Monday, October 13, 2008

luckless pilgrim

We were sitting on the screen porch. My step-mother was telling us how much she had enjoyed visiting Colonial Williamsburg, how it took her a week to work through it whereas her friend Sally boasted it could be done in 45 minutes. Women cooked at a stove; men fired up the forge; everyone meandered around in full costume speaking a seemingly affected style of English. My step-mother's eyes lit up - she wanted it to be real, she imagined it was real, and she could join it. That's how I feel when I visit America: everyone is dressed up for it, including me. I"m tuned in. I talk the talk. I play that I'm part of it, but really I'm not. It's a reenactment. As my step-mother says, it's living history.

1 comment:

DSM III (g.a.e.t.) said...

These lovely girl's brains have been sacrificed in the meat grinder of club drugs to bring us the next step in psychedelic music. Toy pianos, Kittys, and an iron lung are the quiver they bring to the k-hole.
"You don't have to give up hope, and you don't have to give up hope, and you don't have to change your ways, you just have to be what you are, my friends, today" - Daevid Allen

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