the walls

statement of style

so i painted my room pink today. a new color, a new life. it's a happy color. the same pink you find on some houses in florida or some place like that. you can find one or two in san francisco, too. maybe that happy color will rub off on my personality. it's the first time i've ever painted my own room in any of the fifty odd houses and apartments i've lived in over the past thirty-one years. i guess i'm looking to settle in and stick around. and i never wanted to stay too long in any of the other places. except for when i lived by buena vista park. i lived there for three years, but my room was already a gorgeous shade of green so i never thought about painting. now i'm settling in and doing so in style. of course, of course, of course.

mr. clump clump

My father drives some kind of Plymouth that was produced for about two years. It's gray, a hatchback. So economical. Frugal, not cheap-that's what he calls his lifestyle. I call it cheap ass cheap. We're driving to meet my Mom at the Bills Dollar Store parking lot in Ringgold-the mid-way point between Coushatta and Minden. This happens every Friday night-I escape from living with this sad clump of life called my father and enter the more lively but still troublesome world of my mother's house. I put Boy George's single The Crying Game into the cassette player. We whizzing by all the staples of Coushatta life on Highway 71. The Piggly Wiggly, The Dollar Store, Fausto's Fried Chicken, the Cheverolet dealership, a few gas stations, the Dairy Queen, the nursing home, the motel-but whoever stays there, I can't imagine. I ask him if he likes the song. I tell him it's Boy George. He says, if it's radical, you're all for it. You got that right. I'm bringing the Crying Game to Coushatta like it or not, Sag Bag. Of course, I know Boy George is far from radical, but there's no telling that to Mr. Clump Clump. We're out of the strip now, thirty miles to go to Minden. There's lots of pines trees and pastures along the way, cows and broken down farmhouses, long abandoned stores waiting for a fire and time, time, time. God, just step on it. I'm counting down the minutes now. I'm always counting down the minutes until this will all be over. We ride mostly in silence but sometimes we have political conversations. Never religious ones cuz he goes ballistic when I question his beyond scary beliefs. He thinks Boy George is radical from his early eighties days. But he has no idea about The Crying Game. First there are kisses, then there are tears. Jaye Davidson is cute, that's what I'm thinking about in my silence. I can't imagine what he's thinking about. Finally, we make it to the parking lot and there's my mom in her car waiting for us and what an amazing yet most likely momentary feeling of relief. I have escaped yet again. Drive like hell, lady.