It never failed that when she expressed wanting to be a stripper her friend would laugh and call her silly.
The words very often fell into her most overflowing bucket, the one permanently affixed aside recurrent sandcastles and accumulating wishes that folks assumed she was speaking or writing in jest, not realizing each letter was wearing a customized suit of sincerity branded with cufflinks of passion and swirling around her energy field like petticoats made of wind and copper wired hula hoops.
It was in fact her life’s theme: Her expressed wishes followed by laughter.
She’d thought nothing of Striptease, Chocolate City or Showgirls when channeling the nakedness in her mind. For her, the stops and starts from those movies represented limitations that mirrored her fears, those that could freely express her desires in a manuscript without judgement under the guise of creative expression.
No one spoke about the limitations held in the credits rolling at the end of a film that no one stays to watch and how the revenues earned were from tickets invested in dreams and not dreamers.
She wanted to be published in flower fields without binding, her submissions managed by the ground such that her cover letters be stripped away to fly loosely in passion and abandon, the kind of abandon one does not seek solace from in the arthritic arms of evaluation and counseling.
She wanted only one person in the world to edit her ink and reformat her structure to test the tenacity of her grammar and she desired that her rewrites be penned upon the translucence of his wanting skin. She coveted songs of dedication to the body of his thesis, the only remaining human subject worthy key grip testing, oral evaluation and prominence upon the earth’s moving scenes.
All the world had sacrificed their lives for green screens as she found value only in the enactment of purpose along the backdrop of his heart.