Cute Blond Brazilian – m4w
Reply to: pers-309611147@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-05-10, 7:31PM EDT

You were rocking a green and yellow ‘Brasilia’ shirt. You have a red hot body and lovely face to match. I was with someone, but it wasn’t my girlfriend. If you could hear us talking, you may have noticed I was giving her relationship advice! I would like to take you out sometime.

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From the safety of the airplane flying away from Fort Worth it is possible to review my impressions, which of course will be funneled through and interpolated into the cup of coffee that I drank there this morning. The coffee experience was more of a distraction than a necessity. Although I woke up at 4:54 AM and had just been in Texas on Friday, my sleepiness and weariness had washed over me with a more subtle pang. These feelings at this point in the spring had become more innate and it was the fear and stress attached to my visit that painted my vision, albeit coloured by the slackness of my eyelids. I had put off the trip for more than a year hoping its impetus might disappear. The explicit details of my paranoia and the resolution of the trip are not necessary to detail here, but they will track me as far as my frittering away of time looking out upon the empty dust bowl of downtown Fort Worth from Four Star Coffee.

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I was a daydream-prone child. My mental excursions often tended towards the romantic and macabre: on the countless journeys to and from school, whether on foot or by bus, I would grant my stifled young mind free rein to find in the mundane suburban-scape, which my parents had cruelly forced upon me, visual passages to more preferable—and/or intriguing—, imagined realms. An oft passed tree, for example, would for an instant become a distant view into a Baroque Dutch landscape. Or, the brown and orange interior of my neighborhood library—the afternoon rains beating the building into a martial cry—would become a lonely, alien theater inhabited by self-conscious actors and blank-page-filled prop books. As artists and writers (neither of which I purport to be!) know, such fantasies are difficult to sustain, the script too written to rewrite, the visual cortex too hardwired to rewire. Yet, these hopeless dreamers continue to seek out precisely what is out of their grasp: those moments when the physical world actually exceeds the restless desires of the untransformed self. These moments lie beyond some neuropsychological ‘twilight zone’, beyond the journal’d storyboard you sketched as an angry adolescent, and most certainly beyond the oneiric tale you once narrated to a bored lover whilst you both languished in a dirty, unmade bed. They’re different because they’re really fucking real.

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