I’d consider revealing the size of my Herman Munster sized feet, even the size of my over-the-shoulder boulder holders I sport, since breast augmentation is out of my price point.
I’d tell you all about my near miss at being infamous. Seriously. I have a memoir in me.
The lover I said yes to, when no would have been more appropriate.
The thirty MUST HAVE songs on my desert island cd.
I’d gab endlessly about my favorite fictional character(s), my favorite book(s), and even where I was when I received my favorite kiss.
If you poured me a third glass of Etude Pinot Noir, I’d share with you the secret of being creative.
I’d never reveal my weigh or age, regardless of the number of glasses of wine you poured.
I would tell you what makes me cry, laugh, float, jump with joy, and even what holds me hostage.
I might consider admitting I watch the ending of my favorite movies over and over, and over again, just so I can cry. Have you seen the ending of Anna and the King? It’s beautifully brutal. The son witnesses his father letting go of a love that can never be. Tears of tsunami sized portions cascade down my face and could, if needed, replenish water supplies in California for an entire year.
Then there is the character Tom Cruse plays in The Last Samurai. After a bloody battle, the Emperor asks Tom’s character about the samurai warrior, Hirotaro’s, death.
“Tell me how he died?” The Emperor asks.
“No, let me tell you how he lived.”
I LOVE that line. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. I cannot tell you why. Only that it sums up the strength of a character in a fleeting few seconds. It’s lasting.
The writer in me swirls in bliss. If I could, I’d call the writer of the script and ask him/her to dinner and I’d buy a bottle of Etude for us to share as we talk of writing. I’m certain we’d click on sight. Over the wine, we’d share favorite lines from books, plays, and the movies I watch repeatedly. Of course, being a writer, he/she would do the same. Over the second bottle of wine, we’ll share writer secrets: where the ideas come from, where they don’t, and when the words come upon us and how we sometimes feel like we’re just a drone transcribing words. We’d laugh and then confess that sometimes we haven’t a clue about the creative self that lives inside of our bodies.
We’d sink low in the booth we are sitting in, scan the room to assure our quirky selves no is close by and listening. We’d lean in and reveal that most of the time we don’t have a clue what happens on the page or why. We accept what we are. We willingly and joyfully, shoulder the burden of sleepless nights when writing down the bones is not a choice. We swallow the last of the wine and swear that we’d offer up all our worldly possession to Gods unknown so long as we don’t, not ever, no NEVER, have to live a life without the word-magic that pumps through our veins along side our blood. Maybe it is our blood, I’d suggest.
If you ask me what I dreamed about last night, I’d tell you. I dreamed of words. I did. I ordered my mind to consider other options. I often beg it to give me a night with lanky and greyish-blue come-hither eyes. I’ll even settle for coco-colored eyes with flirty curly lashes. PLEASE. Sometimes the words overpower my life, take over the breath, and push me beyond what I think I can do. They do. I tell myself it could be worse.
If you asked, I’d tell you there is such a thing as instant love. I’d say it overwhelmed me when I laid eyes on my first born, and again, when her brother came along. If you asked, even without the Pinot, I’d tell you that it’s not comparable to any other kind of love.
If you asked me, I just might tell you ….
If I asked you, what would you tell me?