I'm Maria von Trapp. The rest of the world can go on and work, do the routine and stay in dark cathedrals. I'd rather be running the hillsides, singing. Tease all you want, but the machine of real life is a bloody thorn in my side.
And by machine, I mean machine.
I dangle off of clouds and drop out of this dreamy, imaginary world into to-do lists. Passport renewals, travel agents, bills, accountants, lawyers, e-mails.
Chink. Clunk. Crank.
A machine that I don't understand. That I think is noisy. That unfortunately for me, I have to learn how to work.
- Do I really have to fill out another form? Can't I just play my guitar all afternoon? What if I wrote you a song about why my last name has changed and how I need to renew my passport before I fly back to Africa...would that be the same?
- Do I really have to order another birth certificate for my daughter? Can't you just look into her eyes and see my wild spirit? There's no denying she's mine. Just give me her dang passport card.
- Oh these bills? Silly numbers. How about a barter? I will cook you delicious meals, tell you night and day how lovely you are, peel your grapes, write you prose until you're gray in the head. Surely you want that more than money.... no?
Chink. Craw. Machine.
Oh well, you ugly machine, I say. I will paint my nails, tie my hair in a messy bun and tackle you today. And just to spite you, I will sing the whole time.
Take that machine.