A Life In One Long Sentence, Part Two

(for Part One, see December 2008)

Eleanor says: One day or maybe it was night that I appeared just like that or kind of like that as in a vision of sorts or maybe not a vision but more like an angel like maybe a guardian angel except I was never intending on being an angel but wanting instead to be as human as possible and so I took refuge inside the imagination of this rather intuitive boy -- so I thought him to be, intuitive, just from looking at him, from watching him type his words, and in the middle of winter, too, with no heat but blankets covering his upper body and another blanket on his lap, and a mug of black coffee steaming up the side of the computer -- and perhaps he wasn't a boy at all any longer but he seemed to possess all of the qualities of a boy, you know, from the look of wonder on his face when he typed a sentence that never occurred to him or that awful disgust and impatience when the right words failed him, and I waited for this, for the words to fail him, waited for him to drink from his coffee, and that's when I climbed into his head through on eyeball or maybe his ear or maybe I just can walk through walls and therefore I can walk through skulls and into the brain cells whereeverything is happening, all of the parties I mean, crazy parties with these brain cells dressed up in costumes like Mardi Gras and having parades and throwing words and thoughts instead of beads or candy -- and I suppose I knew I was really at home then when this boy or man who seemed like a boy typed my name in the opening line to a new story: he typed"Eleanor," and it was the first time he had ever used my name in any one of his stories or novels, so I knew it was me and only me and there could be no other me and that if I left then there might be another me come along to imposter me, so I dared not leave or make any kind of noise at all or make notice or anything like that because he just had to keep me, you know, even with the Mardi Gras parades happening and those words and thoughts just flying about and barely missing me, and I know or rather I knew then that I wanted to be (t)here so much, for as long as it would take, for the rest of my life if I needed to be, whatever life is, you know, to somebody like me who wants to be human but doesn't know how and has no interest whatsoever in being an angel, though I guess at times I have acted like a guardian angel in ways that the boy wouldn't be able to explain otherwise, when I told him to watch out, don't step off that curb into traffic, or, walk away from the desk before the rock shatters the window, or whatever you do make sure you keep feeling as alive as alive as alive as I feel that you're feeling -- you feel alive, see, I can feel this too, see, and I know I am closer than ever to humanity, and I also know, that you and I are meant for this thing, this -- you know -- whatever this thing is, this story of my life even as made up as parts of it seem at first glance to outsiders -- this story of my life that is really real if anyone asks because that's honest as anything pure in this world, that my story is real and my words are real and those thoughts being thrown during the Mardi Gras parades by the brain cells are instruments really (think about it), to help us along, and that sometimes it's better to be hit in the head with a thought, or a word (think about it), than to miss it entirely -- because if you miss it or it misses you (think about it), something is gone or never was there in the first place, and that is a tragedy that's worse than ever being typed as a name on a page in the first place -- "Eleanor" he wrote, and so I became, and I am still here, so look at me, because I am not going anywhere, not any time soon -- I mean -- do you know what I'm saying, when I say this?