Find Magdalena

FADE IN: two surfers.

“I found this note on my phone that I never wrote.”

“What do you mean?”

“A notepad-note-thingie that said, ‘Things are getting interesting.’ Like, what the fuck?”

“Ok…”

“I feel like I’m getting my identity stolen.”

“You would know if that was happening. You also get shit-faced a lot, so there’s that.”

“Yeah. There’s this guy in the music business who sent me an email with a legal document attached that said, ‘You better get yourself a good lawyer, see you in court.’ Like, what the fuck did I do? It haunted me. I got off Facebook, Twitter, everything.”

“Don’t let ass-fucks like that get in your way. Fuckin’ idiots, the lot of ’em.”

“I don’t know. There’s like, some darkness inside, you know.”

He rubs his chest.

And then: “Do you believe in Jesus?”

“As a religion?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Jesus seems like he was a cool dude. Not sure about his father. Look man, you might need to speak to someone.”

“Yeah. You think that’s stupid though?”

“Not in the least. I’m sure Jesus had someone to talk to, wasn’t it that Magdalena chick? Hot redhead at the table? She looks like she could’ve listened to some heavy shit.

“Yeah. I try to deal with it myself but sometimes it feels like surfing and running don’t cut it.”

“That’s cuz you’re running away.”

“Yeah. And it’s catching up to me.”

“Then find a Magdalena, dude.”

FADE OUT.

step up/meet it/match it/expand it

Walk into the darkness.
She said.
Don’t look back at your ghost, it’ll never serve you.
What once was, is no longer.
Step up, meet it, match it, expand it.
She said.

I stood stunned.
Who are you to tell me this?
How dare you.
How dare your courage, your groundedness, your skill, your success.
How dare your reason, your age, your wisdom, your heart.

Oh, child, you need to rid yourself of perfection.
It has never served you.
It never will.
Step up, meet yourself new; match it, expand it.
She said.

I said, fuck you.
I felt hot tears melt away makeup and mask.
I wanted to run away,
but I found myself nodding in agreement and making those “hmm” sounds like, “good one.”

Good one.
Ha.
Like, that’s funny.
And yet, she’s right.
She’s fucking right.

danger

danger

She’s beautiful to look at.
I try to ignore this as I listen.
Her fragrance wafts over me like steam.
“It’s oil,” she says, “Everyone is wearing it.”
I breathe it in, as I do her.

Danger.

Is what I sense when she speaks.
Sure, it’s the move/LA/making friends/figuring it out/living a new —
Danger.
I sniff her out with every moment, like a cat to a passing dog.
She plays with my hair.

God, that feels good.

Shame brews.
I haven’t washed in days. Well, not a real shower.
I must smell like dog.
And we went hiking to boot.
Dry land, high temperatures and mounting sweat (blame summer).
My womanhood out the window/I should’ve shaved.

Her make up is soft.
Her lips natural.
Her smile just off reach.
Her eyes… calculating.

I ask for another glass of red.