and i had my typewriter and my video camera and my pencil case and i was ready for battle with important things to say and my ground to stand and my self to respect.
i knew what we were playing at. i knew what i was being played as.
and now i am sick
of the "at your age"s and the "what you have to understand here is...".
i am so sick. and so tired of this game we lost so fucking long ago. and i know what i am being played as.
there was a fire burning in the grate while we were talking and i thought the house would turn in against him in anger and burn him up and that he was just some horrible part of the nightmare voices that told me i hadn't done my homework, that tell me to grow up and be sensible; the voices that tell me that despite the orange dress and the tears in my eyes and the hard won honesty and bravery that got me through that door that i am invisible, that when i open my mouth there isn't a sound and that reality won't wake me, any minute, in a world where nothing is that horrible; because as he made clear he is it.
he is real and solid and concrete and powerful and it's me thats the invisible impossible dream.
T H R O U G H T H E L O O K I N G G L A S S : : : : :
alice is sick, maybe dying.
"alice! most precious alice. we have kept her this long and we shall not lose her yet."
+zadie smiths introduction to the new edition+
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