A Million Different Ways

My name is Joanna-

Joan-

Jacob-

Rory-

I have no name-

They call me Bernard-

Barbara-

Barbara.

My name is Barbara.

If you were to have told me yesterday that I’d be dead-

That I’d be married-

That I’d be standing on the edge of a cliff-

That I’d be erased from the universe because I can’t complete a sentence-

That I’d be dead.

Dead.

Dead as a doornail.

Dead as Jacob Marley-

If you were to have told me yesterday that I’d be standing over Marley Jacobson’s dead body, I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised.

Marley was a piece of shit.

I don’t mean to be crass or to disrespect the dead, but he was.

He was my go-to lover, sure, but I knew what he was.

So, no, not surprised.

To get you to this point, me standing over Marley, I have to go back to yesterday-

Two days ago-

A week-

Yesterday.

Yesterday morning when everything was still the same.

I live alone-

I live with my cat-

I live with my roommate George-

I live with two other women, twins, actually-

I live with my parents.

Yes.

36-years-old and still live with my parents.

This is a recent development. I am not some freeloader who never wanted to leave the nest. Quite the opposite. I left when I was 18 and lived in a tiny apartment with five other girls. There was no space, but it was better than living at home.

And now I live at home.

Three years ago, the company I worked for went bankrupt and instead of paying their employees what was due, they, well, you know, they didn’t. Refused. Said they couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

I’ve looked for other work. I’ve tried really hard, actually. But to no avail.

I am a middle-aged spinster living with my folks.

No one says the word spinster anymore, you know?

They don’t?

No, they don’t.

Ok.

I am a middle-aged-

Is 36 middle-aged?

Yes.

I always assumed it was 40 and older.

It’s 35 and older.

But 35 is so young.

Is it? Or are you saying that because you’re 36?

Ok.

Are you going to tell them about Marley?

I don’t know if I want to write about Marley.

Ok. Start from scratch.

***

When I try to look inward, I see nothing but cavernous, dark space.

I suppose this is what everyone sees.

But for me, it’s not a space of mystery or potential.

It’s a space of nothingness. Of emptiness.

I wonder if I’ve always been like that or if it’s a recent development.

Childhood must have been lively-

It was horrible-

It was fine-

It was normal actually.

What’s normal?

White, picket fences. Apple tree in the back yard. A tire swing that flipped over, dropping Marley too hard on the ground, leaving him with a broken leg.

A creepy next-door neighbor who had a vicious dog-

Cat-

Bird-

No animals.

A creepy next-door neighbor who’d watch us through her window-

His window-

Their window.

Waspy parents screaming behind closed doors-

Not screaming-

Whispering.

Whispering through gritted teeth and clenched fists and smiling too widely in the presence of their children.

That’s normal, isn’t it?

Or it was.

Or it is, but it depends, doesn’t it?

Where is this going.

Where is this going.

Who am I?

I’m you.

I’m all of you.

I’m all of them.

I’m the world.

That’s ridiculous and egotistical.

Ok.

Start again.

***

 Marley was a mediocre man-

A great man.

Show us, don’t tell us.

Marley was a-

***

In the beginning there was light, and God said it was good-

***

The problem with loving a man, is that they think you belong to them.

I’m obviously not talking about all men.

If you’re a relatively smart individual, then you know that’s not what I mean.

I’m speaking in generals.

Generalisms.

 Generalistics.

Generalizations.

Marley Jacobson was one of those common men who believed in women as property.

This wasn’t evident at first.

It never is-

It hardly ever is.

They take their time with you, you know?

In the beginning there is basic interest. Nonchalance, almost. A carelessness. An attitude that says, ‘You’re fine. Not great. Not outstanding. Just fine.’

And this nonchalance, this muted interest, can pull the victim in. Make them want to know what’s behind the curtain. Makes them curious if there’s anything of depth there. Could this be it? Could this be the love they’ve waited for?

At the very least, could this be the lover they’ve waited for?

A bit of excitement, of a good time?

And once they’ve pulled you in sufficiently enough, the nonchalance transforms, it-

You’re rambling. Get to the story.

There is no story.

***

I am a blank space.

I am a metaphor for larger issues, larger characters, larger meanings, larger blah blah blah.

I don’t exist until she writes.

Types.

Thinks.

It doesn’t mean anything unless there’s an A, B, C, logic, you know? Even if it’s absurdism, magical realism, surrealism, there has to be an A, B, C. Or a B, C, A. Something. There has to be something.

There can’t just be words on a page.

Can there?

***

Every time you start over, you break the pacing.

Every time you second guess, you lose a second.

This is not to say you shouldn’t think.

Brainstorm.

Figure out the point of the story.

What is the message?

No message.

Fine.

But what is it you want to say?

Why are you writing this in the first place?

Why are you writing at all in the first place?

Is it because you have nothing left?

You’ve exhausted all your options?

You were a dancer.

An actor.

A director.

A professor.

And now this.

Now this.

Now this?!

This is what you pursue?

This thing, this impossible thing, that everyone and their mother and their next-door neighbor and their dog

(cat, bird)

is trying to pursue?

No one wants to hear what you have to say.

No one cares.

Do you even care?

Do you love this enough to do it every single day?

Do you want this more than them?

Do you want it just enough?

Do you want it at all?

What

Are

You

Trying

To

Say?!

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

***

There was once was a boy-

A

Girl.

Who lived at the top of a hill.

She was the only living girl in the world.

Her best friend,

Marley Jacobson,

Was a plant.

It was the only living plant in the world.

They lived their days the exact same way.

Every single day.

Morning came and they opened their eyes.

She would walk down the hill to fetch water.

She would pour some on Marley.

She would tell him the stories she remembered.

He would listen.

It was peaceful.

Simple.

Serene.

And then one day, a man came.

A man who wanted to take the sunshine away.

A man who believed he owned the world.

***

Call me Elijah-

***

You can’t always get what you want-

***

The story is there.

I just have to look hard enough.

Look into that space that is only mine.

That was mine all along.

***

I will write one million words on one million pieces of paper and I will rewrite it one million times in one million different ways

And

It

Will

Never

Be

Finished.