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epistle log 14urteen
anything
i am wearing 8 year old socks and new shoes (this alone strikes me as odd). i hate new shoes, and these bother me especially because they are 1)white and 2)not soccer flats. i firmly hold that soccer flats are the sexiest shoes made and were it not for the fact that they are very very bad for my feet knees hips and back i would still be wearing a pair. alas, i now own a pair of brand new real live white athletic shoes. blah.
with this on the mind my subconscious had a little fun, and i dreamed a little dream. i was playing soccer, and playing against me was the woman of my dreams. i've always been a sucker for a woman in cleats on grass. physically she was a composite of every woman who's juked me or burned and left me flat footed or flat on my back on the pitch: tall, long dark straight hair, and an elusive face.
cut to the scene where we must leave. in a dream such an imperative needs no justification, we know, we FEEL that we have to part. dialogue: she speaks in the most delicate chilean accent, and as i hear her words i see them in newspaper headlines fading over her face. i ask her how i am to find her, how are we to be reunited. she looks me dead in the eyes: don't worry. you will find me.
beat to the shot of me driving home: through the rain in cherokee park with everything wrapped in grey and no one around. pan down to my feet and i see that my brand new white shoes are wet and muddy from the game.
i smile
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