My story starts now.
Fade in the credits and music and motion picture.
The script stays small and is not meant for the big screen or for celebrity actors. Get a no-namer to play me and no one would know the difference.
Except me. I might know the difference.
I watch myself in memories and years past and think yeah that’s me, or no, that’s not me at all. Sometimes the strangest parts of me play out in montages and cryptic clips speeding so fast that I cannot recognize the spins of my own persona. And it’s this concept of spilling myself out in layers that has taken me, maybe has me a little worried.
Andy used to paint with a ton of colors all at once. He would pour all the paint into one box and drop a marble into it all while swinging the box back and forth, allowing the marble to snail its way around the paint leaving track marks of its journey. The finished product was layering upon layering of infectious design. The kind you can look at for hours and days without it ever getting old.
It’s not the same with me, all these layerings of my life, one on top of the other. I gotta believe I am getting pretty top-heavy at this point. Like a finger in the back would tip me over. And how do you deal with the mirrors of yourself, the ones with imperfections, the ones you admire, the ones that don’t fall under any category at all? Philosophy might know the answer. Or psychology. Any “ology,” basically.
At this point I might be losing you. Which is valid. Minds wander and this particular entry is more of a thought process in motion than a well structured story.
But for those of you still reading WHAT LINE GOES HERE that will intrigue you? What do you want to read about, learn about, cry about? The good stuff? What is it?
My questions snowball into worries which avalanche into doubt. I need to know what makes good writing. Because writing is everything to me. But who sets the standard for good? Not academia, surely. I think of GOOD as a line or a word that grabs you and makes you remember something in handfuls and chunks. Christmas in 95′ or Grandpa or silly inconsistencies of life manifested in words; a fire in the wooded cabins of winter; that one song with the one great line you always fast forward to; the first time you saw that strand of hair fall from behind her ear, that ear which simply cannot stop her brunette locks from shadowing her face and lining her eyes in mystery. If only one piece of a story grabs you I say that’s a success.
And stories are layered well. Plots and characters and pieces of literary puzzlement all fit into a nice little book, bound and published, sold in a window overlooking the ocean or a sleepy country town or the Eiffel Tower for all I know where life is already on the brighter side and already has the greener grass.
But my existence is far more complex than a book which opens and closes. With this last line I am definitely losing you because it sounds all textbooky and I am going to stop.
Point being, I wish I could sum myself up in a readable way and think, okay, this is me. Just add up all my layers and have it be a simple whole number that is easily divided by 10. But I am in an age bracket of twenty somethings caught in A Clockwork Orange and chased by the insecurities of the past and uncertainties of the future. In all this confusion it would be nice to see Jordan Marquez for Dummies on a book shelf. Not even a bookshelf because bookstores will be obsolete, soon. Say a Jordan Marquez for Dummies in a dentist’s office because everyone who goes to a dentist’s office reads books on the coffee table about interior decorating and traveling and pet grooming because anything is better than sitting in silence next to a bunch of other people who are sitting in silence in the waiting room of a dentist’s office.