After posting the other day about the box of letters and journals I threw out, I found a box of index cards on which I used to write snippets of conversations and brief thoughts. Most of them date from the early to mid-90’s when I lived in Iowa City. I haven’t read them in a decade.
Some involve me, others are conversations overheard or reported to be by friends. My hope was that by stripping away all character and context, something profound might emerge. I’m not sure it worked.
There are over 50 cards and scraps of notebook paper. Here are some that seemed worth sharing.
It wasn’t until after she left him that he realized he was in love with her. But then, of course, he had to wonder if he wasn’t just in love with her absence … his memory of her.
Upon entering the city, he realized he had been there before. Suddenly, he lost all interest in being there and he did not stop as he drove through.
After describing the night’s meal she had planned, she made a thinly-veiled allusion to after-dinner sex. “No,” he thought to himself, “I don’t want to sleep with you. But I would still like dinner.”
He resisted doing anything much while she was away for fear of accidentally changing into someone she wouldn’t love when she returned.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she told him. “It only seems rational because you have such a large vocabulary.”
“What do you feel like after he gives you an orgasm?” he asked her. “Sleepy? Aroused?” “No,” she replied. “I feel like baking him a cake.”
Upon re-reading the passage, he realized he had gotten it wrong the first time years ago. He closed the book and put it away; he preferred his memory better.
The place had changed from his home to the place where he used to live. But the places he frequented and the roads leading to them still seemed too familiar. He found himself making wrong turns intentionally to get lost so the place would seem more foreign, more strange … so that he would finally feel as if he’d moved on.
By all rights she should drive men crazy. Instead, she “interests” them.
Three women drink coffee and speak of their dreams. “I’ve always wanted to own my own car,” one says. “I want to get a business degree,” says the second. “I just want another cup of coffee,” says the third.
“The thing about detours,” the man said, “is no matter how many interesting places people find along them, no one ever comes to them once the main road opens up again.”
