Post-Card
Dear Mom,
I had the most unusual day. It seems like every new day tops the last for most unusual, but maybe it's finally peaked. I can now say that I can outrun a tank on my bicycle. Isn't that wild, that I can say that? That I'm in a position where I would find that out?
They brought out tanks, Mom. Rows and rows of tanks rolling down Commercial, going back for miles. Jeannie and I had a picnic today. It was the first picnic in a long time. We ate hummus and crackers and drank cheap wine on a blanket in the park. Mortars were going off and we pretended they were fireworks. We waved sparklers in the air and blew kisses at the planes overhead. Then we got on our bikes and rode through tanks like parade stowaways.
I hope this letter finds you well. The fact of the matter is, I hope it finds you at all, but let's not dwell on unpleasantries and uncertanties. I'm doing well, Mom, despite the bullshit. Jeannie is doing well. Her parents are doing well. We were all kicking ourselves for not leaving when you and Dad did, but we're over it. Jeannie and I are, at least. It's amazing how quickl;y things can seem normal, how quickly we can adapt.
The funny thing is, I feel freer now than I ever did before. I feel much less like a victim. Much less like a target. The army is much better than the police ever were. There's no profiling. No scare tactics. They don't need em. They've got tanks in the street, they control the power grid. No mastter what's happened. it's summer, just like any other, and it's too hot to fuck around with petty bullshit.
Remember 1987, when we drove to New York? And you woke me up to look at a freight train passing in front of us. It was covered with graffiti, end to end. I was five years old and that's all I remember of our trip to see Nana and Ed. That's how the tanks look. They've been tagged high and low, these day-glo monsters like something out of Ken Kesey's nightmares. I wonder how long it'll be before we run out of paint.
Did you like the polaroids? The first two don't need any explanation. The dog is Terry, she followed us home one day. We're not sure if she's ours or not. The other one, the FUCK to PROVE you CAN stencil. Those are popping up everywhere. The theory is that they're burning saltpeter. Everywhere. They're ashing it in the lake. They're burning it with coal. The air is thick with it. At least that's what they say. It's supposed to deaden desire. I don't know if it's working, but the placebo effect of the rumors has turned everyone in to animals. A Wobbly group staged an orgy in the fountain. I went out to take pictures and people kept trying to drag me in, big burly men, dead eyed waifs with painted nails and pointy eyebrows, runaways, bums, fucking like it's going out of style.
Jeannie doesn't believe a lick of it, she thinks it's just some Miltown kids conspiring against the situation to get laid. It's as plausible as anything else, but we're fond of the attention nevertheless. I wonder how good the stockpiles are. How long before the condoms run out, the birth control, the viagra, the penicillin, in a sexual frenzy? After every war there's a baby boom, and I don't want no war babies. This is a little awkward, but if you think you can get a letter back here, send one. Then send another, a decoy or a copy, and package it with rubbers. I promise you'll be a grandma some day but now s not the time.
That about sums up life behind the lines. People who aren't dressed any different than me run through the streets with AK-47s but there are long lines at the supermarket where I always seem to be caught behind some old bitty who doesn't know how to use her own checkbook, and that's what bugs me when the day is through. Say hi to dad. I love you.
Goodbye.
I had the most unusual day. It seems like every new day tops the last for most unusual, but maybe it's finally peaked. I can now say that I can outrun a tank on my bicycle. Isn't that wild, that I can say that? That I'm in a position where I would find that out?
They brought out tanks, Mom. Rows and rows of tanks rolling down Commercial, going back for miles. Jeannie and I had a picnic today. It was the first picnic in a long time. We ate hummus and crackers and drank cheap wine on a blanket in the park. Mortars were going off and we pretended they were fireworks. We waved sparklers in the air and blew kisses at the planes overhead. Then we got on our bikes and rode through tanks like parade stowaways.
I hope this letter finds you well. The fact of the matter is, I hope it finds you at all, but let's not dwell on unpleasantries and uncertanties. I'm doing well, Mom, despite the bullshit. Jeannie is doing well. Her parents are doing well. We were all kicking ourselves for not leaving when you and Dad did, but we're over it. Jeannie and I are, at least. It's amazing how quickl;y things can seem normal, how quickly we can adapt.
The funny thing is, I feel freer now than I ever did before. I feel much less like a victim. Much less like a target. The army is much better than the police ever were. There's no profiling. No scare tactics. They don't need em. They've got tanks in the street, they control the power grid. No mastter what's happened. it's summer, just like any other, and it's too hot to fuck around with petty bullshit.
Remember 1987, when we drove to New York? And you woke me up to look at a freight train passing in front of us. It was covered with graffiti, end to end. I was five years old and that's all I remember of our trip to see Nana and Ed. That's how the tanks look. They've been tagged high and low, these day-glo monsters like something out of Ken Kesey's nightmares. I wonder how long it'll be before we run out of paint.
Did you like the polaroids? The first two don't need any explanation. The dog is Terry, she followed us home one day. We're not sure if she's ours or not. The other one, the FUCK to PROVE you CAN stencil. Those are popping up everywhere. The theory is that they're burning saltpeter. Everywhere. They're ashing it in the lake. They're burning it with coal. The air is thick with it. At least that's what they say. It's supposed to deaden desire. I don't know if it's working, but the placebo effect of the rumors has turned everyone in to animals. A Wobbly group staged an orgy in the fountain. I went out to take pictures and people kept trying to drag me in, big burly men, dead eyed waifs with painted nails and pointy eyebrows, runaways, bums, fucking like it's going out of style.
Jeannie doesn't believe a lick of it, she thinks it's just some Miltown kids conspiring against the situation to get laid. It's as plausible as anything else, but we're fond of the attention nevertheless. I wonder how good the stockpiles are. How long before the condoms run out, the birth control, the viagra, the penicillin, in a sexual frenzy? After every war there's a baby boom, and I don't want no war babies. This is a little awkward, but if you think you can get a letter back here, send one. Then send another, a decoy or a copy, and package it with rubbers. I promise you'll be a grandma some day but now s not the time.
That about sums up life behind the lines. People who aren't dressed any different than me run through the streets with AK-47s but there are long lines at the supermarket where I always seem to be caught behind some old bitty who doesn't know how to use her own checkbook, and that's what bugs me when the day is through. Say hi to dad. I love you.
Goodbye.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home