This American Story

A lot of people will bitch about America to you. They may also pitch it to you, as I am half heartedly about to do.

At the heart of it all you will remember not those bitchers or charmers, but an impression.

Not just their impression, but yours.

You may feel for just a moment your own gravity as a part of their big story.

Then you will wonder, why 'My' life was never a story till I came here.

Sure I've had stories.

But not like these guys.

Not stories that I could embellish and turn into an applause, or a date or even a dollar.

These are the abilities of the Americans, the reasons I came here. The Hollywood, the Disney, the Old Spice man, the Brian Michael Bendis comics. This is why I joined Droga 5.

I loved the relish, the tale, the wafting smells, the neon signage, everything that isn't the burger.

Tonight I sat in a bar of electrified bar of patrons listening to a story telling session. A 'Jam'. They weren't jaded or  patronizing, or the creative been here before types.

They were like me sitting at the first Starwars episode in twenty years. They were holding out for the flame. They wanted magic, they wanted to be set on fire.

And boy did it burn.

I watched the pyres, the puffs, huffs, rise and fill the room.

"What is my story!" I yelled (internally) and lamented.

Why have I written a blog with such excruciating public details,

but cannot I remember a public thing?

What is this yolk I'm swimming in that I can't articulate?

Whats keeping me alive?

Why are the why's all rhetorical these days.

Stop.

Click 'Publish'.

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