Monday, November 16, 2009
I am crazy for you.
And I think you know what I mean. Not Joaquin Phoenix or Margo Kidder kind of crazy. More like the Marquis de Sade. No wait, bad example. Like Debra Carr. So happy, so incandescent in her joy that she can't help but burst into song, dancing, twirling around the living room with Yule Brena. But where does the music come from? How does everyone know the words? Maybe they're not even there, maybe there is no music...
So when we start dancing and singing and the little blue birds encircle us and the little furry woodland creatures shyly venture out of the forest to greet us, they will come in their crisp white coats and padded wagon to take us away. Together.
But don't cry for us, Argentina. The truth is we never left you. No wall can hold us back and our happiness is like sunshine through the cracks and falling parts. In our matching pajamas, hand in hand, we will skip down to the main gate, tossing over our shoulders the homemade sticks of dynamite we made during arts and crafts time in the sunshine room. The armed guards stead themselves for a fight. They are blinded by a cloud of carnage. Out flies a ninja star, a rubber chicken, a bumper to a 1974 Cheraco. Shooting from the chaos, a photon particle beam nearly misses your head. Grown men cry out for the mommies, running out to the horizon in nothing but their BVDs. Finally, with a war cry that would make a grown man wet his underoos, a Care Bear stare takes out the remaining, whiting out the landscape for a few moments with it's brilliant rainbow, strawberry scented light. The mushroom cloud clears and we emerge from the smoke and dust unblemished, stepping over the piles of unconscience men. And I'll kiss you and say, "I love you", as we ride off into the sunset.