(Iowa City 1995)

What I think I want, is Inez . . . Fuck! Now it’s a blur. Drawing. Rather, a dream in which I’m drawing. Right away, can tell it’s a dream because I’m drawing at a desk. Haven’t drawn sitting at a desk for years, but drawing, printer ream sheets raining from the table, so maybe, time lapse, and not even the corny-type generic kung fu-kick poses, storyboards for The Movie—forget that for a minute—just her face, but whose face? And how does she feel about it? Dreaming, as in life, can still just barely draw, just an oval, that cross in the middle, add the eyes, loose-shape circle for the mouth. Big smile? Or something tricky, more frought and complex . . . But drawing. In the dream I see myself from on high, at the desk, drawing, imposed over a vast screen playing footage of Ellen Cho on the Cambus. Was I actually on that bus? How many times do I think I’ve even seen Ellen Cho? Or is this a dream within a dream? Within a dream. Ellen Cho, with yet another white boyfriend, no hate, he’s muttering, telling her something, same deal, she’s laughing. Light all around her, to describe the effect. Michele Yeoh in Wing Chun, whirling. A starlet, surrounded by cameras, laughing like she’s naked, or dancing, those nipples, she knows what you’re thinking, but like with me there drawing, maybe that play-acting, all the mincing, hair-tossing, like another language, maybe that’s also a way of combing the depths. Reaching, for some feeling she can’t quite describe. Why Inez won’t call me. An idiot, in my dorm room, drawing, waiting, hoping for what? Back and forth. Cringing around, in the mists of nothingness, when in fact my options are limited . . .