Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Darkness Driving

Driving in darkness is where landscapes get flattened to yellow and red lights with the occasionally blinding blue of halogen.  Post Twilight color deprivation.  The sky speckled with stars, from the interstate, is never the stunning glossy beauty she is in the long exposures of good camera work.  Even the ride feels vanilla.  The drama of mountain’s turns and climbs get eroded into following the yellow line leader.  The rollercoaster feeling that is so visceral in the day is obliterated.    

At least, I had the fortune of good company, whose taste in road trip music included everything from Dylan to Chopin. Plus a host of local Bay area bands I had never heard of who he was friends with.  I can't help think about how Chuck Klosterman would judge this playlist.  Damn my falling in love with every novelist whose words invigorate me.   

Our friendship gets built one mile at a time as we cross countries and plunge into the possibilities that await us in Vegas.  A minivan loaded with a festival's worth of gear doesn't have the same panache as Red Eldorado in Bakersfield, though the same route was approximated at some point in our journey.  I am sure craft services could have made us a suitcase, were we so inclined to dive into the precision of narrative farce.

Along the way, are all the thoughts, that come with trying to become comfortable as a storyteller whose voice is often lost in comma splices.  Whose sentences want to be complex but lack the polish of editing.  That this exercise of two hundred crappy words was created by someone else and likely has inspired many writers since.  That the honesty of facing that I need to get better is important.  

 Midnight in Paris was, for me, something less about the Golden Age. But more the romantic masochism that would have been Stein and Hemingway ripping apart a writer.  This is feeling a little like lighting a tipping point than delving into the parlors of the world's greatest writers of yesteryear.   I suppose these are my sketches before some masterwork that is yet to be done.  Or it’s the piss poor complaining of a self indulgent angenu who has yet to sing one perfect note.  

 If only my scotch intake can master my self doubt.  Of course, there are many things I don’t doubt.  I have been tapping the muse and whoring her out pretty freely.  Conversations about creativity have taken me to some magical places. I was given a deck of cards and some currency to play with.  Game boards and pieces.  Journals and longitudinal players.  I have been warned of perils and committed acts of pretend piracy.  I gave consent freely and in return I have gained access to some brilliant minds.  

Bear with me, dear reader, hopefully we lock arms towards a future where my writing will actually means something.  Perhaps, like me, you will fall deeply in love and mention me at cocktail parties that feature signature drinks enhanced by nasturtiums.  We are not at that juncture yet, soon darling, very soon.  

Unrequited

Maternal Musings