Positively Cinematic

Is it normal to frequently-or-always imagine one's life as a series of celluloid scenes? Is it? Because I've realized that's how I've viewed the world ever since I was a little girl, and I have a bad feeling that no, it's not normal.

It's not just the present moment that always feels... epic. It's the past too. And forget about the future. It's all spread on a huge screen and hundreds of people are popping popcorn into their mouths and laughing, and crying hysterically (and "hiccuping"), and biting their fingernails with me and my cast of characters.

The old hallway in my apartment building... it's old. The moldings are layer upon layer of paint-- a stale pinkish beige. My door is brown. Fluorescent lights blink. There's a window above my door that's sealed shut now. My neighbors are quiet, except for old Helen who practices her violin day and night, but pauses delicately when she hears a door open or close. I can feel her rush over to her peephole.

She is the rent-collector who makes sure her flapper-girl neighbors aren't up to no good. That they have no male visitors. That they haven't been drinking the moonshine.

The elevator is entirely copper with intricate curls and designs. It rattles up and down and you've got to slide the manual door open. It weighs a ton. There's an ancient fire place in the lobby with a large mirror over it. I catch a glimpse of myself for a moment, dark mascara sliding under my eyes.

I am sneaking in from my night job- singing at a bar, to a nearly empty audience.

Outside are brownstone steps. I am met with cool, crisp air and the sound of wind coming off the Hudson. Boats bobbing in the basin. There's the Eleanor Roosevelt statue, pensive with her hand under her chin. She is all-knowing.

I sit down next to her, somber Saturday after somber Saturday, pigeons at our feet. I'm hoping she'll share her secrets, even though she refuses to speak. You know the answer Eleanor, all you have to do is say it.

I hop down the steps, swinging my lunch bag. The sun is shining.

Little birds are carrying ribbons and flowers over my head and humming along with the bread-and-butterflies.

But then I get on the subway platform and the woman with the dirty fingernails is playing her guitar and her voice carries down the tiled tunnel.

I frantically weave between the densely packed strap hangers, running from her voice but it follows me like snaking smoke. And I can't escape her gaze. She sees my fear and laughs a gaped-tooth grin. The train comes and I push my way on. Everyone else seems unafraid and the doors shut in the silence.

They've tried to paint the office walls bright colors, I suppose to keep us motivated. But the greens and oranges look stiffly, uncomfortably vintage. I get started on the daily filing and data tracking, knowing it was never supposed to be this way.

I look around and no one seems disturbed. Everyone else is sorting and labeling and copying and whiting-out, efficiently making their way around the corners of the cubicle maze. I begin by feeling itchy, and then warm- I tug at my turtleneck. The windows are sealed with insulation- I want to peel it off. I turn to my coworker friend, "We didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into when we came here, huh?" She is confused: "What do you mean? Legal needs all my records to match." I swivel back in my chair, with tears perched in my eyes. My hand covers my mouth as I sink a little. I am realizing I must leave even though I only arrived at work minutes ago. I gather my coat and scarf and bag. Someone asks where I'm going. My voice is louder than I'd anticipated: "Lightness has a call that's hard to hear!!!" And I run. And I trip, get back up and run out into the street, dragging my scarf down 5th Avenue, unable to catch my breath but I don't stop because I'm losing it.
I run through the park where we once gathered for tambourine playing, when I wore flowers in my hair; and another time when the leaves once covered the pavement and everything was yellow and red. But I run through it, kicking up the old leaves, the old flowers.
I run through the intersection where I was almost hit by a bus on 9-11, that when it continued on, the driver giving me a stunned look, I saw the boy I used to date on the other side and we hugged and cried in the middle of the street, people filling the lanes, everywhere around us.
I don't stop until I get to a train station and get on the first train out, romantically zipping past the giant board with the blinking track listings. I get on a train that travels above ground and pass the connected apartments of Queens, the auto body shops, the train yard. The sun and clouds defined above. The scenery grows less urban and I begin seeing trees and the sidewalks disappear... the duck farm and the little bridge with the creek running under it... I've caught my breath and arrive at a station that looks familiar. I walk three miles to the beach where we celebrated dawn after the prom, the same place where she came to cry when our friend died at 28-years-old of a brain tumor. And the seagulls and the seaweed and the sea glass and the sandpipers suck the tears out of me and it starts to rain, pour...

Of course it does, it's an indie film.

"A Day in the Life" starts up. I am soaked. My hair is stuck to my face and my jacket is taking on a translucent hue, but I sit anyway- in the dune, near the sign that says not to sit in the dunes. I put my head back and let the sky consume me.

Wide shot. Roll credits.