Reading about James Dean on a Wiki
He was 24 when his forehead slammed into an opposing car’s front hood.
We are watching cash cab. My eyes are barely open. You open up Wikipedia.
Have I ever heard James Dean’s music? I think. Wait, no. Watched his films?Breathed his air?
I only remember that large cardboard cut-out in the office of our high school’s newspaper.
Not the Pepsi commercial. Not his interest in bullfighting. Not East of Eden’s setting in California’s Salinas Valley.
Do I know where that is?
Am I supposed to?
Is it hot there?
Do I ask too many questions?
Apparently, he was an American hero. I wonder if his memory was as sharp as mine.
I wonder how many heroes have ever questioned the meaning of life. The meaning of senseless death or young love or the entertainment industry or the car that James Dean’s head once collided with.
Put the key in the ignition and drive away, the whir of yellow lines buzzing by like the mind’s own attention deficit.
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Pete Yorn and the story of today
Frozen pizza with a side of cheerios (in a coffee mug). Pinot for desert. My hair, wet, is dripping into the front of my v-neck.
“It’s a strange condition, A day in prison.” That song is on replay.
I think of Pete Yorn and his angsty side-swept bangs. His five-o-clock shadow. His blue jeans. I don’t know why his pants are significant. I don’t know why I find myself analyzing his choice of bottom. I’d really prefer not to know what’s underneath. Really.
I think of that story, “Bruce Springsteen and the Story of Us.” Reading it over and over and over again. Dissecting.
I think of guitar strings, scattered across a hard wood floor. I think of raspy voices, colliding with harshly strummed chords, a music note gliding across the reflecting pool. Chain smoking on the balcony. The morning after.
I think that maybe I am in a weird place.
“I don’t know what I came for.”
But I didn’t want it all. I didn’t.
(photo courtesy of udatxo)
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