junecleavage

You know, I have lived a lot of life. The kind of life that people have told me would make a great book, movie, radio show, epitaph, etc. And there is no limit to the documentation that paints it all together like one big memory collage. Yet, I do not sit down and type it all out, piece all of the period pictures into place, glue it all into some pop culture puzzled maze, nor do I pitch or publish or pry back into the depths of it. Because, it is almost surreal you see. And I hate using that word. It is so cliched. But it is the only word that comes close to describing it. It is like...I know I was there because I can read all of the words from it and see all of the photographic evidence but I do not remember how I came to be that girl. I know what she did and how in the middle of it all no matter where the all was happening that she was, how many murals she could paint in how many lifetimes and just how cruel and cold she could be. I know how easy it was for her to traipse from one life into the next. I also know about her deep dark hidden bottomless wells that were locked up so far down below the surface that only tequila and music could touch upon it. But, I see her almost like I see my daughter. So familiar and yet, so unreachable. I am not that girl anymore. And, trying to capture it for the sake of posterity seems hollow. Maybe one day the story will unfold. And then again, maybe it will be left to a sort of Edie Sedgewick diary finding yee haa of an exploitation too many years after the fact. Hard to say then isn't it? I swear if I just add question marks to my sentences I can sound British then can't I? It's fun to lighten the mood with a bit of humor then isn't it dove?