tired of being the weepy one is class. I am like a raw nerve exposed. I cry, I weep, I blubber. And I’m tired of it. I want people to not talk to me because I’m the tough girl and they’re scared of me. Not because they’re scared I’ll cry on their shoulder.
- Look, I’m tired of trying to be the party. I just want to sit back and talk to the bunny.