Missile Stockpiles in Blaine?

A boy fell for me. Is it not sweet? I met him on the bus and he is 16. Talk about a hustler, shocked at first by my age, and then trying to convince me it was still possible. Made me think about my youth and being 16.

We're corresponding, and I made it clear it's as a big-sister thing. He tried to suggest one day we could be "lovers" and I was very firm in my response. We have some unique things in common, but I can't say what they are or I could give him away. And he makes me think about my son everytime we talk.

He told me today he wrote a poem about me. Or with me in mind or something. He has to get it back from his teacher, but he says everyone thinks it's pretty good. The title, he said, is "Color" or "Colors".

I've been thinking my writing is terrible (which is probably quite true) and not colorful enough and I have someone across the universe writing a poem about me called "Colors".

"Pulling out the scarf with seashells and gold emblems, she noticed the powder blue background matched his eyes. "How lovely" she said, "a perfect match". She was a interior decorator, a title she preferred to housewife..."

Yick. Sounds like a harlequin romance. That was my first attempt to throw in some color.

Second attempt? mmm...I don't know. I guess one could go Toni Morrison style. I would attempt this by examining the contents in the room right now:

"Ritz crackers disheveled and falling out of their wrapper, sunglasses black reflect white-blue light from the computer, newspapers, papers, beer, coffeetable, incense burning, cat food creeping, chiclids biting and I am sitting staring seeing a terrible thing called bad writing and wondering if I should speak now about missile stockpiles I've been told hide beneath hills and black fir trees in Blaine, Washington. Where divers dive without glamour to build bridges under water, where I imagine there are water babies being born near the shore who have no mother or father, who wander out of the water on nights without the moon, creeping slowly towards the shore with dark green seaweed glittering on their shoulders from the houselights, looking for loved ones under the Peace Arch, knowing the divers will never tell anyone how they were conceived; one country meets the other. Deep below the immigration vans, tunnels for white baby powder to feed the hungry mouths of those who search in vain for their childhood, and on the sides of the streets those who sleepwalk and are told to go to the city where they won't be noticed...One has ventured into the woods instead and has made a bed upon the fir and pine needles, mounting a secret some conceal as rumor. He throws the piles of needles into the air by armfuls, watching them spray toward the sky in mahogany and black-brown fireworks, in the same town where fireworks have lost their color and are smaller each year. Some blame the economy before 9/11 and others blame 9/11. It's a ghost town now, they say, and ask the spirits wafting through to move on to the city, to keep up appearances. where is there shelter for the lost? Some leave and some stay, some return to the deep, some to the tunnel, and some to the trees.

There. Is that colorful enough? I'll have to flesh out a piece on Blaine itself. That's the beauty of a freewrite.

I developed a method to writing in college. I try not to censor myself and simply just write whatever thought comes to mind, not stopping to pause usually, until I'm finished. Which is why I'm prolific. I have always thought it best to write fast, and then go back if needed and tweak something. Usually, I post right away and edit nothing. Othertimes I fix the odd mispelling. Now and then I'll delete an entire post. But the thing is to write freely.

I did have someone tell me there are missile stockpiles in Blaine. Don't know whether it's true or not. There are oil distilleries and other interesting things though. Blaine seems like a quiet town with secrets just below the surface. This guy also told me there used to be a crematorium in Blaine, but I'm sure he was just trying to see whether he had my attention--if there is one, probably from a funeral home? I have to write about Blaine--a border town story.

I need to read some fiction again and remember what it's like. I need to read that poem about me too! and remember what it is like to be 16.