when i was in high school, i wrote a short story about a girl who fell down a well. to keep herself company, she scratched portraits in to the rock walls and those were her friends. i've been looking everywhere for the story and i can't find it anywhere. i'm sure my memory of it is a lot better than what it actually is... in fact, i KNOW my memory has cast it in that bright light of divine perfection, convincing me i've misplaced a work of genius. ha! right! the stuff i wrote at 17 was so damn melodramatic that it's pretty embarrassing to go back and read it now. there isn't much i've kept from those days... but i swore i held on to that story. i want it because, in a way, isn't that what i'm doing? making friends on all these canvasses. the story is probably long gone and yeah i could always rewrite it but i wanted the naive, idealistic story... the story i wrote when i had no idea about "bad writing" and was just in love with the action. there's something IN work like that... our young work when we weren't concerned about anything other than saying something... even if what we said was stupid.
maybe one of these days i'll force myself to rewrite it... i was looking at my walls, covered in my faceless portraits and thought it'd make for a super cool artist statement. the roses of my memory making me long for every page my hand ever touched. :)
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