Simple's Hard Enough Now Anyway...

Quiet evening, glass of wine, indie film...and these damn song lyrics. In a black and white film love seems simpler. The girl's hair is messy, her lipstick's smudged over her bee-stung lips, and her idiosyncrasies aren't cloying but clever. The boy hasn't showered, he's walked all night through rainy city streets, and the cigarette he stubs out while standing in the street outside her window is sexy.

Art is a lie that tells the truth.

I don't remember who said that, and I may be misquoting. Years ago I worked so hard at being affected. I wanted to be that girl in the film, sometimes so badly I could taste the bitterness on the back of my tongue. As a teenager, I think Q. was the closest I ever got, a truckstop coffeeshop amidst the steelyards, a cigarette, scribbling poetry on napkins. A roadtrip to grad school only landed me in a frozen tundra of mediocrity.

There are no grand gestures. My name isn't linked to another scrolled across an overpass or carved into a redwood. I never actually thought it would happen. Simple's hard enough now anyway.