CHORUS

It’s better when the story is just yours.  That’s how we make every story ours.  So that the sweep and grandeur aren’t lost.  Lost in short attention spans.  Lost in our fast needs.  Lost to the next sensation.  The next thrill to keep us in suspense.  Our children becoming addicted to Ritalin from watching SpongeBob.  Our clever codes entertaining us with a certain pride of omniscience, but really we’ve grown restless—our character becoming flat—two dimensional.  So that yes we fit easily under doors yet our message never benefiting time—for you never see the reach.  You never see what’s reaching out to you…  And then you must have faith.  That you cannot lose.  You don’t know how the universe is controlled.  What’s absent and what’s not.  You don’t know how many people know you.  And you really can’t say their fate.  All you can do is try to remember the song.  Your part in it—what’s working in you and what’s working outside.  Remember your nature fits and thus you create your own harmony…  Yes it’s better when the story is just yours still yours for then you know why all our expressions fail, what makes every story ours—where we were when it happened.  The purpose of any story to sell it.  Whether it’s good or not whether you buy it.  Everyone can put a sentence or two together.  The question is why do you want to sell.  A musician just knows their turn. And that’s how you know your part.  The audience what it always was—the consciousness of your creation and how it all comes back around…

INT.  AARON’S ROOM—NIGHT 1965

You see a crisp shadow.  On the floor from the bed.  Aaron is sitting with a journal in his hands his elbows resting on his knees.  A flashback to how it was given—Dulcinea handing it to him under the shade of a tree—the laurel tree with a heart and their names etched in it.  Her saying:  Take it.  It was my father’s.  Her eyes what you want to look into with no thought of your own.  Then you Dulcinea at his window.  A questioning look of what is it on her face.  Aaron lets her in, and now there are two shadows from the floor to the bed.

AARON

I had a nightmare.  About a story I once heard, but in the dream I was in it.  I didn’t know where I was.  I didn’t know if was there or here.

DULCINEA

It ain’t real.  At least life don’t act that way even when it fits.  Even when the dream fits.  Was it the same one you had before—‘bout when you started school?  The same story great-grandma Rosie told you?  Was that what you was dreamin’ about again?

AARON

She died soon after she told me it.  She died a year before Papa Frenchie.  They never did remarry…  She told me ‘bout never making breakfast in bed.  She cried and I hardly ever saw Mama Rosie cry.  She cried like it was her own child…

DULCINEA

It’s just a dream, Aaron.  What makes it real is if you regret something in it.  You’re what you read.  What you hear others tell you.  Sometimes dreams just make us read into things too much and we think the price is too high—to read it read into it all the wonderful and horrible things about ourselves and be done with it.  How everything is nothing.  It just makes sense to know when the story’s over.  It’s common sense.  It already happened.  Your dream already happened.  The story in it.

AARON

Yeah but you can go into your soul all kinds of ways.  You can spend an eternity there…  She told me to never climb up on the stove.  Never try to make my parents breakfast.  And I can almost smell it the smell that haunted her.  That smell of burnt hair.  Burnt flesh…  A little girl not much older than you when my daddy built that tree house.  In her pajamas.  Caught fire when the stove lit.  Running up to her mama’s bedroom on fire crying, “Mama!  Mama!”  But she didn’t wake up in time.  Hungover.  Mama Rosie spending the night there after drinking with her.  Her nights in the bars before my Aunt Bethany was born…  And not just the smell the sight of it.  A little girl with her hair on fire.  The meat the skin burning off the bone…

DULCINEA

Why are you holding it?  Why are you holding my father’s journal?

AARON

Because you wanted me to read it.  And so I woke up and started reading it…  He started this one soon after you started school—didn’t he?  That’s been nearly eleven years now…  Did your mama know?  Did she know it was me when I called and hung up?

DULCINEA

No… but I knew.  I had a weird dream too…

AARON

You know what it kind of reminds me of?  Your father’s journal?  Like the bully in high school that gets someone else to write their papers.  Someone else to write their story.  I get that about him.  I get his music.  Like he takes pride in citing his sources, but he knows he doesn’t get paid well for it…

DULCINEA

I shouldn’t be nice to you…

AARON

Why?

That’s when they look at each other again.  They had been just sitting on the bed looking at their shadows.  Dulcinea gets up and goes to the window.  Aaron stands and walks up behind her.  He turns her and they kiss.  Dulcinea puts up a fight.  But Aaron forces her against the wall and kisses her again.  Their shadows are gone now.

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