Starting the new year a week early, because I also live. And grow, and search for those of you who want to share life. I have called some of you my friends, though I don't know you-this is a measure of trust. In case you have not yet been invited, let me welcome you into the Tribe-this is a small gift on a day meant for giving. I would also welcome you home, but here in Tarrant County there are no National Forests; only living rooms, vacant lots, and back alleys-this is the price of progress. Instead, allow me to introduce myself: I am Roger Dale Reynolds, dreamer of infinite dreams-this is just the beginning...
It's Christmas morning, and I've already received a present. A week ago, I'd never heard of LiveJournal; a month before, I didn't know the term blog. Yet here I am, and all because of a late night movie on cable. Don't laugh, it'll get you too! Dare I name it? The Rules of Attraction. I'm not the kind of person to worship at the feet of the gods of Hollywood, martyr myself for the Inde revolution, or stroll down the streets of Austin, ranting and raving; so don't expect me to say this was the endallbeall of human existence-it wasn't. But when she laid out her rings and razor on the white porcelan, my tears began to flow.
The one character with whom I identified-I have served the food that brings no nourishment, I have written notes to people who look but do not see, I have watched from corners as they walked through the wrong doors-the one girl whose voice I wished to hear the most (they say she's not even an actor, but a model) did the one thing I've never myself considered. Backwards or forwards, any way you want to look at it, the plot was not genius, merely truth. She's a face on a screen, like a million others, and she, like many of the others, begged me to reach in and change the script; but the book and the screenplay had already been written and the casting director didn't know my name. I loved the movie, yet I will never watch it again.
After it was over (one can only imagine the last unuttered thought-myself, I saw screaming white death on the road alone) I went online to Google a name to the face, but found instead imdb criticism and a world of open wounds. So I was not the only one she touched. In the midst of disbelief suspended, I had to remind myself that she was not She; that the One does not live on celluloid spools or reside here (where exactly is here?) in the backandforth www. But I'm still not convinced.
The search for her branched out into a search for why (not the plotwise why, but the universal why); so many have shown her the way, so many will follow. There were plenty of 'why not's in the forms of poetry and song and even more 'why did's in the forms of manifesto and speculation; nevertheless, it eventually became clear to me that, for those who have lost all reasons (and to paraphrase in words fitting our generation), do or do not- there is no why.
So I gave up that search; by then the images were just images and the characters were just characters. Yet somewhere along the way, and perhaps some hacker out there following my myriad pointandclicks might be able to show you exactly where, I came across someone who had an answer that I already knew to a better question. I knew it because it's an answer that I and all of you reading this share. I didn't really need to know why she killed herself; all I needed to know was that I can still ask that question becauseilive</span>.
Thank you for leaving your writing in the sand for me to see as I came surfing by. I'll try to keep asking questions-this is the obligation of the living.